Thoughts of an orphan

Who is the one true Goddess?

How will I find her?

How will I recognise her?

Will she recognise me, or even want to know me?

Will she accept me, and my tonnes and tonnes of baggage?

Will she be the one who holds my wrist firm, as I cut away that baggage?

She is the one who disciplines me, she nourishes me, she OWNS me.

Once she has me, she has me for life. I am fit, strong, intelligent, solvent, with hair and teeth and erections, even though youth is now a memory. She has me in the afterlife too, semper fidelis.

Where is the one true Goddess? Where is the Woman I was born to serve?

God I hate my mother!

My sexual problems all go back to her.

Withholding love, toying with me, disempowering me.

She makes me feel useless, powerless and deeply ashamed of who I am.

As for my father, he was the punisher, the ranter and the raver.

Now my mother is sick, it all comes back, all of this raw sick misery. In waves.

I fantasize that she's dead. She's not dead. When she is dead, what will come then!

My cock is hard and proud

For the Great Goddess.

I coat it in sacred oil

And stroke for her.

Delight surges through me,

Pure divine pleasure.

I come for the Goddess.

For the pure, divine Woman.

I worship you, Inanna!

Can't get over how sexy Michelle Rodriguez was in the latest Dungeons and Dragons movie. She was dark and sultry and muscly and violent, in her leather and studs and fur, killing lots of people with her big axe! There was even hints of armpit hair which was extra arousing to me.imagine the armpit worship possibilities...

There was even a scene with her ex husband who was all small and docile in comparison to her. It was like the director was hinting that they had a femdom dynamic, she the strong warrior and huntress, he the submissive homemaker. I for one would like to be that guy 

I didn't expect a character in such a film to be so arousing to me. But there you go!!

Here's to Michelle!

(for Miss M)

I come into the presence of the Goddess and it is her feet that captivate me first: those perfect white feet that are pointed and offered carelessly to my worshipful lips and tongue. Cleaning the Goddess's feet is a wonderful job. I imagine the cool curves in my eager mouth, the taste of each toe, the salty divinity of her. And the feeling of the nails brushing my face as she gives me a playful kick. Then the feeling of the sole of her foot pressed down with steady pressure on my head, demonstrating her supreme power over me. Ah, those feet!

The thought of it is enough to drive me over the edge, to spill my seed as a devout offering to the holy Goddess in all her perfection. And I lick up the come, which she has brought out of me and sanctified into holy ointment. I lick it up greedily and thank the great Goddess for the gift of self pleasure...

Maybe one day I will really be there for her, and her perfect feet.

My deepest feeling: that I am guilty.

I don't know what I am guilty of.

But I have done something bad and ought to be punished.

That I haven't been punished yet is pure luck.

My punishment is coming.

So when I pray to the goddess, I ask her to be merciful.

And she says, merciful for what?

She doesn't consider me guilty of anything.

Just a flawed human being living his life as best he can 

I am not guilty!!!

I want to shout it from the rooftops.

It feels very strange.

I am unhappy.

I can't remember the last time I was happy. Maybe I was, once, long ago, I  don't recall 

I feel ashamed that after 50 years on this planet I still am unhappy, as unhappy as I was as a teenager. I have not figured out the happiness trick.

Sometimes I think I will never be happy. That I can't be happy.

Sometimes I think no one is happy. They may seem that way but they are pretending or lying to themselves.

Tears come.

My Goddess comforts me. 

She holds me in her arms, the mother I never had.

(for Miss M)

He was her boot slave.

His job was simple: to keep her collection of shoes and boots in spotless condition. 

To polish them, arrange them, dust them, repair them when necessary, to put them on her beautiful feet in the morning (delightful task) and (even more delicious) to take them off at night.

Taking them off was the best task. Of course it was. To pull the warm, moistened leather off her exquisitely shaped feet, to massage her skin and caress her toes and heels, and (if she was in a good mood) to suck her toes, tasting the salt of her sweat, the delicious memory of her scent, her power, her mistresshood...

This was the finest moment of the day for boot slave. To kneel on the floor, worshipping those perfect, fragrant, red-varnished toes, cleansing them with his own saliva, basking in his slavery...

"Good boy," she would murmur, between puffs of her cigarette.

And his life would be complete.

But it was putting them on that was the most dangerous task of the day. Mistress would not tell him which footwear to bring to her. Instead she would make some vague remark, like, " I'm feeling very Dita Von Tease today", or" I need a pair of shoes to show I'm a woman who doesn't take any shit."

And of course he would opt for the patent black stilettos with the red soles, or the red boots that laced all the way up to her knee. But heaven help him if he got it wrong. If he chose black suede when she wanted snakeskin, or patent red boots when she wanted tigerskin pattered kitten heels. Then he would need to pull down his trousers and boxers, kneel on the floor before her, and wait while she chose her cane of choice.

"Sorry madam!"

Oh, so sorry!"

He would whelp as she dished the strokes out, careful to make a neat set of parallel lines on his ass cheeks, six of them that would mean he couldn't sit down all day without a reminder of her displeasure, her power, her divine feminine sadism.

Worst of all would be if he brought her shoes that were in any way dirty: even a speck of dust or the smallest scuff and Madam would curl her lip in disgust.

"You useless slave. Perhaps I should get rid of you. Find a slave who knows how to treat quality footwear.

"Oh no, madam, please!"

"How many strokes should it be then, what would be a sufficient number, to show you are truly sorry?"

And this was a dangerous question. If he chose too low a number, she would play the game called Double Up; basically she would double the number of strokes. So if he said six, he would end up caned 12 times. If he said 12, he might end up with 24 agonising stripes on his ass cheeks. If he went higher, he was guaranteeing his own pain.

How she loved this game! She could play it for hours. It was almost worth having an incompetent slave for the deliciousness of inflicting pain.

How he loved to be her boot slave! He would take any punishment to stay at her feet, to care for her shoes, to be her slave...

And she, she knew it.

What makes me more aroused, the taste of her moist pussy on my questing tongue or the pain she inflicts on my helpless body?

Her black nails cascading down my shaft or the bite of the cane on my butt cheeks?

The manacles around my wrists or the feel of her hand around my throat?

The knowledge that she could strangle me and I would love it, or the knowledge that she would never be found out?

I am Her slave. She is my Goddess.

My pain is her pleasure. She loves causing me pain, thrives on it, gets wet with it. Seethes in pleasure with it.

She is a Sadist. She is pure night.

And that is the ultimate arousal, Miss.

I've recently realised my second, sacral chakra is in a really bad way. It connects creativity and sexuality and it's really not been healthy or happy for years. I picture it as all bleeding and bruised and twisted and painful.

I need to bandage it up and give it time to heal. I need to nurture it...

So I'm trying to take time to give myself pleasure, bit beat myself up about my creative side and the fact that it hasn't always got results... Masturbate and take pleasure in masturbation. Do yoga.

No more shame, self hatred and self disgust...

Only care and healing and pleasure.

And so mote it be