Tuesday, March 30, 2010


Thrash, thrashing, thrashed… a new word, a happy word.

Yesterday morning as I received my usual hug, kiss, nipple grab and swat good bye as Master left for work, he commented that it had been a while since he thrashed me. I could not help but whimper and wiggle as I enthusiastically agreed. He said that that night when he got back from work I would get a thrashing and I started to jump up and down. It had been a while, over a week. But I know better than to get my hopes up too high. Master is fond of saying things like that and then retracting it just to watch me squirm in frustration.

And when he got home, he greeted me in his way, a hug, a kiss and the usual painful grab and yank of a nipple or two. A sadistic grin accompanied the final swat or two, “Ready for your thrashing?”

Squeals of eager anticipation and a vigorous nod, “You like that word? Thrashing?”

I was practically wagging my tail, but still the dry voice in my head was saying, “Slow down, don’t act too eager.” And he did sort of withdraw, go about his coming home routine, emptying pockets, smoke a cigarette, mess around with the computer, then sit down and have a snack. When he settled down deeper into his big chair and began to flip around on the channels of the television, I knew better than to push, to even speak of it.

I sat quietly and worked on a story, sending him side long glances… five o’clock turned to six and I knew that if I did not get dinner started soon, it would too late. I got up and began to get out the ingredients and he instantly was up and grabbing at me, shoving me around, twisting me, hurting me… basically just being a bully. He does that. As soon as I move, it is like triggering a predator reflex. And if I have something I am doing, some focus on a task, he loves to interrupt me. He knows how making me stop doing something I am focused on grates. He thrives on the resistance.

Just as irritated as he wanted me to be, I struggled to get away, to work on the thing I was doing and the more I fought the more he seemed to be enjoying himself. Finally I said in my best airport announcement voice, “We are sorry the thrashing hour is past, it is now the cooking hour, please come again…”

He let me go, said, “Okay, no thrashing,” then he walked away.

Damn, it is such a fucking balancing act, if I act to eager he will not do it just to make me suffer mentally. But if I take the resistance a step too far, it can do the same. I did not chase after. I did not say anything. I did not even look at him. I was determined not to squirm. I went right back to my original task.

It wasn’t sixty seconds when he was back with a vengeance, grabbing me harshly and dragging me physically down the stairs to his lair. He is so strong and I cannot even begin to pretend resistance now. I am totally giggling with wild exhilarated excitement. He shoves me into his room and I am instantly stripping. I can’t get my clothes off fast enough.

He has so many things to hit me with and he does not like me to know which he is going to choose. I know this, lay face down on the bed and hide my eyes. My heart was already racing, and my breathing fast. He always starts harsh, I knew it is going to hurt… and hurt a lot. He wants me to scream at the first blow and keep screaming the whole time. I could hear him rattling things around, sticks, whips, paddles, canes… I listened, my skin prickling in anticipation.

Would it be the little fiberglass stick with its hot, lancing, searing sensation like I have been burned? It is silent and deadly and when he hits me with it, he does it in rapid staccato snaps, leaving behind a constellation of lingering pain. Or will it be the huge wide paddle that covers my whole ass in one blow, heavy hard and noisy. Or the flogger, or the cane, or the heavy spatula or the thick leather belt, each with their signature sound, and pain. The very cries they force from my lips are different. I don’t know which I fear the most and love the most. He makes me wait. He knows I am waiting.

The swish and sting is unmistakable. It was the string flogger, the one he spent so much time tying the knots in recently. Of course, he would choose that, he is still in love with it. He spread the blows out, knees to shoulders. I squealed and undulated… and laughed. I don’t know why I laugh but I do, I always do. Between shrieks, groans, sobs and tears, it is always there, giggles, cackles, even at times deep roaring belly laughs.

Then BANG, the force of the paddle drove the air from my lungs and I yelled with the pain, he hit me over and over with it until I was strangling on the pain. I writhed and twisted. I could not lay still. Then just one swish and sting, the bite of the flogger was almost a relief and I groan in relief. But then snap, snap, snap, like the shots of a machine gun the cane bit into my tender and stinging ass. I screamed loud and hoarse. When I think I could take another blow it changed. He chooses another weapon. It never lessens but the tone, but the very flavor of the agony transformed and as it does I can absorb more. It filled me up, washed away all thought, I am reduced to a mass of nerve endings.

Every time I started to take a breath, started to adjust, started to come to terms with it, he used the smallest and most vicious of his toys, that terrible little bit of fiberglass. It was silent, yet it wrung from me the most panicked and frantic of shrieks. It was like being bitten, stabbed, stung by bees and every touch stayed aflame, burned and stung and grew in pain rather than eased and subsided. It was like he is touching me with a red hot wire. And it ripped asunder any control I may have achieved, shattered any refuge of peace I have found in the storm of agony.

As I realized that I had no control, that there is no place to hide, I choke on a sob and then began to laugh, deep wild laughter. And he laughed with me as he beat me, changing weapons more and more quickly. There was no predicting. Once when a sensation was strange, alien and beyond my comprehension I twisted and looked, wondering if he had found some new thing to torture me with but it was just the same string flogger he had started with. My tormented nerve endings were playing tricks on me. He growled for me to pull on the blind fold. He loves the sudden panicked recoil and surge of my body as some new unexpected sensation tears at my resolve to be still, be still and absorb every instant of this experience. If I were to see what object was in his hands, I would be able to anticipate. I do miss the chance to watch his face as he beats me; I wish I could see his face sometimes.

Finally I cannot scream anymore. I laid, letting the soft grunts of pain, the soft choking whimpers and, still, the soft laughter leak unrestrained from my panting lips. But I could not scream or struggle any longer and he said, “You have had enough.”

I mumbled against the mattress, “No, not enough.” But I rolled over and pulled up the blindfold and looked up at him. He still had the tools in his hand, was still hefting them and staring at my nude body. I met his eyes, writhed provocatively and ran my hands over my tingling skin. I was still panting from exhilaration. He swung and I watched as the flogger made contact with my now exposed breast, and I cried out once, a sharp exhaling, “Ahhh,” as the pain sank in. I watched like a spectator as my skin turned red and my nipple shrank instantly into a tight knot. And again, I couldn't help but burst into giggles.

He picked his targets then, breasts, belly, pubis, inner thighs, used the string flogger only now. He is more confident with it, knowing exactly where it will strike. His blows were more restrained there, on the front of my body. The pain was more intimate and I could finally see his face and he could see mine... see the pain and the joy, the struggle and the acceptance.

He said again, “You have had enough.” And finally he put down the tools of pain and lay down beside me. His lips were warm as he gently kisses me and then moved down to take one of sensitized nipples between his lips and teeth. He bit down and I tensed and shuddered under him, and, for the first time, felt the rush of arousal.

I find the infliction of pain is infinitely pleasurable. It is intense, exhilarating, raw, intimate but, strangely, it is not sexual for me. But the adrenaline, the trust and the intimacy leave me so open, so ready for his touch. Each caress is magnified, my skin so sweetly sensitive, and my busy brain for once silenced. At his first touch I was totally his.

He laid beside me, still fully dressed, leaning up on one elbow so he could watch me more closely as he touched me, ran his finger tips across reddened and tender flesh, once again reveling in the surge and undulation of this body he so completely controlled.

He found my center, seizing and pressing, his fingertips danced in those primal rhythms that I cannot resist. Once again he sought my voice, listened to the sounds of my building passion and as I arched, pressed up against his caress and cried out, he made a soft satisfied sound of triumph. He had me completely in his power and he did not stop. If anything, that touch, those fingers only pressed harder, rubbed harder, forced more from me. I convulsed, I thrashed, I screamed, and, bubbling up between pleading lips, there was still more laughter. Even when it was beyond pleasure and was just reflexive jerks of exhausted, flesh I did not push away his hand. I gave him what he wanted, just like he gave me what I needed.

Today, I run my hands over my skin, examining and celebrating each red mark, each bruise, each tiny red line left by the evil little piece of fiberglass, savoring, remembering.

Thank you, Master

Monday, March 29, 2010

Bread recipe

Two cups water, as hot as it can get from the tap.
Two tablespoons olive oil
Two tablespoons honey
Two teaspoons salt.

Stir it all around, by now the water will have cooled enough so it shouldn't kill your...

One tablespoon of yeast

Stir it some more... and then let it sit about 15 minutes... it will foam up a little and smell really good and yeasty.

Then stir in (I use my wonderful old Kitchen Aid Mixmaster)...

Two cups of flour
Two cups of high gluten flour.

Let it mix on low (or knead it if you don't have a mixer) until it is all together in a nice cohesive lump... put in an oiled bowl and let rise until doubled. Punch it down and let it rise again.

Form into two loaves. I cut the dough in half and then sort of press it down flat and then roll it into a uniform cylinder. Put in greased loaf pans and let rise until doubled.

Bake at 375 until brown on top and when you tap the top it is hard and sounds hollow.

Very chewy, very crusty... Master says yum.

A trip to the Chinese Gardens

Yesterday, Sunday, I went to the Society of Submission meeting. It was Miss Rebecca's birthday so we went to the Lan Su Chinese Gardens.

It was not such a beautiful sunny day and I forgot my camera so I found this picture on the web. But even in the rain it was breathtakingly beautiful. No... not breathtaking... breath giving. I could feel my spirit calming and expanding.

We went to the tea house and I ordered "Golden Monkey Tea"...

And steamed buns....

The conversation was deep and sometimes touching as the sisters that sat with me shared their stories of hope and heartbreak.

It made me realize how truly lucky I am to have a Master and love at all... this world is not often so kind.

I came home thoughtful and more aware of how happy I really am.

Thank you Master.


Sunday, March 28, 2010

Sinking deeper

About eight months ago I posted this in my writing on Fetlife...

I was making Master's breakfast this Saturday morning. The same breakfast I make every Saturday and Sunday, two eggs over easy, four link sausage, frozen O'Brian style hash browns, two slices toast with the butter sides together, and one glass frozen concentrate orange juice. It is always the same. He is very much a creature of habit. I got to thinking how my creative side struggles with this predictability and how this routine forces me to work on perfection rather than variety.

I know I could make better hash browns than those frozen ones but he wants those, not homemade ones. He finds comfort in knowing exactly what will be on the plate, knowing he will like it, knowing it will meet his needs. And I no longer question what is better for me... all that matters is what is better for him.

He is asserting himself over me more and more, controlling more and more. Last night he held me trapped in his lap, his fingers buried deep inside me, forcing me to come over and over and over until the spasms had lost all pleasure and I was just a jerking writhing mass of sweat and tears. I remember briefly opening my eyes and looking up at his face and his expression was so triumphant, so possessive, so fucking powerful that I blinked and retreated from his stare.

And today he asked a question and as usual interrupted me as I answered and growled at me to shut up. I talked back, just a little snotty, "You asked... it was my turn to talk." And I found myself summoned with a loud roaring voice to kneel at his feet and him reaching for my breast, his favorite way to emphasize a point by very painfully grasping mine. His voice was low, sadistic, demanding, "Whose turn?" He jerked me down hard and pushed my face against the floor as I babbled, "Yours, yours..."

Little things like that... being forced to conform to his routines, to squirm like a worm on the hook of his fingers, and the harsh reminder of who he is and who I am, they are all adding up. I said his name today, a simple lapse of memory, and not something he has forbidden, but it rang strange in my ear, wrong... and I realized I had started thinking the word, "Master"... that in my mind and my heart that is who he is.

I was making Master's breakfast this morning. And I suggested changing things up a little. I had this chunk of leftover roast beef, one he had forbidden me to throw away and yet has been refusing to eat now for almost a week... I tried to talk him into a nice homemade hash with his eggs rather than the de rigueur four link sausages. When he frowned and declined, I talked back, talked back right over him... pointing out that he wants me to "not waste food, that if I couldn't throw out the food, he should be willing to eat it...

He chased me into the kitchen with this...

This is a strange little object. About 18 inches of fiberglass... about as big around as spaghetti... and the most vicious of punishment objects in his arsenal of ass destruction.

It is my own fault, I "found" it. (Actually I confiscated it from a kindergartener who was about to poke his eye out or maybe someone else's.) I really don't have any idea where he got it or what its original purpose was but I instantly sensed its possibilities. It is infinitely flexible, and just weighty enough to instantly raise a welt or leave a mark.

To say the least... I made the four sausages... damn it.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Published at last. a book to hold in my hand.

What follows is an excerpt from my first published book, "Northwest Hunters: Joining the Circle". It is the first in a trilogy about Junie, a shy middle aged woman who searches for a Master; and Bob and Donna, the couple that find her and rescue her from an online predator.
If you are interested in reading more contact me. 

Enjoy, xantu

We are all hunting for something. Junie was hunting for a Master and a place in the world where she could feel truly needed. Bob and Donna were hunting for a submissive, a pet, a slave to share their idyllic world, someone to own, train, and love. Sam Card hunted women to feed his dark hunger for blood and the thrill of the kill. David Durant hunted Sam Card, determined to stop him before he killed again. Monica just hunted for love. Can they find what they search for before it is too late?
Dinner was a huge success. Donna raved about the mushrooms and venison. “I have trouble keeping the venison moist like this. You are a better cook than I am.”
“Thank you, Ma'am. I love cooking. I read cookbooks a lot and I love to eat. I am just happy to have people to cook for.”
“Well I am guessing you will be doing a lot of the cooking around here.”
“That would make me a very happy girl, Ma'am.”
“I plan on keeping you a very happy girl.”
Junie swallowed and nodded. Her eyes suddenly grew big and solemn. “Would you like dessert now...” She paused and stumbled over the words, “...Sir and Ma'am?” She giggled a nervous sound. “It is hard to talk to you both and say both words. I guess I will get used to it.”
“It all will take some getting used to. I do want you to continue to use Sir and Ma'am when you speak to us. It is a good habit.”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
“I think we will take a walk. We will eat dessert later.”
Junie picked up the plates and began put them in the dishwasher. Donna stood impatiently at the door. “Leave that. It will be dark soon.”
Junie hesitated, frowning at the kitchen for a second. She sighed and turned to follow Donna and Bob. It was hard to walk away and leave the kitchen a mess. “I should really stay and clean this up, Ma'am.”
Donna's voice was instantly cool and crisp. “Junie, I said leave that.” She turned and headed out the door.
Junie flinched and spoke up, “Yes, Ma'am. Sorry, Ma'am.” She trotted to catch up with Donna and Bob as they headed toward the driveway. They took long brisk strides and Junie had to hurry to keep up.
As they got onto the driveway, Junie became painfully aware she was bare footed. The gravel of the driveway stabbed into the soft bottoms of her feet. She was not used to going without shoes, she limped as quickly as she could, regretting her distraction and hurry to obey, that had her forget her sandals. She did not say anything and tried to keep the expressions of pain from her face. She could sense Donna's impatience.
Both Bob and Donna walked quickly, hand in hand, their long legs swinging briskly as they walked down the long driveway. Junie had to almost trot to keep up with them, forcing herself to ignore the pain in her feet.
It was a warm late spring evening; the first stars were just starting to show in the fading sky. Deep between the tall firs and cedars it was already pitch black. After what seemed an infinity of walking on knives, Bob and Donna stopped and waited for Junie to catch up. Donna spoke, her voice still held that crisp cool tone, “Junie, when I tell you to stop doing something, trust it is because I have a good reason. Do not try to dissuade me.”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
“Your hesitation, your reluctance to obey immediately resulted in your forgetting to wear shoes. It appears you have suffered a pretty natural consequence.”
Junie's lips turned down and she agreed sadly. “Yes, Ma'am.”
“There is a trail into the woods here. Bob and I know it by heart but it will be too dark for you to see. We will help you but you must relax and let us guide you.”
Junie peered into the darkness, “Yes, Ma'am.”
“This will help you.” Donna reached into her pocket and pulled out a blindfold and covered Junie's eyes. “You won't be trying to see with your eyes. I don't need to tell you to leave it there.”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
Junie gulped and nodded, suddenly enveloped in total blackness, she realized how much she had been able to see in the starlight. She felt Bob take her hand and Donna's hands on her shoulders. Bob spoke for the first time. “Just follow me. It’s not too far. If there is anything to step over I will tell you. Trust us. We won't let you fall.”
Junie felt herself led off the gravel and onto the cool smooth pine needles and leaves of the forest. Her sore feet could sense the textures of moss and small branches, her ears could almost hear the echo of her heartbeat reflecting from the tall trees. On two occasions Bob helped her step over logs, his soft murmurs loud in the silent forest.
It had not seemed like a long distance, maybe a hundred yards when Bob brought her to a stop. “Just stand there, Junie. I am going to take your dress off.” She felt his hands pull the dress over her head and then he unclasped her bra and removed it. Last he eased her panties down and helped her balance as she lifted her feet out of them.
“Good girl.” He took her hands again. “Carefully step backwards until you feel something against the back of your legs.” He eased her back until she felt a firm cool ledge pressing against the back of her thighs. “That’s right. I want you to lay back. Donna and I will help you slide back and lay down.” She could feel their hands easing her up and onto a wide flat surface. It felt cool and damp against her skin. “Don't move, and for now I want you to not speak.”
Junie heard the soft scraping strike of a match and smelled the scent of burning wax. Listening carefully she could hear the sounds of Bob and Donna moving around her.
Donna placed Junie's hands crossed across her chest and spread her legs a few inches apart. She smoothed her hair out, her hand lingering gently, almost lovingly on Junie's face. “I am glad you bathed, it is good to come here bare of the artifice of makeup. I am going to remove the blindfold but I want you to stay still.”
Junie felt the blindfold slip from her eyes and she blinked, the half dozen thick white candles surrounding her seeming almost blindingly bright. She could see Bob standing at her feet and could sense Donna at her head.
Bob began to speak, his voice soft and normal, “I want to introduce a friend to you. She is Junie. She has promised herself to us. If she proves worthy she will become one of our circle.” Junie tried to look around to see who he was talking to, but as far as she could tell it was only Bob and Donna there with her. “We beseech you to lend your strength and patience to her spirit, calm her heart, teach her acceptance, and give to her your pride of self and eternal wisdom.” He placed his hands on the surface of the wood she was on. “Thank you for your gifts and your love. We exist to serve and protect.”
Bob smiled down at Junie's big eyes, “That’s all. I just wanted to introduce you to my friends, the trees.” He held out his hand. “Sit up, Sweet Junie. Let’s get you dressed and go home now.”
Donna stroked her face. “You did well, daughter. Bob loves his rituals.”
Junie sat up, she looked down and realized she was on a carefully smoothed off top of a huge tree stump. It was easily six feet across. Bob was picking up the candles and blowing them out one at a time. He left one burning and helped Junie down from the altar formed from the base a huge tree. Once she was on the ground, Junie turned and placed her hands on the remains of a huge tree. She looked up at Bob with awe.
“This one's spirit moved on long ago, Sweet Junie. It is a lesson that our bodies are mortal but our spirits are eternal.” He took her hand and, picking up the last candle, he led her to a small cedar sapling. “Perhaps he lives on here or perhaps here.” Bob touched Junie's forehead, a gesture of love and reverence.
Bob kept the last candle burning as they walked through the woods. They made their way back to the road and when they were once more back on the cruel rocks, he blew the candle out. “Wait a few seconds. Your eyes will adjust and you will be able to see the road.” Soon the road began to show, a river of silver gray between the deeper darkness of the trees. Bob and Donna set off. Junie clenched her jaw and trotted off after them, turning her mind away from the cruel stones as they stabbed and cut at her feet.
Junie sighed in relief when they reached the house and she could step onto the cool grass. Her feet really hurt from walking on the sharp gravel of the driveway. She thought to herself that she hoped that she would never have to do that again. She grimaced. She knew herself well enough to know it would never be easy to walk away from an unfinished task. Already her fingers were itching to finish up cleaning in the kitchen.
She obediently followed Bob and Donna up to the house. As they walked into the house she could not help but take a step toward the kitchen. She stopped herself, a quiet thought bringing her to a halt. Bob had mentioned calm, patience, and acceptance. All qualities she knew she needed. “Ma'am, what is your desire for me now?”
“What would you like to do, Junie?”
“I would like to finish cleaning in the kitchen, Ma'am.”
“And if I told you ‘no’?”
Junie's eyes flashed to Donna's face, a pang of discomfort and alarm making her lips tremble. “I would obey.” Her voice shook.
Donna raised a brow, her eyes measuring Junie's anxiety. “I am learning about you, Sweet Junie. I am learning what makes you tick. Do not panic. I will let you finish your cleaning, but first I want you to sit and let me look at your feet. Are you injured?”
Junie sat and pulled up one of her feet to look at the bottom. They were dirty and stained with green grass stains. “I don't know. They do hurt, Ma'am.”
“Go and wash them with soap and water. Scrub them good. Then come back and show me.”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
Bob headed back out. “You girls have fun. I am going to let the dogs in and then I am going online to check on some stocks and email.”
The hot water and soap felt soothing but she found two small cuts that stung as she scrubbed. She came back into the front room and sat on a chair and held her feet up for inspection. “There are a couple of little cuts, Ma'am. They are not bleeding.”
“Show me. Sit on the floor and put your feet in my lap.” Donna had a small first aid kit on the table. Sitting at her feet, Junie lifted her feet into Donna's lap. “Good girl. This will sting.” Donna opened a small envelope and took out a disposable alcohol swab. She rubbed the cuts, cleaning them thoroughly. The cuts stung, but worse was the ticklish feeling of having Donna's hands on her feet. Junie pressed her lips together, forcing herself to breathe slowly through her nose. Her legs trembled but she managed to hold her feet still. Donna looked at her puzzled. “It can't hurt that bad.”
Junie gritted her teeth, and gasped out. “Not hurt, Ma’am, tickles.”
Donna arched an eyebrow. “Ticklish?” She ran a nail up the center of one of Junie's feet. It was more than Junie could bear, her whole body convulsed and she jerked her foot away. She instantly put it back.
“I am sorry, Ma'am. I don't know if I can keep still if you tickle me.”
“And if I told you to?”
“I will do my best to obey, Ma'am.” Junie's eyes looked panicked.
Donna laughed, “I am so going to love tormenting you, Sweet Junie.”
Junie swallowed, “Yes, Ma'am.”
Donna quickly put band aids over the little cuts. “Go finish up in the kitchen. Dish up two small servings of the crunch. Bob isn't much of a one for desserts.”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
As Junie finished cleaning up in the kitchen, Donna brewed a small pot of coffee. “Take a cup to Bob in the office and come back. He likes it black.”
“Yes, Ma'am.” Junie carried the cup into Bob. “Mistress Donna said to bring you this, Sir.”
Bob looked up from the screen, “Oh nice. Thank you. Tell Donna I will be done with this soon. I am just checking on some investments before the exchange closes.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Donna was waiting at the table when she came back. “How do you like your coffee, Junie?”
“Black will be fine Ma'am, but just a half a cup please. Master Bob says he will be done soon.”
Junie was putting the bowls and her coffee cup into the dishwasher and turning it on when Bob wandered into the kitchen. He put his arm around Donna and asked, “How was the crunch?”
Donna leaned into him, “Very good. Not too sweet at all and the custard was delicious. You missed out.”
“Perhaps, but I wasn't in the mood for dessert tonight.” His smile turned feral. “Let’s show Junie the basement.”
Donna drained the last swallow from her coffee cup and licked her lips. “Yes, let’s. Come, Junie, we haven't shown you the rest of the house.”
The stairs leading down to the basement were narrow and turned twice. Donna commented, “If Bob had made one more bend in this stair it would have had to be a spiral.”
The basement was largely unfinished. The walls were undressed natural stone, the floor smooth cool slate tiles. Heavy beams held up the ceiling. Junie could see a set of stairs leading down to the access door from the outside and a wall with two doors in it on the far side. A large fireplace dominated one wall.
Junie barely noticed these things; her eyes were locked on the furnishings. Ropes and pulleys hung from the rafters. A heavy hand hewn X-shaped frame was placed in front of the fire place. A straight backed wooden chair and a padded saw horse looking thing stood next to a rack holding a row of floggers, crops and paddles. A narrow almost prison looking cot was pushed into one corner. Handcuffs dangled ominously from its corners.
Bob and Donna stood watching Junie as she stood frozen, her eyes scanned back and forth. Junie swallowed convulsively and turned her eyes back at them. Donna reached a gentle hand and stroked Junie's face. “Only what you want. We have told you that this is what we want. I hope we want the same things.”
Junie had to swallow again. “I want to try, Ma'am.” A tiny giggle of nervousness bubbled up, almost a whimper. She choked it down, catching it in her throat, taking a long shuddering breath. “I am afraid though.”
Donna lifted her chin and looked deep into her brown eyes. “Of course you are afraid. This is a scary looking place. But you are curious, too. You want to find out about this. You want to know if the feelings you have, these cravings you feel, if your darkest fantasies are what you truly want.”
Junie gazed mesmerized into Donna's hazel eyes. She nodded mutely.
Donna took Junie's hand and led her into the room. Her voice was penetrating, hypnotic, “Look, Junie. I know you think about being tied. I know you wonder what it would be like to be spanked, whipped, tested to your limit and then beyond. I want to do that for you.”
Donna took Junie's hand and ran her fingers over the beams of the cross. “You know what this is.”
Junie nodded, “I think so Ma'am. It’s what they call a St. Andrew's cross? I have seen pictures on the internet.”
Donna pressed her body against Junie's back forcing her to press her body against the wood. Taking both Junie's hands in hers she lifted and spread them, holding them up against the wood. “Spread your legs Junie; spread them as wide as mine.” Donna's legs were spread wide. Junie struggled to match her stance, but Donna's legs were much longer than hers.
Junie realized she was breathing in short gasps, she could feel the wood pressing against her, the middle of the X pressed into her just under chest, her breasts were crushed against the wood. The muscles of her inner thighs quivered with the tension of being spread wide. She was intensely aware of Donna's body pressing against her, trapping and sheltering her.
Bob moved around them and she realized he was measuring her. Measuring how high up her hands could reach and how wide her legs were spread. She met his eyes as he moved around the back side of the cross. He grinned and winked. “Do not look so frightened, Sweet Junie. You know this is what you want.”
Junie took a deep shaky breath. “Yes Sir.” She tried to smile. Donna eased up on her pressure and let Junie's arms down. She murmured into Junie's ear, “Good girl. Go ahead and move your feet back together now.” She softly kissed the curve of Junie's neck.
Bob continued. “This is just a look round and a chance for me to get some measurements. I built these things with Donna in mind and she is about six inches taller than you.” He looked at Donna. “I want to see how she fits on the bed. I am going to need to modify some handcuffs or maybe add a length of chain.”
Donna kissed Junie's neck again and whispered. “You heard your Master. Get on the bed and lay on your back.” She moved away, freeing Junie, urging her toward the narrow cot. As Junie crawled up onto the thin mattress she realized it was covered in plastic and under it was a solid base. It was like lying on a thinly upholstered table.
Bob pulled her arms up over her head, “Scoot up, Junie, scoot up until your hands are at the top corners.” He took each of the handcuffs and snapped them around her wrists. Junie felt the prickle of goose flesh spread down her arms as the cold metal touched skin.
Bob moved to the foot of the bed and grasping her ankles pulled her down until her arms were stretched, the metal from the cuffs just starting to press into her flesh. Her dress was pulled up to her hips. Again he measured. Donna sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Junie's arms, looking down at her face. “You look so sweet and vulnerable right now. How are you feeling?”
Junie gazed up into her Mistress's eyes. Her voice was breathless and quivering. “My heart is racing, Ma'am. I... um... feel scared and... um... very excited.”
“Excited? Tell me about that.”
“My thoughts are racing, Ma'am. I keep wondering what will happen next, what you are going to do to me. My... my skin feels tingly, all pins and needles. My pussy is hot and wet, every time you touch me it clenches. I keep wishing you would kiss me.”
Donna leaned down, her lips hovering above Junie's. She breathed softly, “Nice. You excite me too, Sweet Junie. My thoughts are racing too. There are so many things I want to do to you. It is difficult to make up my mind. Each thought leads to a dozen more. We will have so much fun together. My pussy is just as hot and wet as yours.” Junie whimpered and raised her face up but Donna barely let their lips brush against hers and pulled away.
Bob unlocked the handcuffs and ordered, “Turn over on your belly and put your hands back up to the corners, Junie.” He refastened the cuffs. This time he did not pull her legs down, instead he lifted up her hips, “Up on your knees, raise your ass up high for me. Spread your knees wider.” Again he measured, “You are doing great.” He slid his hand over her bottom, pushing her dress up to her waist, toying with the waistband of her panties. He murmured, “Very pretty. Very, very sexy.” His fingers lightly stroked across the saturated cloth between her legs. A quiver of excitement shot through Junie's frame.
Bob chuckled, moved up and freed her hands. “We are not quite done here. Come to the foot of the bed and stand with your feet apart.” Junie felt oddly disoriented and almost like a sleep walker. She let him help her up and guide her to where he wanted her. Bob pushed her feet apart and then holding to her waist he pushed her face down to the cot. “Keep your legs straight and bend at the waist. Yes, like that. Keep your back arched. Show off that beautiful ass.”
Again he pushed her dress up, his hands caressing her ass. Slowly he slid her panties down, just past the full curve of her round cheeks. He gripped them in his hands, digging his fingers into her orbs, squeezing and pulling them apart. Junie could feel the cool air on her moist folds as he exposed her. He pulled harder and Junie felt his thumbs spreading, opening her puckered brown star. She breathed through her open mouth, forcing herself to relax. Bob's voice was a deep growl. “Very, very pretty.” He let go of her and slowly stroked his hands across her wide fleshy bottom. “Pretty and oh so spankable. You want me to spank you don't you Junie.”
Junie's voice wavered, almost a whisper, “Yes, yes Sir. I want that.”
Donna moved up to lie next to Junie's head where it rested on the bed. Her face inches from Junie's. “Let me hold your hands and look into your eyes. Let me share this with you.” Junie gripped Donna's hands and found herself sinking into Donna's eyes once more.
Bob spoke softly, his hand still moving in warm soothing circles across her skin. “This is about learning, Junie. We will start light and work our way up. I absolutely require you to tell me if things get too hard.”
“Yes Sir.”
The first swats were light and barely stung. Bob kept a steady rhythm of swat, caress, and swat again, carefully covering the whole area of Junie's bottom. Keeping up the same predictable pace, he began to increase the force of each blow. Junie began to blink and gasp with the stinging blows. Bob praised, “You are doing a good job standing still, Junie. Your bottom jiggles very nicely and your skin seems so eager to turn pink for me.”
Soon the sounds of his hand striking her flesh were loud pops, each one forcing a soft yelp from Junie. Donna's eyes were intense and fascinated; she began to lightly kiss Junie's panting lips in between each blow. “You are doing good, Junie. We are very pleased with you.” It seemed to Junie that the sound of his hand was echoing through her mind. A loud crack and then a heartbeat later a searing pain would cut through her conscience. She found she was tensing in anticipation, rising up on her toes, her ass cheeks clenched.
Bob stopped and began to gently stroke her stinging bottom. “Junie, I want you to stop anticipating. I want you to keep your bottom relaxed and soft.”
Junie's voice was hoarse with unshed tears. “Yes Sir.” She forced herself to relax, breathing deeply through her open mouth.
“Good girl. I will wait until you are relaxed each time. This is where we all learn about what you are capable of.”
Donna continued to kiss Junie's face, whispering, “So good, such a good girl. I am so proud of you.”
This time the force of the blow lifted Junie right up onto her toes and she wailed and then for the first time sobbed. Donna whispered, “Good girl, give me your tears.” Her tongue was soft and warm, licking up the salty drops from Junie's cheeks.
Bob spoke, “Okay, Junie, we are almost done, only ten more just like that. Relax, good girl.”
Donna whispered. “Count with me, Junie.”
Somehow the knowledge that there was an end in sight made the last ten blows bearable. Junie sobbed and choked as she counted with Donna. After the last one Bob continued to stroke and caress Junie's bottom. His touch moved to her thighs, slipping through the moisture that had spilled down her legs. “You are very wet, Junie. This is very erotic for you isn't it?” His fingers moved up and slid into her.
A whimpering sob bubbled up, “Yes, oh god, yes.”
“You want me to fuck you don't you, Junie?” His fingers were lunging deep into her, his thumb strongly rubbing her clit.
“Yes, yes fuck me. Please, please fuck me.” Her words were a strangled groan. She could hear him putting on a condom and as he slid deep into her from behind, she felt herself stretch and accommodate him. “Oh Sir, it’s been so long since I have had a cock in me. Oh god, that feels so good.”
Bob growled and lunged against her, his fingers digging into her hips. She could feel him push against her still stinging throbbing bottom, his cock deep inside her, nudging the very deepest part of her with each thrust. Each plunge to her depths wrung a soft squeal from her lips.
Donna took her mouth in hers, seeming to feed on Junie's cries of excitement. Junie felt her body tensing and could feel the sweet tight feeling building in her legs, her cunt tightening almost unbearably around Bob's cock. She pulled her lips from Donna's and whimpered. “I am going to come.”
Donna spoke sharply. “Junie, fight it. Hold it off. It’s time to learn to control it. Wait for permission.”
Junie gasped and nodded, her hands clenching Donna's hands in desperation. Donna whispered, “Don't tighten up, Junie; try to relax. Breath through your mouth slow deep breaths, feel the orgasm building but don't let it go.” She softly kissed Junie's cheeks and lips. “You look so fucking hot. Every time that big cock fucks into you, your whole face spasms with ecstasy, you mouth quivers, your pupils expand, and your sweet hot breath fills my mouth.”
Junie felt her whole body shaking with her impending explosion; deep warm tingles were crawling up her legs. Just when she thought she could not keep it at bay, Bob grunted and lunged deep, snarling, “Fucking come now, bitch. Come now!”
Junie tensed and arched, her whole body shuddering and jerking. A red light flashed and lit up her brain. Beyond words she groaned loud and deep into Donna's mouth. It seemed an eternity of soft spasms and sweet aftershocks with Bob gently easing himself slowly back and forth, savoring their finish, before she could find her words, “Oh my fucking god. Thank you. I have never in my life felt anything like that. Thank you, Sir.” She kissed Donna reverently. “Thank you, Ma'am.”
Bob pulled out and pulled her panties back up. “You are very welcome, little lady.” He carefully removed the condom and sat on the bed next them. Junie instantly moved up to take him into her mouth, licking and sucking him clean. A soft happy moan bubbled up from her throat.
When she was satisfied that he was completely clean she sighed, “Thank you again, Sir, I like to do that.”
Bob chuckled. “I am glad you like it. I have to admit, I fucking love it.”
Donna stroked her hair. “You were awesome, Sweet Junie. Your face is so expressive. You did a good job controlling your orgasm.”
“Thank you, Ma’am. But if Bob had not said for me to come when he did, I think I would have failed.” Junie felt a wave of sleepiness. She stifled a yawn and then giggled. “I think you guys have about fucked me to sleep.”
Donna smiled and kissed Junie on the forehead. “Let’s get ready for bed. It’s been a very long day.”
All three snuggled up in the master bedroom, Bob in the middle, his arms around both Junie and Donna as they cuddled up on either side. He gloated, “I feel like a very lucky Master.” Junie lay drifting, half awake, fighting off sleep for as long as possible, savoring the joy of being held, of actually, finally sleeping with someone again. Her heart swelled with love and happiness.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Am I a submissive?

Am I a Submissive?

I know that in my work persona, increasingly I am willing to capitulate. If someone wants the power, I willingly handed it over. I am not uncomfortable with holding power, making decisions, being responsible. But if anyone ever reaches for it, I deftly step aside and hand it over without thought, no matter if that person is competent, entitled or even knowledgeable. I am naturally a follower and a fixer. If someone messes it up, I just fix it. I find that many of my coworkers begin to assert themselves giving me orders beyond their authority.

In many ways I was infinitely more submissive at work than with my husband. For years, decades, I would bristle, resist, ignore, criticize, and undermine. Somehow the idea of submitting to him never even occurred to me. And he was the most assertive, demanding, dominant person in my life. I just couldn’t let go of my fear, and I didn’t even know exactly what I was afraid of.

I remember thinking that if I did this thing, gave in, I would disappear. The thing that is me would vanish. I would slip beneath the surface of his needs, his way, his vision like a tired swimmer no longer able to hold my head about the waves.

And if I disappeared, what would be left? Who would I be? What would I be?

But no one can only fight the waves for so long, and admitting and finally embracing my submission made drowning sound so sweetly seductive.

Tentatively, fearfully, irresistibly I would surrender… for a second or two… and let my head slip beneath the surface, and panic. I would fight my way back up. But once I had glimpsed the peace that lay beneath those crashing waves, I had to return, and return again, each time sinking a little deeper, staying a little longer.

And I have learned something. I did not die. I did not drown. In fact, the very act of surrender, inhaling the very thing I feared the most, enlivened me, charged me with power and possibilities. All along I had been struggling to hold my head above his power, thrashing like a drowning swimmer to keep from surrender.

I did not disappear. I did not lose myself, because this is what I was meant to be. I did not become something else. I had been fighting to be something else. And now as I sink down and down, weightless, relaxed and free, breathing in, feeding on, thriving within his power, I realize this is me. This is who I am.

I don’t know how deep the depths are. I don’t really even care. It is peaceful here and the further down I go, the better I like it.

Thursday already?

As usual my spring break is going by at light speed. And as usual, the things on my to do list are not getting done. I did make a nice big pan of enchiladas for dinner last night and Master was as usual appreciative. But for some reason the dinner did not sit well and I had the worst case of belly ache and burps.

I usually am happy when Master tells me to get my ass off the couch and put on my walking shoes but last night I tried every one of my whiny complainy pissy moany tricks to avoid going for a walk. Thank god that Master did not fall for it even for a second. So we went for a walk, belly ache and burps all the way. I mean... for real.. I was burping like a semi-truck jake-braking all the way. So lady like... brrrrrrpppppppp burrrpppp burp. Master just kept a death grip on my hand and dragged me along ignoring me and my emissions. He did grill me about the stomach pain, declaring that I was "clogged"... He made a vague threat to hog tie me and force feed me Metamucil... gag... shudder. I protested that I have been "going" just fine... in fact describing in detail the ...um... results of that going, declaring that I just had gas... and burrrrrrpppppped again in demonstration. But after a mile I have to admit things sort of worked themselves out and I was feeling much better. Thank you Master.

In fact walking with Master is one of my favorite things, holding his hand, following his lead, not knowing exactly where or how far and knowing it does not matter because if he chose to walk all night it would be my duty to keep up right beside him. We talk about everything and nothing. It is an almost nightly ritual now that the winter rains have turned to spring showers.

I must confess I did not always love the walks. I struggled with the fact he could arbitrarily decide when, order me to put on my shoes and "force" me to walk. I fought him like crazy. There is nothing quite as humiliating as having your Master pick up a stick of the street and use it on you right there. But if you ever watched "The Dog Whisperer" on the National Geographic channel, you will know that Master has modeled a great deal of his training on Cesar Milan's dog training theory. (Not that Cesar ever beat his dogs.) But under the guise of exercise is the reality of surrendering to his will, when we go fast, when we go slow, where we turn, when we come home... all those are out of my hand. In fact I have actually closed my eyes and walked block after block with nothing but his hand guiding me.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

What makes me what I am...

I want to say this first… I AM NOT WRITING THIS TO FOSTER SYMPATHY. I have come to terms with my childhood decades ago. What happened… happened. It should not have happened. Any abuse of a child is pure evil… BUT I HAVE WALKED OUT OF THAT VALLEY OF EVIL AND I KNOW I AM NOT EVIL. Don’t waste any of your energy or time on regret, or hate, or sympathy… I know I don’t.

Perhaps that is why I usually do not often speak of my childhood to others, the tendency of people to focus on my trauma rather than my recovery.

But anyway…

In a group someone posed the question of how/when did you find your perversion/kink?

And my mind began to spin… and spin… and spin… Images of being so small… just a little tiny girl and holding such terrible knowledge and secrets carefully hidden in my heart. I think that is the most corrosive thing about being a victim… being taught to keep secrets… secrets that fester inside you…

There was not a time I can remember when I was not sexual. Not a time when I was not very aware of my body’s potential for pleasure. And not a time when that knowledge did not terrify me, deliciously diabolically terrify me. Because, there was not a time when that sexuality was not steeped in terror and violence.

I remember being very, very small, wearing a little ruffled dress and seeing a man, just a man, a stranger on the street, and wondering if he did it too? If he fucked too; and I felt that shuddering delicious rush of dread. I must have been three or four. And fucking was nonconsensual… forced… dangerous… violent… the concept of consent was beyond me. (interestingly… my abuse never involved penetration… but I knew… oh yes, I knew…)

And not only was sexuality fraught with violence… violence was fraught with sexuality. Just being frightened was erotic… panic could make me come. And I was orgasmic… fantasizing, terrible complex fantasies about chains, whips, rape, humiliation, dehumanization long before I even had words for the acts. I was given a Barbie doll… poor, poor thing… I fashioned chains for her, forced her to do so many terrible things. I caged her; beat her, fed her horrible things; shit, dirt, poison. I forced endless, sundry, foreign objects into every imaginary orifice. I dismembered her. I fed her to the dog.

Long after I was no longer under the influence my abusers, I carried that within me, a dreadful fascination with violence. Every sexual fantasy involved abduction, rape, and abuse. I fantasized about things that I did not even have names for.

I remember that once I read an article in a Time Magazine about a crime. I think I might have been ten. In the article it was stated that the woman was raped multiple times. I was very puzzled. I had somehow thought that rape meant the act of tearing off someone’s clothing. I had this odd vision of the men tearing off her clothing and then her getting dressed again and then tearing the clothes off again. I remember asking my mother about this. She explained to me that rape meant forced sexual intercourse. The concept sort of rocked me. I knew about sexual intercourse. I knew about fucking. I just did not know you could do it consensually. You mean people fucked willingly???? That totally did not seem possible.

And I knew I had to keep all this secret… deepest darkest secret. No one could ever know. Even after I admitted my abuse, even after I went through years of therapy, I still did not tell anyone about the truth of my existence, that I had carried that love of violence inside me. The fear that if I let that monster out I could easily do terrible evil things. That each time I laid down and let someone fuck me, I was not there with them, I was deep inside my head, lost in my guilty world of horror. And afterward I would turn away from them, feeling dirty and evil.

I think I was maybe twenty something when I decided these fantasies were bad for me, unhealthy, and that I must stop. I decided that I was perpetuating my victimization. I decided I was not a monster, and that I was not going to think like one. It wasn’t easy to stop thinking about violence. But I did it. And I also stopped thinking about sex. I rejected violence and sex at the same time. I just turned it all off. I was in control of myself. And I was so angry. I stopped going to therapy, deciding that I was cured. I mean I was in control, finally.

My first husband could not deal with the frigidity and the anger, strayed and found greener pastures.

My second husband had a sense about him… he never asked… he always told. He was critical and demanding. Sex with him had no sense of me “letting”… he took. He was gentle, generous, attentive, creative… but underneath was this sense of being taken. It was fucking awesome. It woke up a lot of my old monsters, but I was getting old enough to know that I was not really a suppressed serial killer. I knew now that I really wasn’t going to somehow lose control and go on some kind of rampage. And fucking him was mind blowing. I loosened up a little, let the fantasies roll, took some time to try and figure out who I was in these fantasies… Was I the victim or the perpetrator in these complex stories? It was never really clear.

The marriage was chaotic, he was controlling in all aspects of our relationship. I was a strong outspoken feminist. We fought, separated, reunited, divorced and reconciled. I was strong. He was stronger. He seemed to thrive on my resistance but eventually I just stopped fighting. Menopause nearly killed it because I lost the need and literally the ability to have sex. But momentum and perhaps a certain lack of motivation kept us together. I gave up fighting, but I just was passive and avoidant. We coasted along for I don’t know how many years like that.

But finally menopause got over… and suddenly my libido snapped back on again, with a vengeance. I got a laptop computer for a birthday present and I started to write down my fantasies. My dark, dirty, forbidden fantasies… and I started jumping the old man’s bones at every opportunity. A friend mentioned an online erotica site where people can post their stories. I started reading other people’s stuff. And I had another AHAH moment. Holy fuck… There are other people who thought like me. And then I read stories about people who did these things (well, a lot of these things) that I have been thinking about WILLINGLY????

OH MY FUCKING GOD!!! I found out about BDSM… about consent… about SSC BDSM… and then I read more… and found out about Masters and something clicked… hell, I had been in a power exchange relationship for years. Yes, it wasn’t by the book. But with my husband it had always been his way, his way or fight and I was tired of fighting.

I started to talk with him about this, talking with him about wanting to be controlled, owned, bound and hurt. He looked at me like I was crazy. Protesting that I could never do it and I would wail, “I want to try. I need this.”

And I began a cleverly designed campaign. If you build it, they will come. I began “playing” submissive, imagining that he had “ordered” me to do this. Working my ass off as a service slave, telling him that I was his… that there was nothing that I would not do for him. For the longest time he refused to believe it was true, to play along. But slowly… oh so slowly… he found that he had a taste for having a girl at his feet, the sound of a scream and a body undulating in pain. Slowly he began trusting that I will not hate him if he hurts me.

It has had its ups and downs. Sometimes I despaired that it would ever really happen at all and we would take a break. But we would step back and try again. And in less than two years I am happy to say I have a Master. Not the Master of my dreams and fantasies, because he is who he is. And I have realized that it is my task to accept my role, to meet his expectations and stop worrying so much about my own.

Our M/s relationship does not look at all like anyone else's. It never will. But for the first time in my life I feel like I am in love. And he loves it when I say promptly, at a sharp nudge or a look, “Yes, Master, is there anything I can do for you?” He will kick my chair for no reason beyond wanting to hear those words.

Once someone asked me if I wished it had not happened and I stepped back and looked at my whole life. I am strong. I am smart. I am beautiful... perhaps more so because of the pain I have had to overcome. I know I would not wish it on anyone else, but like a shattered crystal vase lovingly reassembled with patience and glue, I cannot help but decide that I am all the more beautiful for the way the light catches in the cracks and stronger for the glue that holds me together.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

A conversation

I received a private message wanting to talk to me about my answer to a post about Master’s possibly not fulfilling their promises. I had written…

This topic resonates for me... before my commitment to my husband to become his property, most of the topics of conflict revolved around the fact/idea/perception that he was not fulfilling his promises to me... promises to finish tasks, to fix things, to do things... he has had and still has ongoing issues with procrastination, distraction, avoidance. Before I decided to devote myself to him as his slave, it would drive me NUTZ and I was a flaming nagging bitch about it.

Now it just runs off my back... just like proverbial water and ducks... He is my master. He is who he is. He gets to be who he is. I get to accept him for who he is. He rarely, hell... he never uses the word promise. He is too smart for that. He knows he has difficulty with follow through. It bothers him a hell of a lot more than it does me.

Sometimes I will pause and look at that car, the one he "said" he would get rid of about ten years ago, the one with the weeds growing around it and shrug, a small memory of the angst and the arguments... but I don't feel disrespect. I have let go of all that.

She wrote:


I read your reply to this discussion and I was hoping that you would be willing to talk with me. I am trying to figure out how when you "give" up control and let all those things go that bother you like the car he has not gotten rid of. Now he gets to be who he is and what about you? Do you get to be who you are? You cannot get a say in getting the things you need/want done like him getting rid of that car??

I ask because we are in a place so much of what my husband does or does not do drives me crazy!! For example he made lobster tail a WEEK ago he made melted butter for them and although I have simply left the sink alone and reminded him I cannot stand lobster the sink sits there a HUGE mess! So what do I do just clean it up myself?? That would be like having another kid.

If I stop asking him to do things and I just "let it go" will it ever get done? Do I then have to pick up double duty and do it ALL myself? I just let him leave a HUGE pile of laundry on his side of our room forever. Please let me know your thoughts and how you live with the feelings.

I answered:

A wise person once said that after forty you learn not to sweat the small stuff and after fifty you learn it is all small stuff...

First every relationship is unique. What works for me and my Master will not necessarily work for others, in fact I am very sure it will not work for others. He is not very strict about most stuff up until he suddenly goes postal about some very minor thing, like which ladle I use to dish up the soup for dinner. (Giggles... I try to keep a straight face during those moments, right up to when he bends me over the dishwasher and "spatulates" that smirk right off my face.) He has very few rules I am expected to follow, but the ones that are there better not be forgotten.

As far as having expectations for my Master... i.e. cleaning up the lobster dishes... I just don't have them. I had to learn to accept him for who and what he is... it is not my right to try and change him... and what about me??? I have made the decision that my attitude is "anything he wants, everything he wants, and I am here to serve him in any way that pleases him"... if that means double duty then it is double duty. Master does not demand I do it... but when I sit back and let it sit.. the kitchen... the laundry... he does not complain but it makes me feel bad. I want this slave relationship as much or more than he does, and when I slack off, I feel sad, lost and disconnected. So I guess that is the "what about me"... the me that needs to feel useful, pleasing, used, exploited, owned, controlled, objectified... mmm sigh... oops sorry got distracted there... back on topic.

For the longest time I wanted him to step up, take more control, force me to surrender... real ropes and whips and "breaking" fantasies. Then I had this "aha" moment... I realized that until I trusted him I could not surrender to him. Trust is a slow growing thing... but I know now that I trust him to keep me safe... I am learning to trust that he will meet enough of my "wants and needs" to keep me a happy girl for the next fifty years.

About the car... he knows I want it gone... and I know he wants it gone too... but the sweet darling is going to take his own sweet time doing it... maybe another ten years... or never. It is a small thing.

He and I had a sweet moment in the car yesterday on the way home from the grocery store... he said "It took a long time but I think I have finally tamed you." I responded, "Tamed? really, you think so?" He laughed and answered me... "Well, like a house cat is tamed, certainly not like a golden retriever."

If you have any questions... go ahead and ask away.

She fired right back:

Now don't get me wrong I desire this type of relationship as well so I am not judging. However the I do whatever he wants, my attitude is what he wants, he’s the master blah blah blah. And not blah blah blah to you but to every time I read women saying stuff like that. So only women should bend, give up, allow him to be however he wants, she gives up her voice, her wants, her desires.

I understand you are saying that your wants and desires are to be wanted, used, owned etc. But you cannot completely say you just let him be the god and you are nothing?? Where is your worth? Where is your voice? Or any woman’s voice that chooses those items. I do not want to run around and clean up after him and do his dishes and clean his side of the room or sink etc, etc. I have more than enough with three kids and the two extra I babysit.

I want to feel owned, cherished, loved of service but I also want to feel he takes pride and wants to clean up after himself to not be so messy to not leave me to do it. Why should I clean up the meal he cooked himself? It would be like if I cooked a meal and just left my stuff and never cleaned up just sitting around waiting for someone to do it and no one ever would it would rot!

I hope this makes sense I guess my real question how do you just not care when it appears so lop sided and one way only? How do you take of yourself the kids, house then all his mess also? Is he not an adult?

Again I am not judging you or trying to say this is wrong I am just trying to figure out how I can feel happy to give and not jilted, pissed off, used and like a doormat with no other purpose or worth but to serve. I have a lot of worth and I want him to take care of me also.

So I answered:

For the longest time I looked at this through the lens of gender politics... that I was the "woman" and I was not going to let the "man" control me. But in reality I like cooking and cleaning because that is what I am socialized to do... not what he expects. And as ‘blah blah blah’ as it is... I NEED HIM TO BE MY MASTER. I hate it when he does any of those things... it takes away from me. (Just today for the first time he "allowed" me the privilege of cooking his breakfast for him before he went to work. This was a huge change in his daily routine... I am sure all the guys at McDonald's will wonder if something bad happened to him.)

It does not make me nothing... it makes me exactly the person I want to be. I have a voice... he hears... he listens... I trust him to care. I trust him to decide what is best for me... that makes me HUGE and IMPORTANT and SPECIAL and LOVED... not nothing. I do work full time and I have to admit that I do not have small children (mine are all grown up... but I know how hard kids can be.)... He understands I have tired days after a hard day at work... (I work with violent disabled children and sometimes come home bruised, spit on, and disheartened... he totally coddles me then.)

Master never cooks... or cleans up at all. (Master edit: He took some umbrage at the word “never”… so in fact in all accuracy I must say “rarely or hardly ever.”) In fact he sits and plays computer games as I do the work... in many ways it makes it all the better, the casual and callous disregard as I work. It would not feel like service if it was just my turn to do it. But he always raves about the food. I think if the dishes started to rot, he would not even notice as long as he had food in front of him.

He is an adult... my Master... totally spoiled by me. For me, I need it lopsided... his way only. It would not have the same meaning for me if I tried to control it or control him. It is funny... sometimes I wish he would beat me in a different manner... more methodical... longer... perhaps not quite so intense... but I never voice that because then I would be controlling it and that would ruin it completely. I would rather have it his way than feel like it was me controlling it.

Darling I don't feel judged... I am perfectly comfortable with how things are going for me and Master. If I may... can I ask you some questions? How long have you been with your husband/Master? How long as it been power exchange... do you identify as slave? property? Do you have a written contract? Are the kids his? Did you negotiate your relationship/limits/expectations with him prior to making a commitment?

Giggles... I love the doormat comment... if he wants a doormat I am on the floor hoping against hope he would really wipe his feet on me. That would be fucking haut. I don't want equal... I want him to own me and show that ownership in his actions. He tells me he loves me a thousand times a day... he calls me beautiful... he tells me how happy he is that I am his over and over. He tells me that he is thrilled with all I do. But he can be selfish, violent, cruel, callous, capricious, controlling and a total fucking bastard... I am not sure when I love him best. I know I need both.

Perhaps a structured Master/slave relationship with limits clear and stated will work better for you. But be careful... if you try to control too much I can't help but believe it will ultimately dilute the intent. I would not feel the same trust for my Master if he allowed me to control him.

And she responded:

LOL@ the mcdonalds comment!! I am happy to hear that he loves you so well and does give you so many compliments!

We have been together for 4 years. Actually the power exchange in new since maybe Nov. with some little kink in the bedroom before that. I guess I do not identify yet as I do not know. I like sub and lil girl. We do not have a contract there lies a problem he does not want to sit down and talk in depth about it. One of the kids are his the other two previous marriage. No we did not talk about this before marriage this came into light after getting married and the baby.

So I said:

I hear about the "him not wanting to talk about it"... My Master is a doer not a talker. And he is also diabolically in love with teasing me, mindfucking me, confusing me, frustrating me. He is ten times more of a mental sadist than a physical sadist. I sometimes suspect if he really gets what I want, that is the one thing he will dangle just out of my reach, just to watch me jumping up and down. So deep, serious, heart felt conversations are frequently derailed by his devilish sense of humor.

My Master and I had been married for 18 years when I broached the subject about wanting him to take more control of me. He was resistant. He thought it would mean more work for him... I am very strong willed... the whole idea of me "submitting" to him was a little hard for him to believe. I started to go through the motions, calling him Master, biting my lip, working on trust... Slowly he started to respond to my plan. We have been in an evolving power exchange for about two years.

It has not been all roses and success... he is very stubborn and will not be steered by me. I had to give up on what I imagined it could be and accept what he decides it is going to be. Once I tried to set limits for him. I wrote a contract aimed mostly at keeping control of my own money and avoid doing dreaded yard work... YUCK... but he was enraged by my attempt to control him. And I realized it came from a lack of trust from me… that was the source of his anger. I sucked it up. I do yard work now. Funny, now that I let him have complete control of the household money (I do the bill paying but now he oversees it), he has been funneling a ton more of his paycheck to me. (Before that he was just paying his share.) We paid off the mortgage... woot!

It seems the more I surrender, the more I trust him, the more he is stepping up, the more confident he is becoming.

Have you read the book, "The Surrendered Wife"? It did not fit very well for me and my Master's dynamic but the one concept that resonated with me was trusting your husband... if you don't trust him he won't be empowered. If he is not empowered he will not feel motivated to do the right things. As I relaxed and embraced my trust I found him somehow growing and becoming even more worthy of that trust.

She responded:

“when I broached the subject about wanting him to take more control of me. He was resistant. He thought it would mean more work for him... I am very strong willed... the whole idea of me "submitting" to him was a little hard for him to believe.”

This is exactly where we are. He DOES NOT want more work and he thinks he will have to tell me tasks to do all the time. I am super strong willed and have a ton of stubborn pride.

CONGRATS on the mortgage that's awesome!!

I wonder if I just surrendered if I would find my fears washing away. And it would not be all that I am scared of. I did try this weekend to just serve him selflessly and I got pissed on and mad that he did not take care of me also.

After laughing a little I came back with:

Goodness... it took about six months for him to start believing.

Over and over I hear about this anger... angry at him for not being exactly what you want him to be. What I did for six months was focus on being the person I wanted to be... his. I pretended I had rules, had orders, had lists of tasks assigned to me. I treated him with respect long before I really felt it.

Oh, we had our moments, good ones and horrid ones, ones where I would lose it and just rant at him and he would withdraw. I would despair and talk to my M/s friends and they would remind me it is a process and it will take time.

The one thing I had to learn was he gets to be exactly who he is... he will never be my fantasy Master... the one in my imagination. Another funny story: ...just yesterday Master totally did this whole kinky sex thing with me. Generally he prefers more vanilla sex so I was a very, very happy girl. Later on that day I snuggled up to him and whispered sweet naughty appreciations for the special treat. And then, because I can be a bit of brat, I could not help but add, "...but a blind fold would have made it perfect." In a nano-second I was bent over, one arm twisted up behind me and his other hand firmly gripping a nipple. His voice was just as soft, "Pet, you will have to get used to less than perfect." The moral of that story is I have gotten used to less than perfect... I wanted him for my Master, I wanted the whole package. He is far from perfect, but there is plenty there to love, he is strong, he is controlling, he loves the hell out of me, he spoils me rotten too.

It sounds like you still have a lot of needs and expectations that are not getting met. What are you afraid of? Examine those fears, needs and expectations, they may well be reasonable... I know many of the things I wish were different about my Master are very reasonable but they are beyond my control. All I can do is pay attention to the parts of him that make me happy and love the hell out of him despite his flaws. I know he does the same for me.

I am sure your Master has a lot of positive qualities. You married him after all. And you are not a doormat.

P.S. Does your husband/Master read your posts?

So she said:

He really does not have time to read them sometimes he does. I apologized for my words. I was triggered last night and had jumbled feelings.

I wonder what is the appeal in being used, being less than human, having no voice, being property in the derogatory sense? Can you be treated like that and be healthy?
What’s the difference between property, slave and sub?

Oh god I hated that last question, but I tackled it:

I think that in reality, those things do not happen on a routine basis. In reality, Master and I would look like a normal old aging couple. He has his big chair, I sit on the couch. While that fantasy of naked, no panties, on your knees stuff is fun to think about, in reality if I am naked he will give me a "mmm, that looks nice" comment then in the second breath order me to "Put on some clothes." He certainly would not let me sit on the furniture naked. "That's just gross."

But underneath is the total awareness that he is in charge, what he says is the law. So I put on the clothes, grumbling under my breath, "it’s not gross..."

I am not dehumanized. I don't find being property derogatory. Yes, I get what you mean... those stories of nameless, automatons kept and used like pieces of meat. But that is not the daily reality of anyone I have ever spoken to. One works, runs a house, plays golf... Another spends all her time taking care of her granddaughter that lives with them and complains that they never have a chance to fuck anymore because she is too tired from babysitting. I am sure all those other people have similar stories. And the few that may actually live that reality??? Well... all I can do is give them the acceptance for their choices that I hope to receive from them.

The age old question... what is the difference?... the answer is endlessly varied. They are labels that mean one thing to one person and completely different to another. I have seen so many heated arguments.

Generally property has given all power to the Owner. Generally property has no control, no safe words, and many of them ascribe to the belief/fact that they cannot leave. Sometimes the term 'consensual nonconsent' has been used, meaning that the property has agreed ahead of time to anything, even if later they change their mind.

Slave is a very loose term. Many people take offense saying that for us kinky people to throw the word around is unfair to the people who historically have been and currently are enslaved against their will. For me the words property and slave are sort of synonymous.

Sub is short for someone who is submissive or has chosen to submit. That may mean in a time limited, situation limited sense, i.e. in the bedroom, on this date, or with this particular person. Generally there are some negotiated limits and safe words.

I like the concept of property. Master is very clear that I cannot leave. I like him saying that (whether he could really stop me or not). I don't really have a safe word. Last time I tried to yell "safe word" at him he laughed and told me I was doing just fine. (but he ease up a bit... sweet Master that he is)...

You will find your own labels and your own comfortable place.

Persistent girl that she is she keeps at it:

OK let’s just say for sake of conversation you have chosen your owner and things are good, he is making good choices for you. What happens if he makes a bad choice for you? What happens if you want to leave? You say you cannot leave. What if it is no longer a good situation?

Oh now I get it… after being pounded over the head with a two by four, I finally got it… Safety police…. So I answer:

Well... I did give him a good eighteen year long looking over first... I was well aware of what I was getting into.

As I just read your question out loud, Master said "you have to learn to trust" but I realize you are thinking of those mythical situations where the Owner suddenly flips out and wants to amputate your limbs or do your children. Of course if Master flipped out, had a stroke what ever... he would not be the same person I made my promises to. And I would gently have him committed or arrested. I am not crazy... I want all my arms and legs attached, thank you.

Other things, like move, quit my job, etc... those are his right. I would ask why, I would whine and maybe even complain but in the end I would trust his commitment to my safety and well being.

As far as not leaving, I have made a commitment to not leave him as he is now. It was easy to do... we did not have a very happy marriage. I left at least ten times, actually divorced his ass once and I kept coming back. I eventually realized the "can't leave" came from inside me, not so much from him. But I must admit I love to hear him say it. How the "can't leave" thing works for others that is up to them. In reality, there are no locks on the door, no GPS unit embedded inside my body, no chains... I have a car and a job... I am not a prisoner of anything beyond my own convictions.

I just read this to him and he said "and you still can't leave"... he says the sweetest things.

Finally satisfied she said:

Great way to answer that! Thanks! And thank him for his input as well :)

First Post

Its funny, Master left me with a list, mostly paper stuff, bills, the silly census thing, the not so silly income tax thing... and as per usual I am procrastinating. The good thing is the dishwasher is rumbling away and the potatoes are boiling to make a big potato salad to go along with the barbecued steaks tonight. I am halfway thinking about putting on some bread to rise.

I figure anyone that takes the time to read another persons blog must be curious but rather than go on a long tiresome this is me type thing, I think I will let you get to know me as you go.

I will be posting some things I have written in the past, both fiction and non fiction. I will post poetry and excerpts from my books with clumsy amateurish attempts at self promotion. It is funny, I can write like a dream, but sell... oh my fucking god, that is hard as hell.

I think next I will put up a conversation I had yesterday on Fetlife.com with a wanna be slave/subbie/property... pick your label... girl who kept whining about total power exchange not being fair, how angry she was that he did not do his share of the house work. It will give you some insight into where I am now and how I feel about it.