Thursday, April 29, 2010
One finds one balancing on the razor’s edge… Master likes a challenge… Master likes a lively give and take. If one argues back or is a bit bratty… if one pulls away at first when he reaches for a handful of flesh… if one feigns rage and pique and calls him names… if one fights back and must be vanquished… Master joins such games with a fervor and enthusiasm. He loves the battle and savors that victory. It emphasizes the ownership; it adds a zing and a rush to the game. It makes him feel like fricken Khan the barbarian or something. Testosterone… go figure.
Anyway, this one naturally is a bit feisty, naturally has a bit of fight in her… this one must feel vanquished so we are a good match… up to a point.
The trouble is this one can easily get a little too enthusiastic in ones “mock resistance”. One has a very impulsive and quick sharp wit… and one is built like a brick shit house and if one forgets that it is “token” one could easily injure Master. One can easily be a rough and tough bitch at times. If the game goes on too long, the play too rough, one loses perspective, one gets infected with rebellion. It tends to pervade her every action and it begins to poison her thinking. And she takes it too far… and then Master is no longer amused… at all… and one realizes she lost her balance and is falling off the far side of that razors edge. One can very quickly find oneself in deep, deep shit… and one is no longer laughing, one is squealing, crying, pleading that “I was just playing… I thought we were playing… I am sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry…” as she is being taught one more time that it is possible to go too far, to get beyond that point.
The other day one had such an experience. One had been “playing the game” with Master all day. Endless little struggles and laughter, verbal sword fights… snotty comebacks… big brave ‘you don’t scare me’ taunts, wrastling, titty grabs, smacked butts and pussy pokes… It was all good. Then during a lull, one of those sweet moments of peace between bouts, he walked by he reached out and touched me. Just a gentle touch, an acknowledgement of my presence, a gesture of affection; he can’t not touch me as he passes by. It is automatic and unconscious and natural. But this time, due to the cosmic balance, the low humidity, or just his naturally electric personality, he was intensely charged with ions… positive or negative? I have no idea, but long story short, I was attuned to the opposite charge and he discharged a mighty surge of static electricity. Oddly, my toe is either immune to the sensation or perhaps it was just cosmic justice, but I felt nothing, but I heard it… a loud snap. And he leapt back, yowled then began to laugh sadistically.
Obviously the game was on… and I retorted that I had felt nothing, that it was nothing, nothing at all… but it was obvious that he had felt it all… I went so far as to suggest that not only did he feel it but from his giddy case of giggles that perhaps he enjoyed it… perhaps he was the masochist, not me. I even offered to give him an opportunity to try it out.
Suddenly he was not laughing. Obviously my Master does not appreciate the inference that he might be masochistic. Sensing that the tone of the game may have changed one ducked, and focused back onto the computer in her lap. But alas, it was too late to lay low.
Master was gone for a second and for that second I though perhaps I had gotten away with those words but then he was back, a big handful of zip ties in his paws. The foot rest was kicked out on my chair, and he yanked my feet out onto either side and looped a zip tie onto each big toe and began to cinch my feet together underneath the recliner’s foot rest. I studiously stared at my computer, determined to ignore him. I was still infected with the game, still determined to “win,” and to prove that I could take whatever he had to dish out.
And, really zip ties? Those silly things… I could break them in half it I really fought. But fighting like that, fighting the ties, that is not the kind of resistance I enjoy. I like to feel my bonds, but I hate it if I can break them or escape. So I did not fight. I just sat there as he tightened them, my legs twisting and complaining, my big toes starting to feel like they were getting cut off. It was terrible, the sides of the foot rest cut into my calves, my muscles threatened to cramp, my toes were screaming… and I refused to take my eyes off the computer screen. There was no place of comfort… no tensing or loosening of my muscles could find a bearable position. I am sure my face was a mask of stubborn agony, but I refused to look up and meet his eyes.
I don’t know how long I sat there, dealing with a new balancing act. Trying to find a place in the middle, a place where the pain in my toes equaled the pain in my legs, straining to hold still, fighting the urge to beg him to stop. Finally when a tear slipped lose from my eye, he asked his voice soft, “Had enough?”
And I nodded, suddenly profoundly sad… sad that I have to balance, sad that is it sometimes so fucking easy to screw up… sad that I had done something that had angered my Master. Sad that he loves the resistance but that the resistance tears away at my wish to be good, wish to be obedient… sure it is fun to be snotty… sure I love to be vanquished… but I love the safety of his approval more.
For many days after that, I did not play. When he reached for me, I would relax, offer up the flesh he reached for, pressed it cooperatively into his grasp, willed him to hurt me and welcomed the pain. And he sensed the change, repeatedly questioning if I was sad, angry, depressed I just would smile, shake my head, and murmur, “no, I am fine.”
It was hard to put into words, my intention of replanting the seeds of obedience, to weed out the unwelcome rebellion that had taken root in my heart. And still, when the impulse to pull away rises up, I resist the urge to fight and instead offer up myself to him, whole, happy and oh so sweetly obedient.
Friday, April 23, 2010
It all revolved around this legal case where a woman who had agreed, “consented,” to be a slave. This agreement extended to “non-consent”, the concept that once the “slave” made this agreement, it gave the man, the “Master,” cart blanch to do whatever he felt was best for him and his slave, whether she agreed at the time or not… after all she had relinquished the right to agree or disagree with his actions. All she had left to do was obey or be forced.
Anyway this woman changed her mind and ran away from her “Master”. He went after her, exerted some amount of force to “make her come home” and once home proceeded to punish her and then engaged in sex, all according to the original agreement, I am sure.
Said woman managed to “escape” again, or maybe just walked over to the phone, (who knows?) and called the police. Said man was in deep, deep shit, facing charges of kidnapping, assault and rape. (I cannot help but think the dude was lucky, the bitch could have reciprocated in kind. But then again, perhaps he will have a similar experience in prison. Like I said, who knows?) As far as I am concerned, there is no questions in my mind that he broke the law, and if he ever thought that some kind of a promise or piece of paper ever would protect him from prosecution, he was criminally stupid. But then there are the larger questions about consent. It is a no brainer that currently in most, if not all, jurisdictions that what he did was illegal. But let’s not forget that most, if not all, of the things we do are illegal in most jurisdictions. Beating someone is illegal, technically you cannot consent to be assaulted. The fact that said man harbored the expectation that someone who had already broken their promise to obey, would not go to the police was, as I said before, criminally stupid. The fact that the woman had made promises and then broke them is reprehensible but I don’t want to get into the tricky place of pointing fingers and blaming victims. As far as I am concerned there are two victims here, victims of their own stupidity.
The poster of this story on Fet then went on to pose a series of questions and make several statements of fact (and/or opinion, depending upon who you are). He asked if it was ethical for persons who practice CNC, he referred to them as ‘the community’ (causing all the other non-CNC people in “the community” to raise up arms, defending themselves as “not one of those type peoples”) to present a CNC lifestyle to others without clarifying that such practices are not legal, and if you do engage in such “non-consensual” activities you could very easily end up just like said man in the story. He suggested that consent is not something someone can voluntarily relinquish.
To say he really kicked the bees nest would be an understatement. Arguments raged… they are still raging. I do not even have time to read half of the pithy, pointed, sometimes clearly thought out, many times just emotional gut reaction responses. It was all very entertaining but at the same time made me think about the nature of me and my Master’s relationship.
Are we CNC? Not really. I mean I consent to obey even if I don’t ‘want’ to at the time. I consent to having him ‘make me’ if I don’t hop to fast enough or get too mouthy. I just don’t see Master hunting me down if I was so foolish as to run away. But at the same time I do see him intervening way, way before I got so far down the crazy bitch road that I could walk out, perhaps, even intervening in ways that are not very pleasant. Does he want things from me that I don’t want to do? Sometimes, in fact, it is those very things that enforce within me the sense that he is my Master, and that I do have to obey, even when it is not fun, especially when it is not fun. If it was all fun, if it was all my wish, than it would not feel real… and I need for it to feel real. Total trust, total obedience, total surrender does not come with an if, a but or an or… it just is.
I don’t have any trouble with the concept of CNC, but for me it is more… um… consensual consent? My consent is continual and unconditional and 99% of the time I am the one “making” me do it. I am the one that needs it most, so if I fail at my own personal expectations, how can I aspire to meet his? I mean it when I say; anything, everything; it is all his, every single bit of me, there is nothing he can’t ask of me that I will not do. It does not mean automaton obedience. Hell, half the time I am bitching and complaining under my breath as I drag my sorry ass off the couch to do some stupid, useless thing. And it is the silliest damn stuff that is the hardest to swallow; the hard stuff is way easier, because it is hard.
He is fond of telling me that I cannot leave, and again I know that 99% of that is the fact that now I can’t even begin to fathom ever leaving again. I have tried enough times in the past (before slavery, before promises) to learn that it is just not possible, not because he forced me to stay but because I could not stay away. And I also know that he cannot make me leave, like Doug the dog in the movie “Up”, if he tried to throw me out like the grumpy old man did, I would just hide under the front porch for however long it took for him to come to his senses. I just can’t leave, even if he was the one saying, “Go.” That’s obedience for you… but then of course he has already given me a command that I cannot leave, so in the confusion of the moment, one would have to decide which command was paramount, the more recent or the more palatable. See, consent can be tricky.
But my consent is conditional upon one thing; it is conditional upon Master being my Master, being the same man I made this promise to. If (please insert your favorite cosmic being here) forbid, he had a stroke, got the als-hammer, lighting stuck that sweet bald head, or he was abducted by aliens and got a brain transplant… then he would not be the same man. All promises, all commitments and all contracts would become suddenly null and void… “All right, dude, what did you do with my Master???” I might even have a knife at his (it’s?) throat as I asked the question.
If he changed, so would I. If he became unable to care for himself, I would have to change from a mildly bratty slave to a sweet, caring, concerned if somewhat sadistic caretaker. What? You don’t think I wouldn’t take advantage of his incapacitation to take a little revenge for all those mind fucks? You have got to be kidding. A little old man, easily confused? Oh man, how could I resist?
If he became bonkers and wanted to cut off my arms and legs, I would have him committed to the place for crazy people. Sorry, but I just can’t go that far… Apologies to all the twoo slaves out there but I want my arms and legs, thank you. And anyway, the man who is my Master now would never contemplate such a thing. That would be total alien brain transplant stuff. I would visit from time to time. I might even bake him cookies now and then, as long as I knew he was not getting out during my life time. Or, I might just poke at it with a sharp stick, gloating… “look… look… arms, legs, I gots‘em”…
And last, if he stopped asserting himself, stopped trying to control me, stopped acting like a Master, I would not be able to keep up the act for long. I need to know he will be there to make me when the going gets rough. That’s why I need a Master, I need him there to keep me feeling safe, controlled, protected… if I did’t believe he was willing to make me, I don’t know if I could make me. I wouldn’t leave, but if he did not step back up he would wish I had.
He knows all this, I tell him often enough…
And the risk, the danger they all talk about… the fact that at any time a sub, play partner, wife, slave, or bottom… (whatever you want to call it) can take that picture of her bruised ass that she was posting so proudly on the interwebs just last week and use it to accuse that same sorry son of a bitch of a bitch of assault? Yeah, that can happen. Of course it can happen. It’s a risk we all take when we choose to trust someone, to play dangerous games with them and to believe they have the integrity to keep their promises to us. Do not love lightly my friends… it can come back to bite you in the ass.
At the same time, is the risk worth it? Oh hell yeah.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
After reading Kaya’s blog about the source of the conflict she was having with her Master and her fears about complete surrender around the issues of parenting… I got to thinking about Master and me and Master and his relationship to my sons.
My two boys were 6 and 8ish when I first met and started dating the man who was to become my second husband.
My first marriage had lasted about thirteen years, the divorce had been amicable and I was able to have a civil conversation with my ex. We were completely in accord when it came to parenting. I didn’t much like him, did not love him at all, never lusted him… but I respected him as a parent. He was a good dad and a good provider. He was a good ex-husband, making all his child support payments and alimony right on time… he was the one that made sure that I got a property settlement equal to half the money he had accumulated in his retirement. We had joint custody and the boys went to his house a lot because I was working strange shifts. Other than being a complete dog fuck around… he was an honorable man. We see each other at times… at family events, we get along just fine. I still look at him and I can’t believe I was ever married him, gross… and the idea that I ever fucked him just grosses me out, but other than that… he’s okay.
But I digress, this is not about the ex… this is about how I met Master and made a family with him. I was working at a women’s shelter and he was a maintenance worker for a company that did contract work for our nonprofit. He was cute… slender with broad shoulders, longish blond hair around the edges, bald on top, deep, deep brown eyes and an engaging smile. He was shy, and I found excuses to follow him around. He accused me of sneaking up on him over and over as he would look up from some task and there I would be watching him.
I never actually broke anything in order for him to come over… but if something was breaking, I was not above “helping it along” in hopes he would be the one to come fix it. Eventually after all those “feel out the guy” kind of questions… the “what are you having for dinner?” question designed to see if he was “with” any one… the “do you go out?” question… etc… etc… I eventually asked him if he would like to go out sometime. He said yes… I gave him my number.
He called promptly. And while I have no memory of telling him my address or asking him to come over… he showed up one evening. I asked him in and fed him dinner, he met my boys. We kept talking on the phone a lot. Then we finally went out for hamburgers. I can’t remember if it was the first or second date, but, being a bit of a slut, it wasn’t long before we were at it. It was a great time. God, we fucked until it hurt to walk and then fucked some more. He was pretty good, and there was this kind of sense that he was taking. He was a generous, thoughtful lover, but he never asked, he just took and took and took. …mmm… and took… what? What? Okay, it was just fucking my first husband had never come anywhere near that. I was completely transported. I remember times when my awareness was completely reduced until the only thing that existed in the entire universe was that cock pounding my pussy.
Anyway… yeah, it started out purely physical, but we did have a lot of fun. He love to argue, verbally spar with me and there were some epic battles… all in good fun but endless debates. He seemed to like to piss me off a little, and any time I would show any kind of temper he would grin and laugh… and I could not help but laugh along with him. And then we would end up fucking some more.
There were bumps in the road… I had gotten a tubal ligation after the birth of my second son and did not want any more kids. I was up front about that. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to fall in love with someone if that meant he would never have any kids of his own. I remember saying to him once, that I would not have any man in my life that did not love my kids as much as I did.
Politically we were pretty much in accord. Spiritually we were equally unconcerned with the concept of a creator. We liked the same sorts of stuff, cars, walking on the beach...
When he asked me to marry him, it kind of took me by surprise. We had been going at it like rabbits, and as usual there was a bit of a rough aspect to the sex. I don’t remember what happened exactly but I remember fighting with him physically and him wrestling me into submission. He was sitting on top of me, pinning me to the bed, looking down at me with this fierce, triumphant, “I’ve got you now” expression. Then he asked me to marry him. I was taken by surprise… but I said yes. Later I insisted on a yearlong engagement. He moved in not long after that.
And he was good with my boys. He was stricter than me, but fair. It was not all roses, he did not tolerate bullshit, he could be pretty harsh, he had higher expectations for my boys than I did and there were plenty of conflicts. There were times I don’t think they liked him very much. I handled most of the discipline, but he backed me up. He sometimes got on my case about various flaws my children exhibited that he thought I was turning a blind eye to (and god knows they were not perfect children). I know he thought I “talked out” the problems too much, analyzed too much. I know he was much more of the opinion of “just fucking do it or you will get your ass kicked”.
There got to be more and more conflicts. There were a lot more issues than kids and step parenting. We fought a lot. He was getting more and more controlling. And I was not going to cave… I was an independent, liberated woman, damn it. I did not need to have him tell me how to do ever last little thing in my life. He would argue with me until I would throw up my hands in sheer frustration. And when I tried to “talk” with him about my feelings, what I needed… he would not listen… or worse… he would tell me that I did not feel that way, did not need this or that. I remember once when things really blew up and we tried counseling and he did that… denied my perceptions… saying outright that I did not feel the way I was saying, and that the counselor looked more than a little shocked.
Year after year he just got more rigid… more bossy… in my opinion a bigger asshole. My boys were getting to be teenagers… they started to fight verbally with him. I walked out at least a half dozen times, but kept coming back. Finally I just could not stand it anymore and I told him to just get out. He was so angry… he had never once listened to the complaints, the problems, and when it all blew up, he was mystified. What the fuck? As far as he was concerned there had been no fucking problems.
We stayed apart for about 3 (4?) years, maybe seeing each other a couple times a year when we would run into each other. And the boys grew up into men… and I matured a lot, he mellowed a little. I called him once when I had a particular mechanical problem. I had wrecked my Ford Tempo and needed a good head to tell me if it was salvageable. After that we sort of started dating. The physical thing kicked back on. I never stopped lusting after that man, he just smells right (and tastes right, and feels right… you get it.) I remember once saying that I needed to smash my Tempo in order to reconcile with him. He responded that I had to wreck my car too. He could always make me laugh, still can.
The power exchange happened much later, after I had done some research for a novel, learned about TPE relationships, realized I had been living in one… maybe it would be a little more accurate to say “fighting” in one for nearly 18 years. I stopped fighting and found out how much I really needed his control. Maybe that was why I kept going back to him; I had always needed his control.
He gets along with my sons pretty well now. The other day I saw him talking to an old friend he had not seen in twenty odd years, talking about the boys being his sons, how he was proud of them and felt like he had a lot to do with their growing up to be such fine men. You know, I think he was right. It wasn’t easy, or always pretty, but he cared about them and they knew it. He taught them what it meant to be honorable and that if he had high expectations, that they were capable of meeting them, even if they did not like it at the time.
When son number one ran into marital problems, Master was the one that made me reach out to his wife and let her know we still loved her and that she always had a place in our house. (I was pretty pissed at the time and more than willing to throw the baby out with the bathwater, but he slammed me none too gently into a corner and gave me a “she needs us, you will do this lecture”… this probably saved my son’s marriage.) When son number two and his wife ran into financial difficulties, it was Master who decided that they should move in with us for a while to get on their feet. And when that while got to be a long while, it was Master who once again decided that it was necessary and that if “our” family ever needs a place to stay, there will always be one here. Even if it means they have to listen to my screaming coming up the stairs from his basement lair now and then as he beats my ass for his amusement and my edification. (Hey, they are adults, and there are no secrets here. What happens behind closed doors… is sometimes… loud?)
Monday, April 19, 2010
I did have my noisy old vibrator turned on and propped in place as I typed. And the handle did get hot...
She looked at the clock, 8:47, thirteen more minutes until he said to start.
It has been a busy time for him. The holidays were always a busy time at his work, a spate of bad weather, and then an unexpected illness in the family had kept him preoccupied. Even when he did have a free evening, he was tired and irritable, more often falling asleep in front of the television rather than doing anything with her.
She knew better than to nag him, but as the days grew into a week and then two weeks she kept sending him those quiet longing looks. She told herself it was not her; that he still cared, he was just tired. He even acknowledged that he had been neglecting her, making apologetic comments about wanting to, but just not having the energy, muttering something about thinking of something to keep her occupied.
She tried to be patient, engaging in discrete solo play when he was not home to keep the needs at bay. It wasn’t the same but it kept the wolves from the door. Still it was no substitute for having him use her. She desperately missed feeling him inside her, taking his pleasure from her. He was very aware of her habits and did not usually object. Privately she held the opinion that he liked her frequent masturbation because it took some pressure off him.
Then this morning he had surprised her. It had been the first day of her Christmas holiday. He had ordered her into the shower with him and pushed her down onto her knees, pressing his cock into her mouth without any words. He had gripped her hair and used her mouth rough, enjoying the sounds of her gagging and gasping for air. Then he had picked her up and bent her over, taking her from behind as the water ran down her back and into her eyes and nose. She had gritted her teeth and tightened her cunt around him as tightly as she could. He had come quickly and then she had spun around on and taken him back into her mouth, soothing him, bringing him down from his orgasm. She was trembling with her own need but silently told herself that she could finish what he started once he was out the door.
After a while he stroked her face and looked down at her smugly, “Listen closely, today after I leave for work at precisely 9:00 a.m. you will get out your vibrator and masturbate to orgasm. You will look at the clock and note exactly how many minutes it took you to come. Write that down. You will do this again at each hour for the whole day. If you are unable to come within the hour, you will stay in bed, with the vibrator on your clit until you catch up or I get home.”
She looked up at him blinking. She knew that it would be difficult to do this. She was not readily multi-orgasmic, especially with only clitoral stimulation. Her body had a stubborn streak and would just not come after a while. He was well aware of this.
His next words sent a rush of fear and submissive delight through her, “For every orgasm you miss that will be a week of no orgasms for you.”
Her breath caught, “None?”
His hand tightened in her hair, lifting her face up, leering down at her. “None, in fact we will start with a week of waiting for that little question, and will add to that depending upon your success or failure.”
She swallowed hard, afraid to say anything more. “Yes, Sir.”
She looked at the clock, 8:55. She got out the big hand held vibrator that plugged into the wall. She knew which one he meant. It was the big one that could be heard just about anywhere in the house when she used it. He liked it because he could tell when she was using it. All others were off limits, reserved for his use only. Carefully taking off her pajama bottoms she slipped under the covers watching the big red numbers on the alarm clock.
At 9:00 she pushed the button and put the vibrating head against her flesh. Closing her eyes she let her mind drift back to the shower, the sensation of his cock so deep in her throat, choking her, the hard porcelain hurting her knees, the way his hand pulled at her hair as he fucked her face. Silently she writhed as the sensations built quickly, when she counted down from ten, remembering his voice in her ear as he so often had done before. Her climax was sharp and short, making her clit pulse against the vibrator.
She looked at the clock, 9:07. That had been quick, but his use in the shower and instructions had left her on edge. He had never spoken of restricting her orgasms before but it had always been a fantasy of hers. In fact he had never so controlled her masturbation before, usually leaving it up to her. The memory of his words, the look on his face as he had said the words had her hot as hell. She stretched and climbed from the bed and wrote down, 9:00… seven minutes.
At 9:45 she got out one of her favorite ‘dirty’ books and opened it up to a favorite scene. He had not said that she couldn’t use a little help getting her head in a good space. At 9:55 the phone rang, his voice was sharp, “Where are you?”
“Um… I was just reading and watching the clock, Sir.”
“How many minutes did it take at 9:00.”
“Hot little cunt today, aren’t you?”
She could not help but grin at his harsh words. He knew how much it turned her on to be verbally humiliated. Her voice dropped an octave, “Yes, Sir.”
At precisely 10:00 she switched on the vibrator and started again. His voice over the phone was gloating, “How does that feel?”
Her voice gurgled a little, “Good, Sir.”
His tone was slightly mocking, “My hot little cunt, all the time riding her fucking vibrator. Enjoy it today because you will be missing it later.” And then he hung up without saying good bye.
It did not take much longer, his words echoing in her head, this time she counted down out loud, and right before exploding she groaned out, “Yes.” Opening her eyes she looked at the clock, 10:13. Her cunt ached and tingled and she was happy to pull the vibrator away. She knew it was only going to get harder. As she wrote down thirteen minutes, it never even occurred to her to lie to him.
It seemed like 11:00 came much too quickly. Her pussy was still burning and tired. She stared at the clock and made a pained face as she started. Holding the vibrator she reread the sexy part of her book, putting herself in the extreme scene that had always made her get hot. When she got close she propped up the book and pressed her hand tight against her chest, crushing her breast, tensing her whole body into a hard vibrating arc, fiercely counting down, but when she got to one, she hovered there, grating out the last number over and over, “One! One! One!” The book slid to one side as she groaned out the word, her tone agonized and pleading. Finally she pushed past the block and came hard, her orgasm shaking her whole body, making her collapse and convulse. She was breathing hard and drenched in sweat when she looked at the clock. Her heart sank, 11:33. Only twenty-seven minutes until she had to start again. She was tempted to fall asleep but she knew that she would probably oversleep and miss noon.
His instructions had been clear. There was no way to skip one and rest. His words had been clear, ‘if you can’t come during that hour, you will remain in bed with the vibrator on your clit’. She knew that starting at noon; she was not going to be anywhere but in the bedroom torturing herself according to his wishes.
She forced herself to get up and walk into the kitchen and got a pitcher of water with a lot of ice in it and a glass with a straw. She made sure to pee and then grabbed the rest of her favorite sexy books and some lube to help with chafing; she stood in her bedroom trying to think what else she was going to need. On impulse she took two aspirin and filled a wine glass up with her favorite Merlot. She made sure that her phone was within reach. She was pretty sure he would be calling again sometime soon to check up on her.
At 11:55 she stripped down completely nude and on impulse took an ice cube out of the pitcher and chilled her fingers a little and then gently slid her icy fingers over her swollen and aching clitoris. The cold was soothing.
At noon, she sighed and put the vibrator between her legs. She flinched, Jesus, it was more painful than pleasurable. Clenching her teeth and sliding down on the bed she lay there with her eyes clenched closed, focusing on the sensation, visualizing his hand on the vibrator. It was his command that had put her here. Even with him busy and at work, he was there with her. And she was sure she was on his mind too. She knew he had to be looking at his watch, that tight predatory grin on his face as he thought about her here, contending with his commands.
Once the pain faded to a manageable level she clenched her thighs together holding the vibrator in place and began to read, deciding on not worrying about it so much. “Just relax and ride the wave.” Her voice trembled in time with the sensations.
At 12:15 her phone rang. His voice was teasing. “What are you doing?”
She had to swallow before she could talk, “Masturbating.”
He chuckled, “Having fun?”
Her voice quivered a little, but she struggled to sound light, “Oh yes Sir, lots and lots of fun.”
His voice darkened, “Have you missed any yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“How long did the last one take?”
The teasing tone was back, “Not so hot now?”
A little wave of silliness rose up in her, “I don’t know. I think it is starting to smoke down there a little, much more friction and I might just burst into flame.” A small pang of fear shot through her. Sometimes he did not find her little sarcastic statements all that funny. More often than not she ended up regretting the impulsive little jokes. To her relief he snorted with laughter.
Her voice was a little plaintive, “Sweetheart, Sir, when do you think you are going to be home tonight?”
There was a hint of sadism in his voice, “I don’t know. I have a lot of things to get done here, and there are some guys talking about grabbing some drinks after work. Maybe I will join them.”
She forced the tiny whimper of protest from her voice, “Sir, I did not have time to plan anything for dinner.” Cooking dinner was the one the few domestic things he insisted on. He did not much care if the house was messy or not, but he had become very accustomed to having a hot meal waiting for him when he got home.
“Then maybe I will get something before I come home.”
This time she could not help but ask, “But do I have to keep doing this?”
His voice was sharp and hard, a crack of a whip, “Make that two weeks. Question me again and it will be four.” She swallowed down her next question. Oh god, he was going to figure this exponentially. She had not gone more than a couple of days without some kind of sexual satisfaction, now she had at least two weeks and it went without question that there was going to be more. The vibrator was buzzing merrily against her cunt but things were not moving along at all, in fact things were starting to go a little numb.
Her voice was defeated, “Yes, Sir.”
“Get busy, girl.”
Again he hung up without saying good bye. She looked at the phone for a second. He had never had much patience for little social niceties. He never had much patience period. It was his impatience and stringent ways that had attracted her to him in the first place. It did not take long before his impatience and her craving for his control had pushed the power imbalance in his direction. And each step of the way she began to thrive more and more on his dominance.
She thought back to the first time he had physically punished her, spanking her and then beating her with his belt. She did not even exactly remember why he had punished her but the feeling of surrender; loss of control, had been amazing. It seemed like after that she had always looked at him with trepidation and awe. He had always been important but now his wishes were central to her existence.
The thought of that first beating seemed to wake up her numb and battered nerve endings, making her cunt clench and the feelings of heat and tingling running up her legs. She started to count but to her surprise the orgasm shot through her before she could reach one, her body almost spastic and uncontrollable. A low sob accompanied her orgasm. Turning she looked at the clock, 12:48. Blinking back tears she dropped the vibrator to one side and reached for a drink of water. After a long cool drink, she lowered the glass with its coating of cool condensation and pressed it to her throbbing cunt.
It felt jarringly cold but so good. She let out a long quivering groan. Her clit was doing this odd, throbbing thing. If felt like it was twitching spasmodically against the cold wet glass.
There was a kind of resignation in her mood and movements when 1:00 came up on the clock. She had an odd bored thought that it was too bad he did not allow a television in the bedroom. She sort of wanted something to do that took less effort than holding a book or focusing on words on a page. The idea of coming or not coming was too hard to think about. Closing her eyes she let her thoughts drift, trying to picture where he was, what he was doing. Thinking about Christmas next week, wondering what he had planned for them to do. She made a rueful face; one thing was sure, there would be no orgasms. Once he said something, he had never once changed his decision. And right now that was beginning to sound not so onerous.
She could tell she was getting sleepy; her body was getting heavy and her thoughts slower. Knowing that he would not accept sleeping as an excuse to stop, she reached down and found her underwear and awkwardly pulled them on. They were form fitting spandex and helped hold the vibrator trapped against her cunt. The angle was a little wrong but she folded up her pajama bottoms and wedged them under the handle strategically to force the vibrating head against her clit. Smiling at her ingenuity, she flexed her tired hand and arm, lay back down and let her mind float again.
Before her eyes drifted closed she looked at the clock, 1:34. She mentally shrugged and added a week to her projected fast. She lay there wondering what it would be like. Would it be easy or would she be totally horny? She wondered what it would be like to serve him without any prospect of satisfaction. She was not so worried that she would not be able to do it, would become somehow spontaneously orgasmic. Orgasms were perfectly possible but took some effort and concentration. But what would it be like to have none, none at all?
She shifted a little and the head of the vibrator settled a little deeper into her flesh, sending a sharp pang of agony through her. She winced and blinked a few times but the bedroom seemed too normal, too at odds with her predicament to bear and she closed her eyes once more and retreated deep into her mind.
She was amazed to feel the tension building in her body again, her thigh and belly muscles jerking. It was odd, she did not feel it all that much in her cunt, but somehow the messages were getting up to her brain and her body was trying to respond. Normally she did not find internal stimulation that helpful somehow her cunt felt empty and she wished he was here to fuck her. If he was fucking her she knew she would be able to make it happen again. Experimentally she reached down and slid her fingers into her cunt. She was not surprised to find it hot and very wet. Her fingers were cool in contrast and felt kind of nice. The heel of her hand was pressed down on the vibrator as she tried to force her fingers in deeper, searching for that illusive g-spot.
She had read about it, and once or twice found it, but only after extended sessions when she was too tired to appreciate it. He usually did not bother with her orgasms all that much, demanding she learn to come on his countdown but only as she had masturbated for him, and only engaging in this kind of play on rare occasions. In fact he seemed to prefer she not come while he used her. He did not have the patience to force her to reach this place like where she was now, very often.
She wished she had a dildo or something huge to shove up there, anything to make the empty feeling go away. She had mentioned perhaps wanting one once. He had said that her vibrator was all she needed, that she masturbated too much as it was and that a dildo would only make her do it more often. She also wondered if he did not like the idea of her having something that obviously phallic. It seemed like his use of her this morning in the shower was days instead of hours ago.
She worked her fingers inside her passage, massaging the inside walls and was rewarded by that deep achy sensation that was so close to needing to pee, but not quite. Softly she breathed out a triumphant, “Yesssss,” and felt her body begin to shake with a pending explosion. This time she did not bother to count her thoughts too clouded to think about anything but the building passion that was threatening to tear her apart.
Normally she was pretty quiet when she orgasmed but this time a loud harsh grunting scream was forced from her lips as she thrust her fingers in as deeply as she could, curling up and jerking with waves of blinding ecstasy. She was mindless, almost howling. It had never been so strong before. The vibrator was still going, compelling her body to writhe along with its demanding rhythms. She blinked and looked at the clock, 2:30. According to his instructions she had to leave it there.
She wailed in defeat, “Oh god, I can’t keep doing this.” But she knew she would. She knew that even if she were unconscious when he got home that the vibrator would still be there, battering her tender parts to mush.
Her hand shook so hard as she wrote the time down that it was almost unreadable. She reached for the glass of wine and slopped a little on the sheets as she took one deep swallow and then a second. There were still some ice cubes floating in the pitcher and she reached in and grabbed a couple and pressed them to her burning cunt. The sudden cold was agony and she let out a hoarse squawk but kept the ice pressed against her tortured flesh.
The cubes melted quickly and she reached for some more, ignoring the wide wet spot forming on the bed under her ass. The handle of the vibrator was getting hot and she carefully made sure that her folded up pajama bottoms were between her and the hot plastic. A tiny hopeful thought that maybe the thing would just wear out intruded into her mind, and she let out a tiny hysterical giggle as she visualized it melting in her hand or exploding.
When the second handful of ice cubes melted she let her hand fall to the side, letting her body sag limp and weak on the damp sheets. She was simultaneously chilled and too hot, her body shivering but at the same time sweating. Keeping her eyes closed she just tried to breathe and relax. Even if he hadn’t been serious about coming home late she did not expect him home before 5:30. Peeking at the clock she saw that it was only 3:14.
Hoping that if it were possible to come again, her body would wake her up, she pulled the sheet over her body and let her mind drift further and further until sleep took her. His weight making the mattress sag and shift is what woke her. Her eyes flashed open to see him sitting on the edge of the mattress looking down at her. Convulsing in guilt she gasped and stammered, “Oh god, Sir…” but he put his fingers over her lips, silencing her. She looked past his hand at the clock. It said 4:30. He was home an hour early.
She became aware that her hips and belly were jerking in what seemed to be an endless series of small agonizing convulsive jerks, her empty cunt clenching and opening spasmodically like the mouth of a dying fish. Her tortured flesh was curiously numb but sharp lances of pain were shooting up from her whole pelvic area. Looking up at his face she reached up and pressed his fingers even more tightly to her lips and then burst into sobs. He reached across to the dropped paper she had been writing on and raised an eyebrow.
“Do you want to try for one more or are you willing to just accept the extra week?”
Her voice was choked, “Oh god, make it stop.”
He pulled the sheet back and looked at the makeshift manner she had used to trap the vibrator in place. When he reached to pull it away, he exclaimed and jerked his hand away as the hot handle almost burnt his fingers, “Shit.” She looked down dully as he used the pajama bottoms to pull the heated item from her panties. He looked a little concerned and quickly turned off the vibrator and dropped it to one side. Quickly he pulled her panties off and spread her legs. “Are you burned?”
Her voice was confused and uncertain, “I don’t know. It hurts but it feels kind of numb too,” She paused, “like when your foot goes to sleep and is trying to wake up, sharp painful tingly numbness.” For the first time she wondered if she might not have injured her cunt.
He frowned and peered closely at her crotch. She propped herself up on her elbows and looked down. Her cunt looked swollen and amazingly deep red but she couldn’t see any blisters or bruises. She asked softly, “Sir, would it be permitted to put some ice on it?”
He pushed her back down flat and muttered, “Stay there.”
When he came back he had some burn cream and to her relief an icepack. His touch was amazingly light and tender as he spread the ointment on her skin. His voice was a little gruff, “You should have called me and let me know it was getting so hot.”
The icepack was heavenly and she sighed. “Yes Sir, I guess I should have. I thought that putting the cloth around it was protecting me enough, but I should have informed you.” Then I mumbled, “And it sort of was numb and painful after a while. It was hard to tell if it was too hot.”
He chuckled at her confession, “Your poor pussy was all confused.”
She looked up at him with wide eyes, and nodded in agreement. After she stopped holding the icepack against herself, her whole cunt continued to throb and tingle like the vibrator was still there and her clit had this strange tendency to randomly twitch, making her jump and wince.
He made her stay in bed all that evening, bringing her some take out Chinese food to eat. When she begged to be allowed to get up to use the bathroom she was shocked at how much it hurt to pee.
After dinner he made her spread her legs again and closely examined her flesh. Speaking briskly and clinically he commented, “No burns but it looks like it has been used hard.” Then to her dismay he leaned down and began to gently run his tongue over her tender tissues. She almost reflexively reached down to shove him away, but she stopped herself just in time. This was almost more than she could bear. He hardly ever lowered himself to perform this intimate caress.
He looked up and chuckled at the terrorized expression on her face, his tight sadistic smile on his lips, “Hands and knees bitch.”
Her eyes grew large as she realized his intent. But she obediently assumed the position, scooting down to the bottom edge of the bed to the place he demanded she take when he chose to use her. He opened his pants and shoved deep into her from behind, taking her hard and fast. Surprisingly it did not hurt as much as she had thought it might, but it still burned and the sensation of the skin being stretched and pulled back and forth across her clit was intense and she found herself heating and warming under his pounding.
He grabbed her shoulders and growled out, “Your cunt is so hot, it’s like fucking a volcano.”
She focused on squeezing as tight as she could on his cock, reveling in his growls and grunts as he plunged into her hard, his hips slapping into her ass. Softly she urged him on, “Yes, hot, hot for you.” When he shuddered and groaned with his climax, she found herself calling to him, “Yes, oh yes,” filled with emotion as she felt his cock flexing deep inside her, filling her with his essence.
He leaned down over her, his voice a little foggy, “You didn’t come did you?”
His voice was a little triumphant, “Good, only six more weeks to go.”
Sunday, April 18, 2010
What is it about pain? Perhaps I am a synesthete (you may need to look that one up… Synesthesia). For me it is as varied and myriad as music, as flavor, as light reflecting of the waves of the restless sea, as deep and complex language. It is a bird call, it is thunder, it is sweet, it is bitter. From my earliest days of childhood I remember describing pain in tones… high pitch pain… low pitched pain… loud pain, quiet pain… it has temperature and volume… for some it may even have amperage and voltage if you see the world in electrical terms.
Pain talks to me, teaches me things that I am still trying to put into words. Pain can push me down and lift me up. It can depress me and it can energize me. It is a maze I can lose myself inside. It is a shelter, a cocoon I can crawl inside, and like the caterpillar, perhaps I am transmuted. It is vehicle, wings to lift me up.
Each voyage into pain is distinct, as unique from another as one snowflake is from its brother. Each sensation a note, each note blending into another creating a symphony… each flavor, each texture blending and complementing until it becomes a banquet, a feast for my senses.
No wonder as I am there, I celebrate, I laugh with irrepressible delight. It is the happy chuckle of childlike discovery as I find new things, feel new feelings. I wallow in it, I luxuriate, I guzzle, I devour. It is an orgy of the senses and it feeds my soul and I find my appetite is expanding.
I could easily over indulge. I am lucky that my Master is the man he is, is a bit of ascetic. Even though he enjoys the sight of me in pain, likes to hear me scream, he genuinely believes that there can be too much of a good thing. He is naturally suspicious of any kind of drug or diversion that takes me too far away from him and his control. He does not like it when I slip into the endorphin fueled thing called subspace or runner’s high or what have you. He usually will call an end to my journey once I get quiet and that zoned-out look replaces my cries and the expressions of pain, delight and discovery. There is no way I can become a true glutton, he doles out my tastes of agony like the tiny squares of dark chocolate he allows me from time to time… frequent but carefully measured out to always leave me wanting more.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
More than a month ago I ordered a couple of things from the internet, for Master… yeah… that’s it… they were for Master. After all his birthday is only next month. Yeppers… that is it, exactly, presents ‘for’ Master.
I ordered a DVD set that Master has been talking about wanting for years from Amazon. That came in four days. That really was for Master and he was ecstatic when he opened it. Happy dance.
But the other thing did not come… and did not come… and did not come.
I had read on another blog about this thing called a “misery stick”… how it was the most ebil of ebil implements of ass destruction, how no matter how hard she tried she could not conquer it. Nothing like having someone talk about how “bad” an item is to pique ones interest.
So I did a search… and came up with http://www.prysmcreations.com/misery_sticks.html. Only $9.95! How could it get any better???
And as long as I was there… why not a… http://prysmcreations.com/leather_bully_sticks.htm only $20.00 more… well, I did order a bigger one… so $25.00 but compared to other kinky toy stores… hella reasonable.
I was on pins and needles waiting… waiting… waiting. And finally I got a notice from my postal delivery guy that he had attempted to deliver the package and it could be picked up at the post office… crap… my schedule rules that out completely. So I signed the paper asking for redelivery, giving permission for the box to be left on my front porch.
But it just did not come. Finally I took some time off from work and stood by my mail box and asked him right out… “Where is my package?” He was a little confused but he said he would check on it. And lo and behold… a box was waiting for me when I got home the next day.
I was good… I really was… I waited for Master to come home before I opened it. The misery stick was smaller than I expected but the strap looked awesome. Heavy, thick, weighty… when I swung it experimentally against my thigh, there was both a thump and sting. I think my eyes must have glowed.
Master looked at them both… pronounced the Misery Stick ‘too little’ and I have to admit, it looked small and light… and when he hit me with it experimentally through my clothing, it did not come anywhere near the pain that the nasty piece of fiberglass that is the “ebilist” thing that Master has. Master instantly could tell that I was unimpressed and turning it around in his hand, hit me with the handle… YOUCH! “Hey! You are not supposed to hit me with that end! That’s the handle!” His eyes instantly lit up, a maniacal chuckle of delight… and he thinks he is not a sadist.
He frowned at the size and weight of the strap and said it would bruise me. Master does not like to bruise me. Red butts okay… a few little lines or welts… red marks seem more permissible then black ones. That does not mean he does not bruise me, he does… but he growls about it. And because he growls, I get fearful if I do get bruised too much I might lose out on some sweet, sweet pain, so the bruises make me nervous.
I did not ask… but Master could see the need in my eyes and he stood and picked up the strap and the little stick, and pointed at the stairs down to his lair… no words, just those deep brown eyes and that pointing finger… oh god yes. It was a race down those stairs and once in his room, his words were sharp, harsh… “drop those drawers, bitch”… I did not even have time to take off my socks or sweater.
The strap was almost more than I could bear. I could not be still… I could not keep my eyes hidden… each time he would hit me, I would convulse and scream. I would twist around and stare at it, at it and him with shocked and frightened eyes. For once I was not laughing. At first I was daunted, maybe I had met my match. Could I do this? Maybe I should send it back? The little stick, the Misery Stick was hardly noticeable compared to that strap, a buzzing fly in a hurricane. He tossed it aside; the reactions he was getting from the strap… those were the kind of stuff that he lusts after, the sounds of terror as much as pain. He would brandish it just to watch me flinch, squall in terror and steel myself for the next flood of agony, brandish it and then laugh.
But finally it clicked… one minute drowning… the next instant soaring, floating, flying. Suddenly I loved that strap like I have never loved anything else. Master was switching up weapons, a smorgasbord of pain, sharp lances of sting of canes and switches, deep thuds of paddles and the swish snap of the flogger, but he kept returning to the strap and it was just the right mix of body shaking impact, sharp searing sting and long slow burn. It filled me up with sensation and again I wanted more and more… I did not want it to stop, ever.
When he was finished, my ass and thighs were deep, deep red, almost purple… laced with the welts and lines of the cane and the fiberglass stick. Master looked at it and frowned… “You look like you are going to bruise.” And I was not sure if he was right or wrong… I can usually tell… the sensation of bruising is distinct… but the strap has a new sensation, it is hard to tell if the blood is leaking out under my skin. I am a little apprehensive.
I change the subject, picking up the Misery Stick, returning to the ‘critique’ of our new toys… “This really does not hurt much.” I pick up the piece of fiber glass… holding it up… “This is ten times worse.” I look at the Misery Stick, the way the handle is attached… “Do you think you would like a handle on this, like that one?” Then I pause, remembering him hitting me with the handle and shake my head… “Um… no… if it had a handle you would just hit me with the wrong end.” He laughed that evil chuckle again, agreeing with me.
I should name that piece of fiberglass… If the new thing is called a Misery Stick and it is anything but miserable, unless of course Master hits me with the wrong end. Then that innocent looking piece of plastic that I found and brought home… that should be named what? It is the one thing that Master has that I cannot come to terms with… Suffering Stick? But it is beyond suffering, it is insidious and yet it has this cleanness… the pain is sharp and clear, pure… it goes right through you, like fire or electricity. Scourge… a word of cleansing… and it elicits so many emotions in me, joy, fear, panic, love… it tears away at my limits, opens me up, invites me to dance with it… it is ultimately seductive… sometimes after beating me with it, Master will just use it to touch me, trace gentle lines on my tingling skin. It both gives and takes from me. It is my gom jabbar… my test, my enlightenment. Yes… it is my gom jabbar.
Multiple times throughout the evening I had the sweet humiliation of having to bare my ass to my Master as he monitored the progress of my recovery. I was not bruised by the strap… but the handle of the Misery Stick, that leaves a guaranteed black fingerprint. The narrow kisses of my gom jabbar, expected, red and unfading… but the deep reddish purple of the strap… that faded to pink and then to pale… The strap passes the test… and I am looking forward to having it added to Master’s arsenal of ass destruction.
Master needs the TV running in the bedroom to go to sleep. He turns it on, turns the sound down to an unintelligible murmur, sets the sleep timer for some amount of time and goes to sleep. It can’t be any type of show; they have to be what Master calls “sleeping music”… documentaries with soft spoken narrators… ideally nature shows, history… Richard Attenborough really does it for him, knocks him right out. But many times the deep dark night is a bleak time and he has to choose something else… and something he chose last night woke me right up.
I don’t need the television but I have learned to adapt to the flickering light and hum of voices. Most of the time, it does not bother me. Especially after I told Master that for some mysterious reason Star Trek can yank me wide awake from a deep sleep. But last night… something… I am not even sure if it really was the TV, woke me up at 1:30 a.m. The TV was still running and clicked off as I tried to fight to keep my eyes closed. But nothing I could do would recapture that elusive sleep. My head was “ON”… Now I am an early riser but that was not cool.
I did get some writing done… just a piece about a couple of new implements of ass destruction I bought for Master. I came up with a name for my most hated and loved things he hits me with… but I think I will put this up… and put down my computer… and hopefully find some sleeping music… I needs it.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
But the news leaves me reeling. I learned so much from reading her blog, not about whips or sadism or “how to do it right”…I learned that it is real people doing this… and that each relationship is unique and has a life of its own. I learned that like any relationship, owner property relationships, that relationships of complete power exchange can and do exist. Her insights into her submission, her humor, her honesty all taught me that it does not have to be perfect, in fact it can’t be perfect.
My heart broke to learn that they can end. I guess I knew it… you hear about it all the time. But to have it there, raw, bloody, lying in the back of the ambulance… and you aren’t sure if this patient is going to live or if they are on their way to the morgue. It makes me realize how fragile we all are, how vulnerable we all are.
And I had had such a wonderful day, a day when it had gone perfectly. I took a couple hours off from work and came home and mowed the lawn. BEAUTIFUL DAY! Bright blue sky, cool air, the lawn mower was so cooperative… the grass sooooo green. Then I took a shower and made Master a recipe of his favorite dark chocolate chip cookies. Hamburgers for dinner… all was well with the world… in fact I managed to find an old pair of bolt cutters in our cluttered garage and “bit” off an old rusty chain and padlock that had been making Master fucking crazy pissed because he could not get it off and could not get behind the shed to get something he wanted. Hee… he… I wrapped it up in a pretty little white box with a gold ribbon… “To Master… love your slave.” And then I read her blog…
I sat there. I read it once, twice, than a third time. I was not even aware that I was holding my head like I was suddenly aware that it could fly apart at any moment and I wanted to be ready to catch the pieces. Master instantly was aware that I was distressed, asked me if I had a headache or what??? I blinked and looked at him, completely at a loss for words. Mumbled something about how it looked like this lady whose blog I always read was breaking up with her Master… her husband.
And I was so thoughtful the rest of the evening… waves of sadness… and anger… and then overwhelming gratitude to my Master for being the man he is. I know that no matter how well I do this, or even IF I do this… he is not going to quit on me. I am pretty sure he would not let me quit on him now. He knows he can “make” me now. “Make me” long before I turn into the flaming fucking insane bitch that could quit.
The lady had written about types of Masters… Masters who had dogs… if they have the skills and patience to start with an untrained dog… a puppy with all the flaws that a puppy comes with… chewing, peeing, jumping… you get it… a Master who has the vision and skills to train this puppy and patience to wait for the puppy to grow up… or if the owner had no idea… no skills and after having the puppy for a while realizes they are in over their head and has to find a new home for their puppy… or if the Master is the kind of person that knows they do not want to invest the time and just goes out and gets a trained dog. I looked over at my Master… and I know he fell in love with me… married me… put up with me at my worst without any inkling I would be anything different ever. He fell in love with the puppy, with all the bad habits that a puppy can come with… and would have been happy with that puppy for the rest of his life.
I was the one that wanted to grow up… to become something a little better trained. He did not even believe it was possible. I do know he is very much enjoying this new me. And having me trust him, submit to his dominion, allow and embrace his control of anything and everything he chooses to control, …all these things have empowered him in ways that he never imagined. It is not about whips and sex… it is about power and control. The more I let him have it, the stronger and more confident he becomes. Now when I chew, jump up, pee on the carpet… (hey, run with the metaphor damn it!)… he is very much the “alpha dog” and goes all Cesar Milan (dog whisperer for those of you who don’t watch the Nat’l Geo channel) on my puppy ass. All those walks are starting to pay off.
Last night as I knelt at his feet to say good night, to ask the ritual question about where I am to sleep, I wrapped my arms tight around his waist and hugged him like I was going to squeeze him in half. I pressed my face against his belly and fiercely told him how very, very much I loved him.
And I worry about her… how will she bounce back? He had made her quit working. He had moved them far away to another state. He had carved his words of ownership into her flesh, scarring her for the rest of her life with the words “owned cunt” literally carved into the skin of her breasts. I know that she consented to all this… consented to it then… and I desperately hope she does not regret that decision now. I worry about the mundane shit, like money, and food, and housing… and I worry about the deeper shit… like emotional scars and impact on children. It is funny how one can become emotionally attached to the words on the page…to the person behind them that has chosen to share their life with the world… with me.
And I think how in many more subtle ways just adjusting to the ways, the wishes, the control of another bends you, reshapes you… the scars may not be on the surface… but they are there. Even in the most vanilla of relationships we bump and grind against each other, erode the corners, reshape, reforge… just plain fucking recreate each other… and in power exchange, in submission, that recreation is overt, expected and because it is done with intent it feels deeper, more profound… more immutable. I have this sense that I am changed… I do not think I could go back to being the untrained puppy… I don’t think he could go back to tolerating that puppy… and if I could not go back, without him what would I become?
And again I circle back to the awareness that we all are fragile, vulnerable… that I am fragile and vulnerable and that there is no going back… only going forward. Life is a one way trip.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
And yesterday was filled with a thousand little things. Work was long, challenging, hilarious... it started with a terrible rush of adrenaline. I had taken the billfold out of my purse and somehow forgotten to put it back on Friday. So when I got home Friday night I discovered my lapse. Master was pretty irritated but I really didn't need anything in it over the weekend and I knew exactly where it was so I wasn't too worried.
...not too worried until I got to work Monday morning and I walked into work and it was not where I knew I had put it. ARRRGHHHH!!!!! But it was just a helpful coworker who saw it out and 'helpfully' locked it up for me. But it was an adrenaline rush.
Then the kids at work were extra crazy... I mean really extra crazy. I spent about a half hour trying to convince a kid he was not the hulk... finally settled for telling the 'hulk' that I did not care if he was the 'hulk' but he had to stop knocking over the furniture. Helped serve lunch to some out of control autistic kids that kept throwing their food... and last but not least... I had the privilege of monitoring a kid in seclusion dancing around naked singing "Ninety-nine bottles of Beer". ...cough ...cough.
I bought groceries on the way home (didn't get that done on the weekend because I didn't have my billfold... remember?)... got home... finally really tired. Master took one look at me and ordered me to take a rest.
After a thirty minute nap, I made a quick dinner... hamburger gravy over boiled red potatoes, cauliflower, and salad. I made the gravey with turkey burger and when Master noticed the difference he gave me this look like I had pooped in his favorite chair and I was just tired and dopey enough from my nap I snapped at him... "What?... what... at least I cooked!"
Got a bit of a correction for that. Just a sharp grab of the back of my neck, a sharp pinch and a growled word... "willful bitch".
I glared back... and sweetly asked, "Would you like me to make you something else?"
He just pushed me away and growled "willful" again.
After dinner he said, "What do you have on your feet?"
I just held up my ratty old sheepskin slippers and gave him a "um... duh..." look. He glared at me and I sweetly said again... "What would you like me to have on my feet?"
Now you have to get this... Master rarely ever orders me to do things... he will do something like that... like ask what I have on my feet and expect me to extrapolate that means he wants me to put on my walking shoes. The fact he decided we needed to go for a walk had everything to do with my snotty attitude. Walking is an exercise in obedience.
I knew that... but like I said... snotty... tired and snotty enough to repeat... oh so sweetly, "What would you like me to have on my feet, Master?"
And he finally growled, "Get on your walking shoes, bitch." And with that clear order, clear expectation... I jumped right up. I might have been having and attitude, but that does not mean I don't hop to if he orders me to do something.
The walk was once again a lesson in obedience. I could feel my rebellion boiling around inside me. Just the way he was holding my hand felt wrong, prickly, sweaty, plain uncomfortable... and I kept trying to rearrange my fingers to find a place that felt right. And he would not let me... in fact once he figured out that I was having trouble with it he deliberately squeezed harder, twisting and hurting my fingers. That man has iron strong hands and in my state I felt like my fingers were breaking.
It took about a mile before I could relax... relax and just walk. I could finally let go and just enjoy the warmth and strength of his hand holding mine. It was dark, the sky above our head clear, but a light spring rain was falling. There must have been a cloud up there somewhere. Each tiny drop was a sparkle of coolness as it touched my skin, warm and sweaty from exertion. It felt wonderful.
When we got home I finished my taxes... always a foray into unfamiliar territory. I am not strong with numbers and legal speak and it always makes me anxious. But it is finished at least for this year. It is a good feeling.
Then we watched a video, a couple of episodes of Master's favorite show, "House of Cards" a BBC series that I bought him for his birthday.
Then I brushed my teeth, a nightly act of personal hygiene that he requires. He has stood over me and watched to make sure that each individual tooth gets cleaned to his standards. (Giggles... he is stricter about my mouth than he is about the kitchen.)
Then as is our nightly ritual, I knelt at his feet and asked, "Where would you like me to sleep tonight Master?". He wrapped his arms and legs around me and commented that he should use me for a foot rest. I giggle and moved to my hands and knees and he rest his feet on my back. He asked if I could do that for four hours. I honestly answered that I think that four hours would be beyond my ability. And he agreed... he told me to sleep in his bed... he always tells me to sleep in his bed, but I am required to ask.
I slept soundly. And I was still half asleep when I stumbled upstairs in the morning at 5 a.m. for my morning shower. I think I must have had my eyes still closed as I brushed the tangles from my hair. Master was there, his voice soft, warm, loving, "Is my pet still sleepy? Here let me help." And then he pinched the fuck out of my nipple.
Woke me right up.
Ready for another day filled with a thousand things.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
The other day someone asked me if there were singular moments, a time when I realized that I had surrendered, that I was comfortable with my surrender and I that I was not going back. I looked back through my journal and found a series of emails I exchanged with a good friend and her Master about two years ago… it was about a time when I had not surrendered… I had decided it was not going to work and tried to tell my husband that I was not going to do it anymore.
What follows is a story I have assembled from the emails… Some of the names have been changed… my Master is not named Dick. Blame his twisted sense of humor that he demands that if I must refer to him by a name in my writing that I must use the name “Dick”.
Xantu had always wished that Dick would be her Master, and despaired. It always seemed that if Dick knew what she wanted he would do the opposite. But Xantu was so enamored with the concept that she had pretended. She imagined his orders, and obeyed. She offered herself to him without limits, begging him to tell her what he wanted, how she may be more pleasing to him. She told him he was her Master. Dick often looked perplexed and somehow at a loss at Xantu’s antics. But sometimes he did little things to appease her and most of the time Xantu was satisfied with that. Xantu told herself she was satisfied with baby steps. She did not realize how far they had taken her.
Only a day after the incident, Xantu lay in the hot water of the bathtub, listening to Dick slamming things around the kitchen, muttering and cursing about the cupboard doors, not being able to find things, generally being Dick. Xantu had no idea why he was complaining about the kitchen so much. She had cleaned it up really well yesterday afternoon despite the pain. Dick had said, “Clean up the kitchen and run the dishwasher.” A precious command, one of the few he had ever given her. It did not matter that her back was in constant spasms, she cleaned up the kitchen. He had given the direction yesterday morning before leaving for work and her back had gone out right after lunch.
As the water cooled Xantu looked idly at the myriad little bruises scattered down her legs. It had taken them about twenty four hours to show up. There was a small rug burn on her knee and a few more on the tops of her toes on one foot. She knew they matched the little on one the tip of her nose. She wondered what hand prints on her ass looked like but the stiffness in her back had kept her from twisting around to look.
Xantu knew that she would have to get up out of the bathtub soon and carefully planned on how she was going to manage this. It seemed like the slightest movement could make her whole back seize up and only the fear of making it worse kept her from falling to her knees.
Dick had been very attentive, helping with all the little things, feeding her, bringing her medicine, helping her dry off, even helping her put on her panties. (It was literally impossible to lean over.) But his manner was amused and not a little satisfied.
Xantu thought back to the email she had sent a friend early in the morning after it had happened but before her back had gone out. As usual she had been unable to sleep in his bed with him and slipped away to write and to think about the lessons she had learned the night before.
I learned something important last night. My husband is my Master, completely and totally, and just because it did not look the way I expected it to; it did not mean it was not there.
I have a personality flaw, a thinking error that I am completely aware of and manage to keep control of most of the time but sadly sometimes I become a little crazy. And I did it again yesterday. If he does not make love to me, I tend to interpret that as rejection. He sometimes goes long periods of time without initiating intimacy and will refuse me if I ask him to make love to me. (Not scenes, just plain old "please hold me under the covers" loving). I become increasingly whiny and demanding and irritable. I am perfectly aware that this is not helpful... but it is amazing how crazy can keep going even when the sane person inside your head is yelling stop.
His being sick the last two months has not helped with this. My fears and anxiety about his illness and his tendency to withdraw even further when he does not feel good, increased that gap between us. He is much better but still was not "paying attention" to me. And I had a tantrum last night. And because I completely totally hate the idea that he is perhaps making love to me because he is "indulging" me and not because he wants me, I rejected his eventual overtures, and I told him not to bother. Then I said that I take it all back that I did NOT want him to be my Master, that he could just be my husband, that I did not want to be good anymore and then I got quite rude and very disrespectful. He began to spank me and I told him he could not do that anymore.
LOL... I found out that once you give it... at least at my house... you cannot take it back. After a pretty dramatic wrestling match I found myself hogtied with an extension cord and getting my bottom blistered. It still hurts to sit.
We will probably never have any spoken rules, and my leash will be long, but it does not mean it was not there.
All evening he was justifiably pretty angry at me and kept giving me looks, like "I dare you to try that again" looks that I think were calculated to communicate to me that I better fucking behave myself. That being good is not my choice. He gave me a direct order to sleep in our bed. (We rarely sleep together because I can't sleep.) I tried, really tried to sleep but after 3 hours of lying there thinking I slipped back upstairs. He followed me up and gave me the look again and I pleaded that I could not sleep and I had tried for 3 hours. I asked if he wanted me to come back to bed and he growled that he would think about it but then went back to bed without me...so here I am here in the middle of the night, writing you.
And I find myself in a very pensive mood. I am a little angry and a little amused at myself for all this time thinking, just because it did not look like the way I expected it to look, that it was not there. That it had been there all along and I had it in my hand and did not appreciate it for what it was. I still have my Master/husband/lover, like I said it is not mine to take back. He is not going to allow me to stop being his.
And I feel a little overwhelmed and a lot guilty... and for some inexplicable reason still a little angry at him... because he is not one to say things out loud, to say what is or is not true... he is very emotionally secretive, distant and in many, many ways mysterious to me. I want it to be easier, to have him tell me exactly what the rules are, what he wants from me, but I know I have to accept it for what it is.
So I am owned and I do have a MASTER. I had it all along. SURPRISE...
After a few hours of being awake, Xantu slipped back downstairs. She did not usually do that but now things felt a lot different.
When she woke in the morning much of the anger had dissipated and she knelt at Dick’s feet and laid her face on his knee. “I’m sorry.”
He did not speak.
She looked up at him and whispered, “How may I serve you.”
Dick rolled his eyes and then muttered, “Get me some more coffee.”
As he left for work today she asked him again. “Is there anything you want me to do while you are at work today?”
Again he rolled his eyes and frowned and then said, “Clean up the kitchen and run the dishwasher even if it isn’t full.”
Xantu worked on her stories and emailed friends most of the day, watching the clock. Typically she was waiting until the last minute to do the cleaning. It was around 3:00 pm when she reached behind her back to adjust the cushion she was leaning against and ‘pop’ something clicked or snapped and she felt a stabbing pain in her back. “Damn it!”
The last thing she needed was Dick getting all apprehensive about hurting her. She stood up and the muscles repeatedly tried to contract and cramp up. She literally forced herself to relax and went and cleaned the kitchen. It only took a little while but it was a ballet of trying to appease the angry pain in her body and get the work done all the same.
She took some anti-inflammatory medication and got out an ice pack and tried to find a marginally comfortable position on the couch.
Dick came home and Xantu casually mentioned that she was having some back pain and did not get up off the couch. Dick laughed and said that she shouldn’t have fought so hard, and went to sleep in his chair. Clearly he had not slept any better than she had. Xantu sat as long as she could and then moved into the guest room, and trying very hard not to cry out and wake him, lay down on her back, carefully secreting her icepack between the mattress and the knot in her back.
It was late in the evening when Xantu could not stand laying there doing nothing any longer and carefully, agonizingly eased her feet to the floor and levered herself to stand. Dick had moved and was asleep on the couch, her couch. She eyed his big recliner and put some pillows on it to help support her, put her laptop within reach and gingerly lowered herself to sit.
Her friend had written her back, speaking of her more structured relationship with her husband/Master. Talking about how her Master handled her disobedience. Her friend had mentioned that perhaps Xantu had had a wish answered.
Xantu wrote back.
In the ‘be careful what you wish for category’... our little… um "learning experience" of yesterday was very strenuous. I DID NOT COOPERATE. I fought him every inch of the way. I have never done that with anyone ever in my life. I made no attempt to attack or hurt him but I did everything within my power to escape. He literally overpowered me, pinned me to the floor with my arms twisted up behind my back, held me there until I was too tired to fight any more, and then reached for the closest thing within reach (an extension cord) and tied me up... pulled down my pants and then gave me the spanking I had said he could not do (like you, I am not a crier. I hollered a lot, but never once felt like crying.) After that the sex was very strenuous... "Stand up, lean over and put your hands on the floor." …kind of strenuous...
…and because the universe has a cruel sense of humor... and I am a little old for this silliness... this afternoon my back has gone into spasms.
Dick has been helpful and empathetic... if not sympathetic. It is now in the 'see you should behave yourself category', but I’ve been stuck lying flat on my back with ice packs most of this afternoon. I am just barely up, carefully supported with more ice packs and checking my emails. This is only the second time in my life that I have had any back pain.
Because every D/s relationship is unique... and my Dick is a very unusual person, we will probably never have a structured Master/sub relationship. He hates rules, he is not consistent. He would rather do things for himself than be bothered with telling me what to do. He could not be less interested in monitoring my behavior. Or having rules like set a place at the table or sit here, or wait for me to eat. Like I said my leash is quite long. So long I did not realize it was there until I decided to try and (even just as a rebellious gesture threaten to…) take it off and got jerked up off my feet.
I was not serious about leaving him. It was just the crazy part of me that feels like he does not want me sometimes. It is not even about being horny. It’s about wanting to feel loved and valued. He is pretty emotionally distant a lot of the time and making love is one of those times I can feel close to him. He has a pattern of teasing me with it... acting like maybe today... oh never mind... go sit down. Sex is one of those places that the leash is very short.
Part of me likes my freedom, but there is part of me that wishes for more structure. I wonder which one is the stronger. I may never find out.
I am over the angry feelings. And he seems more amused by the whole incident than pissed. I was having trouble getting situated and got a little tangled up in my computer’s power cord and while he was helping me get straightened out, he teased me that I must have liked the extension cord yesterday, to get this twisted up in wires again so soon.
The husband and Master to her friend had read her email and written back that Xantu seemed quite good at pushing buttons but that he understood she must have been very frustrated. He spoke of how he handled discipline in their home, speaking of transgressions and punishments. Xantu wrote back.
I certainly did push a button... and it pushed right back... or perhaps I ran to end of my long leash and had my feet snapped out from under me...
One time I heard or read that each person in a relationship is comfortable with a certain emotional distance. Some people need more, some people need less, that in every relationship some agreed upon (either openly or tacitly) distance exists. And if one person in this little game moves too close, the other naturally backs away and in most relationships there is a pursuer and a retreater. I do know that when I get withdrawn Dick is all over me, intruding, demanding. I suspect when I try to play the sub/pet/slave a little too enthusiastically, he finds that moving into his comfort zone and he becomes more distant.
It is a dance, a cosmic dance with two hearts revolving around each other, a binary system, attracted by mutual desire yet at the same time trying to leave orbit for fear of crashing too hard against the other, kept at a safe distance by our own momentum and fears... And when the madness takes me and I mindlessly test the gravity, pulling and pushing at those invisible bonds, I count myself lucky that Dick has the strength to put us back into balance.
Procedure? Transgression? Punishment? My friend, I was in all out rebellion. I wasn't just bad... I was worse. It was very uncharacteristic of me and yet I think I needed to do it to see and feel that there was a limit in our relationship. He will never have any rules that are overt, spoken. When I ask him what he wants or if he liked this or that, he refuses to answer directly and retreats from me further. And when he becomes too remote, his orbit taking him away from me, I find myself feeling lost... I can't feel the gravity anymore... you say frustration... I say panic... like I am falling... that’s when the madness takes me.
There will be few if any formally stated rules in this dance of ours, and fewer formal punishments. But the leash is there holding me from falling too far.
And now perhaps because the universe does have a perverse sense of humor, I am dealing with back pain. Perhaps there is such a thing as karma. Or perhaps I am punishing myself.
This was meant to be a quick short note... silly me... and here I go all Carl Sagan on you...
Xantu read the last email aloud to Dick before she sent it. When she spoke of punishments he snorted in derision. “Your punishment will be what I decide.” But he nodded at her statement about his strength to put back the balance. And he laughed at the Carl Sagan statement.
It was Dick that had decided a soak in hot water would be good for her back, ran the bath and helped her to stand and undress. He was there to help her balance as she carefully put one foot and then the other into the steaming water. He nodded in satisfaction as she eased herself down into the bath. “Good, heat is better than cold.”
Xantu wasn’t sure he was right about that. The ice seemed to be helping. But she knew better than argue, not with her Master.