Something is better than nothing, I guess

25 04 2013

I have decided to write a bit more. I don’t have always something to write about slavery and S/M but that doesn’t matter I guess… I can talk of what I like and of what I am doing as it is necessary for me to keep track of my thoughts which are, in this very moment, a kaleidoscope of many different colors.
I am resting during holiday at my parent’s house. The mountains here are high and strong, a poetry behind white distand clouds, and I find myself thinking of cock more than usual.
I must say that I really like cock, but it’s more or less seven or eight months that I don’t have sex, so I kinda forget about its smell and its taste.
I find myself curious about why I like cock so much, why I think the best way is to tast it on my knees, on the floor, and what kind of magic it operates on my mind.
What drives me mad is its smell… really. Sometimes it happens in random places I can smell it and I start to think what kind of man could have this smell and what kind of cock could have that man.
I live in a world of smell. I like to sniff and I like perfume and bodily odors, but not of any kind per se. There are special smells, special fragrances the body emanates and it’s those ones that I like and cherish. My memory is involved heavily in smell too, I cant track in my experience that specific smell of that cock or those balls, sometimes more easily than the person’s face per see. I can still remember, for example, that secret moment when I entered in that house, without knowing anything and anyone and a blindfold was placed on my eyes. I never saw him before and suddenly I found myself naked at his feet and I could not see but only sniff his perfume, which was so masculine and hot it gave me an insta-boner.
Then he lifted my blindfold and I saw his balls and they were so beautiful and perfect I feel in love instantly. His cock was majestic too and stuff happened and I was a good boy I remember.
But what I mostly remember is his smell, a deep clean musk that made me drip like a whore, like the whore I am.

Today I am reading Wittgenstein. I found in his words a place where I can rest, where I can understand what are my errors, where the language is lacking the necessary tools to express our thoughts. It reminds me deeply those moments when I cannot explain, I cannot talk, those dark places where I am only sad and nothing can help me – beside maybe a good beating?
In those dark places I find comfort in logic, and the building that Wittgenstein is trying to unravel in me, is a castle not made of certainty or perfection  is a castle made only of consequent thoughts. It’s a sort of mathematical language really.
I wonder what he would think about the fact that his name finished right here, in my blog, after I spoke about cocks.

But this describes me perfectly I think: the love for logic, the love for cock.

I can’t wait to see where all this will bring me.
I want to be born again.

Sorry Ludwig.
You’re a fag hero today. ❤


layer after layer

7 04 2013

So here we are, again. I cannot stay away from this place as much as I can’t stay away from my place, that place on the floor, at Master’s feet, that place I long and search but I cannot find anywhere.

I am still here because I want to understand what leads me to those dark places of pleasure and pain, here to understand what is inside me that makes my cock drip so much when I obey, when I ask permission, when I am treated the way I should be treated. I don’t always understand what ticks in me, but like a Swiss clock here I am, with a hard-on, imagining myself begging someone to be ruthless and strict and to put me in my place with his firm hands and a belt maybe. Yes a belt, to bruise my white skin, to hurt me when I am a bad boi and to hurt me when it’s needed.

I remember suddenly the joy of giving up, the harsh and surprising pain of a belt on my hard cock, wanting always more and harder until I reach that please where my head is light and I am only pleasure for the Master, for anyone. What I hide is what I am, constructed of layers and layers, hiding myself under so many masks and depriving myself of my ultimate aim because I don’t trust anyone, never ever.

I am locked away, chased by desires and fantasies which I deny myself in a mock substitute of an owner I still have to find. I don’t trust anyone because I don’t trust myself first, because I know where I can go and those dark places scare me out… a lot.

Yet, the very few times I decide to allow myself an orgasm, it’s always with the company of something hard and humiliating, a slave punished for its Master’s pleasure, a boi flogged and muffled, a mouth that kisses beautiful feet… and it’s always in this position I find myself jerking off, on my knees like a dog, with my legs spread apart, offering my body to absent whips.

And all I would like to say is: Please take me and hurt me and make of me your boi, your slave, your pleasure.

But then reality kicks in and I run from my desires. The journey is not over still. I am scared and lonely and hopeless. But I am here to confront my fear and to become the beautiful animal I want to be.

How and when and for whom is not up to me to decide. Will you help me in this path to my ultimate freedom?