Conversation

I was wondering why my hands keep shaking, until I remembered that except for some popcorn and a few mints, I haven't eaten anything since Sunday.

Must be lust.

Once upon a time I was very, very young. And a young man took me on a picnic on a river bank. It was not a swiftly moving river, it was slowly meandering past the bank. There were trees overhanging the river, and they made a secluded spot were the grass was about calf high (on me) and the view from the road (and the bridge) was partially blocked.

I would love to take you there, on a picnic under the trees. Let me tell you about the picnic we'll have.

We park just off the road, where there is a patch of gravel that is level... I think people have been here before. We carry a blanket and a picnic basket, and I won't let you peek inside.

We scramble down the bank, toward the trees, and slip between them. We'll hear anyone coming on the road before they can ever get close enough to see us. I spread out the blanket, and you put down the picnic basket.

We sit, we chat, we kiss a little, because I like kissing you, and you sometimes give me what I like. I unbutton your shirt, kissing your chest as I go.

You remind me that we are there for a picnic, not to play. Then you reach into the picnic basket. And you give me that look. You know the one.

You see, there is no food in the basket. Just some carefully chosen toys. And if I'm really lucky, I'll be having you for lunch. You often allow me that. Even though you know how much I enjoy it. I do love taking you into my mouth, feeling you grow to fill me.

You remove my blouse, and my bra. You pinch my nipples, hard, for playing such a trick on you. Then you gently lower me to the blanket, and take my hands in one of yours.

You reach into the basket and find what you want. You lift my arms over my head, and on go the cuffs. You make certain I am well secured, but have enough room to move. You like to see me squirm.

You reach back in to the basket, and come up with a roll of duct tape. You look at me and say, "No. I want to hear you." And you do. You like hearing me wimper, the sharp intake of breath when you surprise me, the soft cries, and, eventually, the moans of pleasure.

And I can still feel you with me. Keeps me strong, you know.

I am okay. I'm a bit lonely, although far less now than over the holiday. Holidays are always a difficult time at our house.

I adore you. You make me feel things I haven't felt for years. Hell, you make me want things I didn't know I wanted.

And I remember. Knowing I have friends out there, that makes all the difference. Although none of them is half as sexy as you. Or knows the things you do about me. And oh, what you can do with a rope.

That's about as explicit as I can afford to get in the office right now. Just know - I dream of you and soft rope often.

They say change is good. No, not chains, although I think they're pretty good as well. In the right hands, anyway.

Made some changes today.

More to come.

P.S. the chains are still welcome... any time.

Tears

I do not know if you want my tears, and await the day I tell you about them, of if you hate them.

If it is my tears you want, I have plenty to offer. For you, over you, I could easily cry every day for the rest of my life.

Me at my most vulnerable.

If, in fact, you do not wish me to cry for you, I will keep it all inside. It hurts me to do so, but if my tears make you unhappy, I will. For as long as you need me to do so.

It isn't strength not to cry. It is mere force of will. Yours over mine.

As you said one day a long (seems long, anyway) time ago:
"Because I said so, and you do want to please me, don't you?"

And I do.

It kills me to think that you may be disappointed in me, or that I may have failed you (again) in some way.

Tonight I'm sleeping with my vibrator. (Thank you for having me get it, by the way. If you were here, I'd kiss you.) (On the other hand, if you were here, I wouldn't need it, would I?)

Although, I'd be willing to bet you could find some devilish use for it, couldn't you? I already know what it can do to nipples, and obviously I'm aware of some of its other uses, as you know from watching me in the mornings. And I do enjoy being there for you every day.

Gives me a reason to get out of bed. Not to get dressed, mind you, but to get out of bed. I wonder... if you're watching before I get up, do you see me sleeping, or is it too dark in here? Just curious. I know I love to watch you sleep. You're so sweet, I just want to wrap my arms around you and kiss you all over. To kiss you, and rub you, and suck you, and wake you up in the best way possible. Lovely thought. Of course, the fact that you taste so good makes it even better. And I remember how I tasted on you. I enjoyed that, although I didn't tell you at the time. Made me feel, I don't know quite how to describe it, but I suppose like "yours" might come close. It isn't really the right word, but I cannot come up with a better one right now, and I know you understand what I mean.
The pleasure I get from seeing that smile on you face is better than anything else I can think of. I do love pleasing you, and I do feel terrible when I think I might not be pleasing to you. Sometimes I wonder.

Perhaps that's what I'll think about tonight, as I masturbate so I can go to sleep. It will certainly help me drift off to sleep, won't it?

I have many things to be thankful for on this holiday.

You. My daughter, mother and sister are healthy. I still have a job. I have accomplished a lot this year. Maria is (finally) doing well both in and out of school.

I found three of the most important people in my life, after having foolishly allowed them to slip away. There are people who love me, and look out for me, and even one who insists I take better care of myself. I honestly don't know how I lived without them for so long.

Of course, that brings me to the root of the matter, doesn't it?


I am so tempted to just pick up the phone and call someone. Anyone. Perhaps C, or E. Either of them is capable of sounding as though delighted to hear from me. And I could use a little delighted to hear from me right about now.

Im going to go to the gym when the parade is over. Do you still watch it? No, I don't really want an answer to that. I'd rather imagine that you do.

I'll be okay when the holiday is over. This is the one time of year that I just really hate living out here. I miss having a full house. I miss inviting friends over.

Nostalgia rearing its ugly head again. Please forgive me.

And enjoy the holiday. I mean it. Full description will be appreciated if offered. Living vicariously can be a good thing.

And the holidays arrive. Turkeys to roast, (and grill, as this is California) veggies to mash, phone calls to make. I'll be calling my sister and my mother tomorrow.

And working. Which is usually the safest way to spend a holiday around here. All the nuts come out, you know. Yep, the holidays bring out the crazy in all of us.

Perhaps I'll spend some time at the beach after my morning trip to the gym. It shouldn't be very crowded then, and maybe I'll have a chance to do some thinking while I walk, rather than just attempting to avoid the cold wet noses of dogs allowed to run off leash.

Do you remember the mostly pink skirt? The one I wore when we went out?

(As opposed to the nothing I wore when we stayed in?)

I believe I'm going to have to start wearing that belt I bought the other day. (at least it matches most of my shoes) It happened again this evening.

Yes, you can picture it. I know you can. It was at the BART station in Colma. (the one that evidently has hot tubs nearby.) I got off the train. Nothing unusual about that, right? I stepped onto the escalator, and began going up. So far so good.

I got off the escalator, and something wasn't right. It just felt funny, you know? Like something was out of place. I thought perhaps my skirt had gotten caught in my stocking while I was on the train, so I pulled on it and made sure it wasn't caught. (Believe me, it wasn't.)

Still felt wrong, somehow. I thought maybe it was my shirt, so I adjusted that. Nope. I tried the jacket - no luck.

By this time I've reached the turnstile, and I need to grab my ticket and leave the paid area... there are people behind me. So I pull the ticket out of my pocket, put it through the machine and go out. As I grab the ticket on the way out, I look down.

You remember this skirt. It rests just an inch or two above the knee, unless it has ridden up, in which case it rests somewhere mid-thigh. Not this evening. Nearly to my ankles. You have never seen me move this fast, Master. Well, at least not in a very long time.

I grabbed that skirt and yanked it up to my waist. Talk about embarrassing. The whole place was full of people commuting home after work. And I still had to get to the car.

I have no idea how it happened. I must have either stepped on it getting up from my seat on the train, or caught it in the escalator somehow. I can't imagine getting it caught and not noticing, though.

All I can say is that it might just be time for either new skirts, or the belt. Or both.

I do think you would have gotten a kick out of the look of horror on my face, though.

It is like a train wreck. You can't not watch, even though it horrifies you.

I found this amusing.

Someone just emailed me and asked if I am a sub. And I think he was serious.

I thought it was funny, until it came to me that I didn't really know what to say in response to that question. I've never really thought about it.

Something to ponder, I suppose. Labels... who can even say what they mean? Some people call it sub, some slave, some probably something else. So what am I?

If I really need to know I'm sure you'll tell me. "Yours" suits me just fine.

So tell me... shall I watch my language? Should I speak clinically, using all the proper terms for things? Or would you prefer that I speak to you the way you used to speak to me? To tell you what I want, my fondest desires, in a way that makes you feel as though I'm reaching through the screen and cupping your balls as I speak? Shall I tell you how much I want to taste you? To feel your skin against mine?


What pleases you?


(not back yet, but working on it.)

Something I put into the other blog, that you might enjoy.

Back dated so it doesn't come up first in the blog, but it was written in the afternoon.

Work isn't everything. I know it may look that way from this blog, but it really just isn't.

Sometimes I enjoy my job. And sometimes I'd love to see the place burn to the ground. In this, I think I'm probably like the vast majority of people.

The atmosphere here may be strange to some, as software development is a bizarre field full of people who firmly believe they are going to "change the world" to quote Larry Ellison.

Trust me - we ain't changing the world here.

And we bleed when you cut us. And we get lonely and want to see our loved ones on the holidays. Even if there is a deadline looming.

Do you know how cute you are? or how fond I am of you?

Please be happy.


And quit sending me such bizarre dreams. I really have no interest in spraying some coworker (in a place I've never acually worked) with water. Or whatever.

Where the heck did that one come from?

Oh, well. Better luck this evening, right?

Why?

Still a bit sore from the other day. But it is a good kind of soreness... it is a physical reminder during a time when I've been pretty stressed with work and with the increasing irascibility of my living arrangements.

Sometimes it is just necessary to have something you can point to and say - that's evidence that somebody out there cares about me. Seems strange, probably, but there it is.

Ordinarily my belief in you is more than enough. But right now, and potentially through the holiday season (never a good time in our home) some reinforcement can't hurt. (you know what I mean)

Not to mention the fact that I can just picture that smile on your face when you're thinking these things up...

I had a dream last night.

I dreamed that you were going away for a while - holidays or something. And that you wanted me to wear something for you while you were away. (That's how I remembered I even had the things. They have been buried in my jewelry box for months and months.)

I do hope that if you go away for an extended period you'll let me know, so I don't lose my (admittedly small) mind worrying that something has happened to you.

On the other hand, I can't think of an easier way to lose the weight than being frantic all the time. Not necessarily healthy, but effective.

However, sex is supposed to burn lots of calories, and would be a much more fun way to go about it...

Just a thought.

I remember. And thank you for being my Master.

I was wrong. It is evidently not time for the recurring dreams yet. I am still in the airport meeting phase.

This one was a bit different though. You called me and had me meet you at some airline. (I have no idea which one... it was, however, in Cleveland.)

Except, you didn't tell me you were meeting me. You just had me go to the gate area (outside security, of course) and wait. Without telling me who or what I was waiting for.

We continued talking (and you must have been able to see me, as you were commenting on what I was wearing and had me open my blouse more) and then you were there. What a wonderful surprise.

Sigh. Yes, there's more, but the spreadsheet is calling my name. Back to work for yours truly.

And I remember. Always.

Good morning.

Yes, I know I shouldn't take chances like that. And I know that saying what I did yesterday, even though it was designed to get a reaction, could have backfired and caused some serious problems for me.

And yes, I will ask you before I do anything that impulsive again. It could have been ugly.

I'm pretty sure you would have said no. (now that I have actually had the presence of mind to think about it.) I'm sorry I didn't ask. The whole thing was poorly thought out, and probably should have blown up in my face. Still could, I imagine.

Today will be taken up with the mundane. Shopping and release notes. Rah. Hope yours is more interesting.

Hi there. I managed to convince everyone that I'm going to visit an old friend from work this evening. Yes, she'll cover for me if she needs to do so. It wouldn't be the first time, now would it?

I can't believe he still thinks you live out of state. Guess I'm a better actress than anyone thought.

I'll be leaving here in a couple of hours, and heading out to the gym before I come to see you. I'm looking forward to spending the evening with you. It has been too long since we've been together.

Until tonight...

Just received a lovely email from a gentleman who lives near me. With pictures. And more detail than I might have expected.

Okay, the town in which I live is a pretty perverse place, so no danger of anyone finding me if I don't add any more personal information, but still...

(And I think he might ride the train with me in the mornings.) (I'm not opening the mail here at the office again, for obvious reasons.)

I'm a little flustered.

But very content to belong to you. Thank you again for this morning. It was just exactly what I needed. (much calmer now. things in perspective.)

Thank you.

Do you remember the fantasy with the really pretty shoes? The ones I can stand in (barely) but which make walking without someone to hang on to impossible?

They exist. In fact, I own them. One of these days if you let me know you're here, I will show them to you.

I am attempting to convince my ankles that walking in them is a good thing, but I'm still at the stage where if you wanted to keep me someplace, all you would have to do is tell me not to take off the shoes. I would have difficulty getting any farther than the bathroom. (and even that would be a stretch after a short while.) The ultimate cage. My own shoes.

But they sure are pretty. And they do wonderful things for my legs.

I saw that you were online this afternoon, when I looked at your profile. Am I correct in believing that if you wanted to talk to me you would either let me know, or not be invisible?

Don't want to overstep.

Good afternoon.

Confirmed plans for Friday, including the fact that I will not be going overboard on the alcohol intake. (And I was looking so forward to getting back on that mountain road while plastered.)

In reality, this will be the first time I've had anything alcoholic to drink since I went to that last going away party. Well over a month - close to two.

I decided a long time ago that I wasn't ever going to drink and drive if Maria was in the car with me. And over the years I've expanded that to attempting to ensure that the only person I ever endanger is me. So while I have been known to overindulge and then drive myself home, I normally choose not to put anyone in other cars in danger either.

Marie and I will exchange gossip, she'll let me see the pictures of her trip to London (another place I'd love to see) and we'll discuss the similarities and differences between our work situations.

Then I'll let them have dinner, while I go home and drive poor Maria crazy for the rest of the evening. Sound like a plan?

I have no idea what the heck to do about the coming holidays. Maybe some grocery shopping on Friday while on the way home from Marie's house. (I always come up with something new and interesting when shopping after drinking.)

Once again reality rears its ugly head, and I must face the fact that my life is, in fact, pretty damned good.

I have had the enormous good fortune to make true friends. The kind who still love you years later. The kind who welcome you back into their homes and their hearts long after you had decided you were never going to have that sort of thing again.

The kind you can tell anything - because you have finally figured out that what your parents told you is true. Some people are going to love you, and some aren't. And the ones who do will love you no matter what. The ones who don't? Same thing. Nothing will change the way they feel either.

Some of my closest friends have come back into my life this year.

When it comes right down to it, what day to day unhappiness can compare with that?

I am considering picking up a bottle of some bizarre liquor (Marie collects them) and heading down to her house on Friday evening to get very, very, very drunk.

If I don't hear any objections, I'll assume this is fine with you.

Everyone wants to believe that he or she is special. Curiosity may not kill the cat, but it can certainly disillusion her.

I amuse myself at the gym by thinking about all the things I may be working for. (Of course, I have no idea what I'm working for, except to please you by making myself healthier.) (Which, by the way, is more than enough. Although the idea of a reward is interesting, to say the least.)

This evening's foray into the unknown involved meeting you in Detroit and getting on an airplane. It wasn't a long flight, just long enough for coffee, but it was interesting.
You told me that you were flying with me rather than meeting me at the other end because you had rented a vehicle that I would be happy with. I, of course, knew that meant one with a bench seat rather than the dastardly bucket seats.

It was early spring (okay, I'm being just a little bit unrealistic here, but it's my fantasy, and it doesn't work without the jacket.) so I had a jacket with me. You had me take it off and put it across my lap on the plane. While we were taking off, you reached under the jacket, and started stroking me. You slid a finger inside me, and kept it there while we were served drinks. (I poured yours, as you were otherwise occupied.)

It was lovely.

Once we landed, we went and picked up the vehicle. (I have no idea if it was a car, a truck, or roller skates.) It did have the bench seat, and the man at the rental place seemed determined to get you to upgrade to something else. You were not to be convinced, and we left soon after. You had me slide in to the middle of the seat, and had me pull my skirt up so I wasn't sitting on it at all. You slid in, and as soon as we were out of the parking lot you had me lie down on the seat and unzip your pants. I take you into my mouth, and you slide your hand down my thigh...

We drive for a while, and then you pull onto a small road. You stop, and we move away from behind the steering wheel. You push me up onto the seat, facing the back. You crawl up onto the seat behind me, and slide into me. You hold me up against the back of the seat and take me over, and over. And when you're ready, you pull out and turn me around, slipping into my mouth. You cum in my mouth, and you taste of me, and it is wonderful.

And (more's the pity) then the treadmill stopped. My half hour was over.

Thinking about it on the way home, I figured something out. I had no idea where we were going. And it didn't matter, because I knew that you did.
Sometimes I wonder, but I don't need to know where we're going. You do, and wherever you lead, I will happily follow.

But tonight I am going to finish that dream from this morning. I do love feeling your cock in my ass.

I was perfectly happy before, you know. Okay, well maybe not happy, but content. No, that really doesn't describe it either, does it? Oh, very well. I was miserable, but had been for so long I didn't recognise it any more. Is that what you needed to hear? Bound and determined to get the truth out of me, aren't you?

I very nearly didn't come in to the office this morning. All I wanted was to stay in bed and dream about you. I did go back to bed after our date. I know I should stay up on weekdays, but the bed looked so inviting, and I really wanted to cuddle just a little bit...

Wound up starting a dream I really should have stayed and finished. It left me feeling rather unsatisfied. And very empty.

I miss your touch.

Something about fantasies. They evolve.

For many years (too many to state in a public forum) my greatest fantasy was that I would answer the phone on Christmas Eve, and it would be you. Simple, and to the point.

Then it was finding you. How many days did I spend on the beach, daydreaming of what we would have to say to one another? Of how you would look at me, how we would say hello. Where we would meet.

So I sent you a letter. Finally. I just couldn't wait another day. And the fantasy evolved again. It became more about having you in my life in any capacity, about being there for one another. About getting my best friend back.

About all the things I have been so bad at for so long.

And then, wonder of wonders... you responded. You were cool, and polite, and slightly distant. And I took a chance. And I will be thankful every day for the remainder of my life that I did.

And then, somehow, things changed. You wanted, demanded control. And I (who have been accused of being a control freak on more than one occasion) was delighted to give it to you. And I still am. I relish every order, each request. I die a little every day I don't hear from you. And you know it. I'm not telling you anything new. You read me so well... and you have brought me places I didn't even know I wanted to go. You made me feel alive.

But nothing lasts forever, and change is the only constant. We did meet, you and I. And if I wasn't in love with you before we met, I certainly was within minutes of seeing you. You are the man I met and fell in love with all those years ago, kind, and loving, and strong, and willing to be weak. And everything changed again.

I have to stop here, and tell you that those may well have been the best eighteen and a quarter hours of my life. (and yes, to the minute I know how long we were together. But you knew I would.)

You're the best friend I could ever hope to have. You are a kind, thoughtful and generous lover (with an absolutely delightful sadistic streak), and you are a good man.

And the fantasy evolves again. It became my dream that somehow, someday, you would want me again. Not terribly realistic, I know, but it is fantasy after all. And in the interim, we were (and are) friends, which is really more than I could ever have honestly hoped for in the first place. But the desire remained.

Change happens. And it happened again just a few weeks (seemed like a lifetime) later. But this time it was different. You were not very communicative, and I still don't know what you're thinking. I would love to understand, and I'd really like to find out what your fantasies are... no matter who or what they involve. Goodness knows you've heard and seen enough from me to know I can't afford to think anyone else is strange. And I would love to know you better. So there's another fantasy of mine... to share yours.

I thank you for allowing me to call you my Master. I simply don't have the words to express the thrill I feel when I get a message from you in which you call me your little slut. It isn't just an emotional reaction, it is a physical one as well. The acknowlegment that I am yours, it means everything to me.

And the fantasy of the hour... that you continue to want me. That owning me is important to you. That I am important to you. For whatever reason, and in whatever way. Your continued presence in my life is what makes me hot. It makes me feel. And all the rest... wonderful additions to the mix. I love it when you want me to do things for you. I love it when you ask me to dress for you, when you remind me that I'm doing the things I do for you.

I masturbate every morning for you, and every night thinking of you. You, and ropes, and clamps, and plugs... and you. It all revolves around you. What you might do, or have me do. Even if we are never in the same state again, you do things that make me cum every time I think of you. And I don't ever want that to change.

Oh, and when the time comes, and you need somebody to hold your hand... I'm hoping you'll allow your slut to be there for you.

I know the day isn't over yet, but it is late enough that I feel justified in saying this. (And I may wait until tomorrow to publish it)

No matter how old you get, it just really sucks when your family forgets your birthday. I mean, I can understand Maria forgetting - she's fourteen. And I know my friends just don't keep track of that sort of thing. Well, most of them don't anyway. I did get one card from a woman who used to live next door to us. She's in Kentucky now. (And if you think my life has turned out strangely, you should hear about hers!)

But one would think that my mother would remember.

Do me a favor... when I start forgetting my kids' birthdays, put me out of my misery.

When were you born? Not the date - I obviously know that. What hour?

Me? Eleven in the morning. Daddy always used to tease me about making the doctor miss his lunch date. When he wasn't teasing me about the milkman. (looking just like his sister made that one easier to take.)

It may strike you as strange that I would wait a month after your birthday to ask you this, but there's a method to my madness. At least to this particular aspect of it.

Hope you are having a good day.

And the winner is?

You guessed it. Stockings and heels at six o'clock. How can I resist the opportunity to show off for you just a little bit?

Still, I might be tempted to run away from home for a little while in the afternoon even though the practice has been cancelled. We'll see how much work I get done in the morning. If I'm not too distracted, I should be able to manage to get ahead a little bit.

It will make life easier in the long run. Perhaps I'll just send everyone else away instead.

For me.

dum dum dum dum, dum dum
dum dum dum dum, dum dum
dum dum dum dum, dum dum dum
dum dum dum dum, dum dum.

That is all.

This evening I had just the best fantasy going. The problem is that it was on the way to the meeting from the office, and the darned meeting took so long I've forgotten the details.

But I'll tell you one thing - it was good. How good? Good enough that I hiked my skirt all the way up and was driving (on 19th Avenue in San Francisco) during rush hour with my right hand and masturbating with my left.

I know, slightly dangerous. And rather embarrassing had I been stopped for any reason. But I really wasn't thinking about that at the time. I was thinking about you. And really high heels. So high I could barely stand up in them, much less walk away. And nipple clamps.

And damn. I'm going to go to bed now. I'll talk to you tomorrow morning.

Things I tend to think about when there is too much pressure at work:

Piercings.

Chocolate.

Sex.

Not necessarily in that order. And in many different combinations.

I had no idea how difficult this would be. In the beginning, anyway. Oh, the fantasy was always there... but the reality is so much more than I had ever imagined.

You push me. Far beyond anything I ever thought I would be able to do. And I love you even more for it.

I don't know how to stop worrying about you.

I know you have good reasons for everything you do, and I do trust you. You know how much I trust you. I always have.

Yassar Arafat has died. He was often made to look like the bad guy in all of the middle eastern troubles, but in the end, he was just as human as anyone else. He had his flaws, to be sure, but he had people he loved, a life he enjoyed and a country he tried to serve in the best way he knew how.

I may not have agreed with many of his decisions, but I can't demonize him either.

May he Rest In Peace.

I dream of you. I wake up in the middle of the night, with my hand between my legs, and I want you.

I want you to spank me. I want you to run the edge of the paddle between the lips of my cunt. I want you to slap the insides of my thighs, to pinch and suck my nipples. To spank my cunt until I can't stop cumming. Over, and over.

I want to feel you inside me. To lick you clean after you fuck me. To suck you and taste you when you cum in my mouth. To please you. To fall asleep in your arms.

I wake up every morning at just about this time. With my hand between my legs. And I want you.

So where will it be headed? The airplane, silly. It doesn't really matter, I guess. Perhaps Australia. That would be a long enough trip.

I like the window seat, but I'll happily trade if you want to look out. Me? I'm going to put my feet up on one seat, and my head in your lap and cover myself with a couple of blankets. They turn the lights down after a while, so people can sleep. You probably won't get the opportunity to sleep much, though. I have plans for you.

I do love the way you taste. And what you can do with your hands... goodness. I don't think I'll get any sleep either. Although, if the past is any indication of how the future will be, I'll slip off into dreamland pretty quickly. All it takes is what? Your arm around me? (okay, the incredible orgasm probably helped, but still...)

funny. I've never been able to sleep with anyone else around. Never.

Good evening.

I'm getting ready to head out to the gym this evening. I'll be thinking of you while I work out. I have lovely fantasies while on the treadmill (which can be dangerous. I fell off once.) about curling up next to you, watching you sleep. And covering you when you kick off the blanket five or six times a night.

And waking you up in the morning. At least once.

Oh to be somewhere other than the office right now. At least there isn't anyone else here at the moment. Otherwise they'd really wonder what I'm up to.

You always do make me smile. (and blush)

Six days. I don't know what I did wrong, if anything. What I forgot, or remembered.

I promised no tears, but it is getting harder with each passing day. You're my love, my Master, my closest friend. I miss you, and I don't know what is wrong. Are you all right? If you weren't, would I ever know?

Sometimes it feels as though you're very close, and I could almost reach out and touch you. I talk to you all the time. It doesn't even feel strange any more, talking to the computer screen. But of course it never responds. (and when it does is when we really have to start to worry.) And recently, you don't respond.

I tell you that I love you every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to sleep. I know you don't see it, and even if you did you probably wouldn't be able to tell what I was saying, but that's what I do. And I sing all the sappy sad songs along with VH1. Hoobastank, Train, Joss Stone (please don't tell anyone) Averil Lavigne (really don't tell anyone about that. I'd never live it down.)

I know. I can hear you telling me that I need to cultivate patience. Yes, the little voice in my head - that's your voice. Still, I worry. More with each passing day.

Perhaps sometime soon.

Well, isn't this a fine kettle of fish? I may very well be losing my job tomorrow. And guess what - I really don't give a rat's ass any more. I am so tired of screwing around with the whole damned thing that I think it might just be a relief. And since the alternative is a month of twenty hour days, I'm just about ready to tell them what they can do with it.

But you know I won't. I sure would like to, though. It might just make everything a little less complicated as well. Strike that. It would make most of my life truly hellish, wouldn't it? Yeah, I know. But sometimes it just sounds so good. Get rid of everything, and start over someplace a little less crazy. And a heck of a lot less expensive.

But then I think about my obligations, and I get right back on that horse, don't I? Yep. Every time. I'll find a way to work this one out as well. It may very well mean going without sleep for a while, and making some not so fun decisions, but I'll meet the deadline. If I still have one after tonight.

(Is it so very wrong of me to kind of hope I don't?)

Well, only person I can really talk honestly with, I suppose I had better get something useful accomplished this evening, huh? (Really, all I have planned is going to bed early and hoping I wake up having had just one more bad dream.) (I know. No such luck. My bad dreams always wind up with me screaming at the boss, not with her screaming at me.)

Wish me luck. Either way. (and please keep a good thought that I manage not to cry this time. I hate doing that.)

I do wish you were around. You're easier to talk to than most. And you always find a way to make me feel better.

Tonight I'll attempt (once again) to give myself that injection. I know it is a necessary evil, and that not doing so will result in some pretty ugly consequences, but still... the downhill slide is very slow. Almost unnoticable until you've gotten really far gone. Makes it harder to see the point, especially when you hate needles as much as I do. It isn't like I'll see a difference. But I have to do it before I get those blood tests, and I need at least a few days after the shot to let the stuff in my system even out. (Last time I got a really weird result because I had the test done within 24 hours of the shot.)

And I don't even know why I'm telling you this. Perhaps I think I'll be more likely to follow through if I think you know what I'm supposed to be doing. Or not. It is just as likely that I will find another excuse to put it off today. I'm good at that.

I'm far better at worrying about you than I am at worrying about myself.

On the other hand, I am down five pounds as of yesterday, so no punishment this month. Well, not unless I get really excessive on Sunday.

When the time comes, make sure they play this one for me.

George Jones:

He said I'll love you 'til I die
She told him you'll forget in time
As the years went slowly by
She still preyed upon his mind.
He kept her picture on his wall
Went half crazy now and then
He still loved her through it all
Hoping she'd come back again.
Found love letters by his bed
Dated 19 and 62
He had underlined in red
Every single, I love you.
I went to see my friend today
Oh, but I didn't see no tears
All dressed up to go away
First time I'd seen him smile in years.
He stopped loving her today
They placed a wreath upon his door
And soon they'll carry him away
He stopped loving her today.
(Spoken)
Ya' know she came to see him one last time
Oh, we all wondered if she would
And it kept running through my mind
This time he's over her for good.
(Sang)
He stopped loving her today
They placed a wreath upon his door
And soon they'll carry him away
He stopped loving her today...

This is another of those entries that will be unavailable to the public. Normally I just save them as drafts, or put them out there and then delete the content. But I have to say this. I miss my Master. I don't know why you aren't here this morning, and I do worry about you all the time.

I love you. And nothing really matters when you are gone.

It is funny, the things we remember. Your favorite hymn, the song that used to drive me crazy, the fact that you make a damned good pie crust.

You cook. And I have to wonder what it is you make. Not because I don't think you have a talent for it - I've eaten things you've prepared. Just because it would give me an idea of who you are in your every day life. Are you always seeking a new way of doing things? (I like to think that would appeal to you) or are you more interested in the familiar, the comfortable? (that too has its merits)

I know you well enough to know that you eat everything you kill, and that you despise trophy hunters. That you are kind, and caring, and rough and hard, and all the things that make you the person you are. But there are things I can't see from here. So I wonder.

I asked you once before what makes you wake up with a smile on your face. You told me you'd have to think about it. I hope you've figured it out. (And while I would love to know, you'll either tell me or not, depending on what you think best. And I won't push. Too much.)

I just want you to be happy. I've been telling you that for many years, and I don't know that you have always believed me, but it is true. That's all I ever wanted.

Well, that and to have you in my life. I don't think there will ever come a time when that isn't necessary for me. So you'd best take care of yourself.

And here I go again, getting all weekend on you. I'll come up with something a bit sexier later. After all... you do bring that side of me out. And I do enjoy the hell out of it. And you.

I am wearing the maroon skirt with the butterflies and the long sleeved white blouse. I went there, and he waved as I pulled in. He began filling the tank before I had a chance to even speak to him. I slid out out of the van, and handed him my credit card. We chatted about the weather, and the fact that it had suddenly become very windy and gray out. I mentioned that I seem to have difficulty dressing properly for the weather, and he looked at my skirt, blowing around in the wind, and he looked at my shirt, and he looked at me. And I don't know if this is what you wanted me to see in his face, but he looked at me like I was dirt.

He was very polite, and went to help some other people. When the tank was full, I put away the nozzle, and got into the van to leave. Half way out of the parking area, I remembered that I hadn't closed the gas tank or the little door on the side of the van. So I had to get back out in front of the (full) station and close them.

It was not as difficult as I had thought it would be, until he looked me in the eye and I saw that on his face. May I not go back there for a while?

So tell me... are you happy?

The Zyban finally came through with one of those really vivid dreams last night.

You met me at an airport - I don't have any idea where. You took me to the truck and put me inside. We drove for what seemed like forever, out in the middle of nowhere. A cabin.

We went inside, and you told me that since the nearest neighbors were miles away I didn't need to be quiet. Nobody would hear me scream.

Skipping all the talk (there's always talk) we are in bed. You are fucking me in the ass with the plug, and in the cunt with the vibrator. You leave the plug in me and give me your cock. I feel you cum inside me, and ask if I can lick you clean. You allow this, and then you begin fucking me again while I suck your balls and lick your ass. Slowly at first, gently. Then with more pressure, around the sphincter, pressing in with my tongue until I feel it give just a little. Pushing my tongue into your ass, fucking you while you fuck me.

And then the alarm goes off. (typical, huh?)