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.