Saturday, July 31, 2010


So looking back at this last week... looking at my little relapse of distrust. The drama around the household maintenance and my distrust of him being able to "fix it". No it is not about his being able... he is able... he just gets frustrated, tired, discouraged. I know his control issues impact him just as strongly as they do me. He has as much or more difficulty meeting his own standards as I do. The universe is a random fucker and things just go wrong. And I know that is one reason he is avoidant...

Anyway... back to what I learned. I learned that my distrust, worry, no matter how respectfully they are voiced, no matter how "real" or "urgent" the issue may be... all these things just make it worse for him. I HAVE to trust him... believe in him totally and when I do this, REALLY DO THIS... it is a hundred, a thousand, a million times better than weighing him down with my fears. When I relax and just "know" it will be alright, he relaxes and starts to believe in himself too.

And you know, when I can do that... things get done here. Yes, on his own time table, in his own quirky way, but they get done and... you know... it feels a hundred, a thousand, a million times better than worrying, doubting, being afraid...

So there it is... Simple to know, simple to understand... and so fucking hard to do.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

1800 words... Chapter 19 finished

Writing, writing, writing. I finished Chapter 19. I put up the last bit on the "what is she writing" page if you are interested in keeping up.

Now I am going back and editing. I suck at editing my own stuff... suck, suck, suck. I have a very large blind spot for my own mistakes.

It is funny, when I edit other people's things I have an unholy glee at winnowing out each and every flaw... but when I find my own, I flinch, I berate myself for my clumsy fingers and stupid mistakes. And I loathe making mistakes. It is a silly circular thing; the more I find mistakes, the more the internal dialog buzzes, the more I suck at editing, the more mistakes I miss...

Anyway... I am the only one that can do this right now. I print it out... read it aloud to myself and mark it all up with a red pen. And once I am convinced I have found every error (but in truth, only about 75%) I will put it up on At that point I will start Chapter 20... and post the bits and pieces as the dribble and drabble along.

Thank you for listening

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Stepford Slave

Someone asked “Have you ever lost your place? Or lost your submissive way? i want to know what makes other submissives out there forget their place as a submissive? What makes you 'lose your head' and all of its unquestionable devotion??”

And I answered her, “What makes me lose my place, wish I wasn't his or at least was his equal so I could make him???”

“It is this house and fixing things. He is a control freak... he will not allow anyone else... me, a friend or a professional do what needs to be done, but he just doesn't have the time or the energy to do it himself. I am not allowed to discuss these things with him.”

“I get totally farking crazy about it. I want to tear my hair out... I want to tear his hair out... I want to scream... lie... disobey... manipulate... I want to fucking do SOMETHING!!!!”

“(Thank you for listening. Rant over. Pant. Pant.)”

“Okay... most of the time I can just look the other way... forget about it, tell myself that my relationship with him is more important than the roof over my head... and a lot of the time I manage to succeed.”

But this admission had loosened something inside me… reminded me of this very tender issue.

So I had come at him… with all these pieces of information… talking fast in a tense voice… that the insecticide does not seem to be working… can I look into hiring an exterminator??? …that I had researched cleaning up spilled fuel oil and all the experts say that the only way to get it out of concrete is to demolish the concrete and haul it away… and that I had talked with someone at work and they had suggested listing the oil tank on Craig’s list with a “at your own risk”, “as is” clause… and magically someone would just appear and carry it away and we would not have to worry about how to get it out of the basement. (That mother fucker is HEAVY… and Master has some really inflated ideas about how strong I am exactly. I have these disturbing images of me ending up on the floor with about four hundred pounds of dirty leaky oil tank on top of me.)

He just stood there looking at me with this pursed up lips, something tastes bad, look on his face and I ran down and looked at him expectantly… slowly coming to the realization that he did not think any of my ideas were good. I blinked and said, “um… you are pursing up your lips.”

He just said… “You talk too much.”

I sucked it up… (fucking monkey balls!)… and went into the house and slammed dishes around a while.

And it was true… I was talking about a bunch of things all at once, flooding him with information.

And it is also true that Master cannot ‘let’ anyone else do anything. He cannot even let anyone help other than me. He can’t work with other people… he can only do it if he is complete control. I mean COMPLETE control… where you hold your hands… where your feet are… the fact that you are not allowed to speak a single word while he is thinking (or even make large distracting movements)… each step carefully choreographed and directed. And it sometimes seems he can only work with someone he can scream obscenities at.

And that is how it is… the house seems to be decaying… a slow, imperceptible decent. Little things… the gutters leaking… making the sill damp… inviting insect infestations… the smell of a slow leak from the old, unused oil tank slowly getting worse and worse… now clearly detectable in the laundry room… and it about knocks you over if you go into the store room. The internet says the only way to get the smell of fuel oil out of concrete is to demolish the concrete… and carry it out of the house… the branches of the big oak tree grow further over the roof each year… the floor here… the wall there… a hundred little things that add up until you open your eyes and blink and stare about in shock.

But he can only think about one thing at a time… and if I push or nag or even just plaintively mention that I worry… all I get is instant stubborn resistance. And instead of working on one thing, all that happens is he is working on none things.

And now this afternoon, he came home… And I approached and greeted and as I knelt at his feet and asked him how his day was… I got an earful… and earful of how my worry and mistrust had impacted his day… how he is trying to save us money by doing these things himself and I had to choke down the protest that he hasn’t done them, isn’t doing them.

Oh, yes, of course… the fucking oil tank. He is working on the fucking oil tank. And it is something that needs to be done. And hopefully we will eventually get it out of the house… but what to do about the smell… the fumes. People say they are hazardous. I don’t know, maybe they are… he just makes PFFFTTT sounds and rolls his eyes, like I am talking to nuts on the street corner.

He saw me doing some research, reading about cleaning up fuel oil spills in your house and now reading about stuff like that is “counter productive. So I am not allowed to do that. I guess what I do not know, won’t make me sick… or think… or worry. All that does is send all that stuff deep inward… and I feel hopeless. He has even said no pouting… fuck me with a sharp stick. I am now expected to act different than I feel.

He sat and watched me… making sure that I really had stopped reading EPA oil spill recommendations… and saw me go back to writing… spewing all those angst ridden doubts into my journal… and he said no more writing.

So here I am… forbidden to talk about it… told to stop thinking about it… ordered to stop worrying about it… to stop moping and pouting… HOW THE FUCK IS SOMEONE SUPPOSED TO STOP THINKING????? Okay… okay… what I can do is act like I am obeying. Fake it… it can’t be any harder than faking an orgasm. Big Stepford Wife smile pasted onto my face.

I went about my chores… grinning like a scary clown doll. I can only imagine how ghastly I must have looked… eyes brimming with tears and frustration… a corpselike rictus grin fixed permanently to my face. He grabbed me and wanted to hold me, probably to snuggle, to somehow soothe me and I stood there absolutely still, not rigid, not pulling back but not engaged. Every minute or two I would ask permission to continue to work on making his dinner. He kept saying no.

Finally he started to talk about the ants in the foundation… and I gave him this glassy eyed look… and mechanically said… “I am not allowed to think about that. Perhaps you would prefer a baked potato with your dinner?” (oh so passive aggressive… but it is where I retreat to when given no other outlets.)

He just said… “I want to talk about this now.”

I said, “Oh I am sure it will be fine. My Master will fix it. I don’t need to worry about that. In fact there are no ants.” I turned and walked down the stairs to find a potato. The next thing I know he has a vice grip on the back of my pants and I am being propelled backwards at breakneck speed. He threw me down on the bed and I very cooperatively arched my back, shoving my ass up high. And when the cane hit me I just yelped and then in my best sweet submissive voice said, “Thank you Master. That was nice.” He yanked my pants down and hit me a lot of times and you know… I felt so centered and calm… and strangely aroused… and I said thank you every time.

I got dinner all ready to put on the grill and he barked through the kitchen door that when I got that all done I was to come out and ask what he wants me to do next. So while the salmon grilled I was running and fetching lumber and sawhorses, sharpening pencils and finding tape measures. He did not tell me what he was doing and I chose not to ask.

We worked on this mystery project until the salmon was done and had a fucking fantastic dinner… (even in Stepford wife mode I am an awesome cook.)

After dinner it was finally revealed that we were building a ramp and a cradle to hold that monster oil tank. And we did manage to do it… to lever that huge heavy thing up… slide it down in a hair raising semi-controlled rush down the ramp onto a wheeled dolly (…as opposed to the inflatable kind… yuck, yuck… joke brought to you by my Master.) It took another hour or so of fighting and levering and shifting and lifting and fighting some more but that fucking horrible giant stink monster is OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!! And you know Master did listen to me now and then when I had a good idea. And he did need me to do it. And I think the Stepford wife slave was a hell of a lot easier to work with than the doubtful, worry wart I had been.

And you know, I did manage to stop worrying about it… even though I did think about it a lot. I find it amazing that he could conceive of that level of control that he wants to control even my thoughts… I find that daunting and yet at the same time very exciting.

Tonight he asked me if I wanted to go to the hardware store with him… I said no, unless of course he ordered me to go with him, then of course I would love to go.

He snorted and said, “You are sooo funny. But he went to the hardware store alone.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Ten miles and 1,542 words

Had a fantastic Sunday morning already. It is going to be hot (well hot for the PNW) this afternoon... over 90 degrees. (I know, I know... use northerners are such pussies.)

Anyway, after sitting and writing all morning, I approached Master and asked what his plans for this morning were, commenting that we did not get out and ride or walk in the last two days and it was going to be hooooooot this afternoon.

He told me to get dressed and instead of riding around home, we loaded his bike and my hot rod tricycle up in his pickup and we took off to a trail that is mostly shaded... and it was amazing... warm sun spots peeking through deep green foliage. We rode five miles out and then turned around. I hardly got tired and was all fired up to keep going but Master said I should work up to longer distances. (Privately I think he was getting tired.) The poor baby ate his breakfast and is already sound asleep in his big chair... but that is what hot Sunday afternoons are best for... naps.

And once I got home I checked and saw I had gotten 1,542 words written already. Yes! I will add them to the end of what I had put up on the "What's she writing now?" page... and get back to work.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Productive Friday... or "Get to Work Bitch"

It is not quite 1:00pm and I have my chore list finished.

Weeds.... check. Master has this special kind of weed that he is waging war upon. They pop up through the grass and then spread. They are hardy beyond belief and their roots go to China. He told me to go find them and dig them up. I found six. I wish there was a bounty on them suckers.

Laundry... check. Sheets washed and bed remade. Master's clothes all folded and put away. A load of towels and dishcloths... sweet and bleachy and folded and put away.

Weed eater... check. The down side of running the weed eater is the flying dirt and dust. But I got all the weeds down where I can't get the lawn mower and I got side tracked and went after some paving stones that had started to sink down into the lawn. By the time I got done I was coated in dirt.

Dig all the roots away from the edge of the foundation... check.

Spread insecticide... check. Better living through chemistry. There have been a few signs of carpenter ant activity around our foundation. Normally I like to go organic... but when the little bastards start chewing on my house... well like I said... better living through chemistry. Die mother fuckers die!

Floors... check. Hand and knees scrub in the kitchen and vacuuming the rest of the house.

Peel and boil potatoes for potato salad tomorrow... check.

Write... check. I have added a page to my blog... "What is she writing now?" I am going to throw up what ever is new... raw and unedited. I will take down old stuff and put up whatever is new. Hopefully this will keep me focused and motivated.

As you see, Master left me with a long list of things to do to keep me busy... ha ha ha... already done and I have hours left to myself. I rock. Not so lazy bitch today. Speaking of which... back to writing.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Back on track, lazy bitch

Okay... this is how it is... I am a lazy bitch. I have all this stuff to do, chores, duties, paying attention to my Master, house, yard, family... and that is not even addressing my writing.

You see I am a writer. I write fucking amazing stories. My favorite books to read in the whole world are the ones I have written, they can still make me laugh and cry and get wildly turned on. Every time I read something I wrote, I am surprised I actually said that. ... and to may absolute disgust I have not been writing for weeks and weeks. I can make up all kinds of excuses... but bottom line... I have been spending wayyyy tooo much time playing with this computer and not working with this computer...

I joined Fetlife to expand my network and get more contacts to sell my books. And instead I get all involved in silly conversations about limbs being amputated or when my bedtime is. I started this blog to expand my network... blah... blah... blah... and I find myself obsessively reading about other peoples lives... and trying to think of new interesting things to write about.

I have lots of mostly finished stories... people write me all the time begging me to finish them. I have this one thing I was rewriting for my publisher... the only other person in the universe with more procrastination issues than I do. I do love writing... and it makes me mad to realize I have been letting it get away from me.

So as usual... long story, long... I have decided to recommit myself to my writing. I am going to put it first... no more Fet... and blogging comes second... okay fourth or fifth... we have to stick Master in there somewhere too. I will keep you guys updated and most likely will put up some more fiction... chapters and short stories as I get back in the groove again.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

A Big Night Out... or Communication Sucks, part two

I guess I should write this all down while it is fresh in my head.

All week, it seemed like all I could to do was think about our trip and getting ready.

Wednesday, Master told me to go ahead and get a pedi with my Manicure so I took off the whole afternoon from work, I wandered around the mall waiting for the polish to harden. After I got home I tried on some different clothing and finally ended up with a black leather mini, textured black thigh highs, a skin tight black bustier that makes my cleavage very eye catching. I left the outfit on so Master could see and decide. The skirt was whore short… I was legs from ankles to armpits, but they looked good and judging from Master’s reaction, some very sweet and enthusiastic spanks and official approval, I realized I had my outfit chosen. Though I was rapidly having second thoughts about how I was going get from our hotel to the burlesque show dressed like one of the actors, but no guts no glory and if Master liked the way I looked, that was the important part.

Thursday at work went by fast, and I have to admit all my focus was on tomorrow. After work, I swung by the bank and then I got right onto getting the laundry all caught up and house cleaned and ready to go. The weather men had said that the weather was going to be absolutely perfect, high clouds in the morning and mid seventies in the afternoon. I decided to wear a skirt and packed some shorts for the ride home.

Friday, we had a nice quiet, lazy morning, I got packed and got the car all ready to go and dressed in a pretty skirt. The only thing Master did was say he wanted me to wear some different shoes… ones that have “bare feet” (read toes showing) so I changed into a pair of sandals. They aren’t quite as comfortable as the little flats I had chosen for walking around, but they are okay. I can wear them all day at work without problems. I figured they would work fine.

We got out the door at precisely 9:00 am but of course, we ended up turning around and going back because Master had one of those… “Fuck, I have to go shit again,” moments. I kept a very straight face, did not even roll my eyes. I was sooooo good. We got to the hotel with only one missed exit.

It is funny, how giving up on being right can take over your mind. I had told Master that check in was 4:00 but he contradicted me… saying I had said 12:00. You know, I just blinked and edited my memory. “Okay, twelve.” Well of course it was 4:00 but the people at the hotel were nice and let us leave our car there and we spent four hours walking around downtown Seattle.

I learned that Master has the worst sense of direction. Every time we would come out of door way, he would head off in the wrong direction and he would NOT listen to me, so we would end up with him staring at a map for about ten minutes with me vibrating because I knew where we were and he would not believe me. I was standing there with this wide anticipatory grin on my face waiting for him to admit I was right, again, when this one lady looked at us and asked if she could help us. I just laughed and said “Oh, no, thank you.”

It was a hell of a lot colder than those weather men said it would be but if we kept moving I was just barely warm enough. Pikes Place Public Market was a cluster fuck… there were so many people there it was almost impossible to move so we only wiggled through there about one time.

Then for some reason Master decided to take off on some huge cross country hike. I guess there was a time a lot of decades ago when he had found himself down and out in Seattle and was trying to find some of the places he had been. I allowed him to push me along, looking in windows and at the thousands and thousands of people. I would stop and ooooh and ahhhh over shoes or dresses or drag him into an art gallery here or there but then he would get back on track and push me along.

He would do this thing… tell me that this trip was for me and we could go where I wanted or look at what I wanted to… but, you know, every time I tried to turn or steer he wouldn’t go. He would stop and tell me “there isn’t anything up that way” and drag me off the other direction. I stopped trying pretty fast. One of my sandal straps started to rub a place on the top of my foot raw and I kept trying to walk different so it didn’t hurt. He growled at me about limping, but he finally turned us around and we walked back. We got to the hotel exactly at 4:00 and we laid down for about an hour. It felt so good just to lie down and be quiet.

So there we were, lying around in the hotel room and he arbitrarily decided that we had to "HURRY." I threw on my outfit, suffering another small spasm of “oh god, what was I thinking” but I did not have time to get too scared. He started to hustle me right along. He told me we could not eat at the restaurant I had chosen and hurried me to some fast food Mexican place. I could not figure out what the fuck he was doing but by that time I was all "yes, Sir."

Important piece of information… I think I told him that the show started at 7:30 but because we had "will call" tickets I wanted to be there a little after 7:00 ...about a HUNDRED times...

So anyway back to the story, there I was marching around crowded downtown Seattle in a micro mini leather skirt and cleavage during busy rush hour. I could not help but reach around and check that my ass wasn’t hanging out about every ten steps. I kept feeling this breeze ya’know. (And yes, there were panties… nice black ruffled panties. Master is not that kinky.) We ended up walking about a mile and got there an hour early. He looked at me with a "what the fuck" look and I repeated for the 101rst time... "Well, it doesn't start till 7:30. I TOLD YOU THAT ABOUT A HUNDRED TIMES."

He said, "You said 7:00.”

"I said I wanted to be there a little after seven to get our tickets.” By now I was not keeping the condescension out of my voice. Why the fuck doesn’t he get it???

So he had heard 7:00. Because the last word in my little speeches had always ended with was 7:00, that was the only word that he listened to or remembered and after he heard 7:00, he decided to be there by 6:30. So that is why we could not have a nice dinner and why he made me walk there so fast. So there we were at 6:00 …standing on the street in front of a still closed theatre. Me all dressed up in my whore clothes in a kinda run down neighborhood.

He was totally ranting at me about how why couldn't you just say 7:30 instead of going on and on and on… and I retorted that he never gets what I matter what I say and my natural nervous response to this fact is to say it more and more complexly, to over explain, to make sure to include every fucking nuance of my decision making process and all the potential variables… and now that this had happened that things were only going to just get fucking worse and worse. What used to take four paragraphs will probable now take twelve. By the time I was done we were both laughing.

We ended up at a bar, him drinking coffee (according to him, some of the worst coffee he had ever tasted… and we were in Seattle for god’s sake) and me sucking down shots of kahlua. Nobody was really mad and we certainly weren't late. The whole time we sat in the bar, Master kept chuckling. I am sure he thinks I am fucking crazy but, ya’know, I am just as convinced that he realizes there is nothing he can do about it.

The show was AWESOME!!!! We sat right in the front row. The dancing, music and singers were great, lots of pretty semi-nude bodies (g-strings and pasties). The show was about this kind’a sleazy, down and out burlesque show that was out of money and had to do something to sell more tickets or lose the theatre and how they did not want to sell out to the more mainstream kinds of things. It was really funny and a little touching. The main star was a big fat, very sexy woman with big voice and lots of other big things and the suit guy that was trying to get them to be more marketable wanted to get rid of her because she was fat but they refused. Now when Master and I see a large woman who is obviously proud and beautiful, we smile and say to each other... "Keep On Humping the Dream." That was the finale.

Both of us were exhausted by the time we got back to the hotel… sorry no sex stories to tell on this trip. In fact Master hardly ever has sex with me when we aren’t home. Sad, huh…

Yesterday, as soon as we got home we took a three hour nap. We are old… too much excitement and we are down and out on the couch, Master said he wanted dinner at 6:30 so at six I got up and started cooking and he came in and asked me, "Are you making dinner?"... I started to babble... started to say all this stuff... "you said... it is... I was starting...”

He grabbed me by the throat and said, "Yes or no?"

I gulped and laughed and said, “…but I haven’t gotten the whole twelve paragraphs yet.” The fingers around my neck tightened and I squeaked out, “Yes?" But when he let me go and I started jumping around and singing, "I am just so full of words!!!!" He cracked up.

Speaking of words this has gotten book length and I have a whole weekend’s worth of chores to get caught up on.

P.S. Sorry about no pictures. I totally forgot my camera.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Communication sucks

Communication… transparency… everybody talks about it like it is the key to everything. Like if you don’t got it, things are doomed, can never work… just are generally fubarred.

Well, it don’t work like that around here. He does not tell me how he is feeling… and he definitely isn’t really interested in hearing about anything other than what he wants to hear about what the fuck is going on in my head.

I am still trying to figure out exactly what happened, where I fucked up. Because he certainly did not do anything different than he always has. He has remained perfectly consistent. He has not changed one iota from the same rigid, controlling, critical, emotionally distant, monkish, mind fucking bastard he was when I decided I needed him to be my Master. It was all me. Maybe I bought into the idea… that I needed to be “transparent”, to puke up all my angst, my doubts and questions like he would listen, have the perfect “Master” answer or even care.

So he had done the same things he has always done. And he jumped all over me for getting involved in some unimportant thread on Fetlife talking about sadism. I was sitting here on the couch, laptop in lap, and he idly asked what I was writing on. I just as idly mumbled something about a discussion about sadism. The next question out of his lips was, “Why are you talking to a SADIST?”

I have to admit being a little off balance, blinking, staring at him like he had suddenly grown horns. My voice may have taken on a patient, explaining tone… “I am not talking with a Sadist. I am just writing a comment to a thread she posted. It is a forum. Would you like me to read it to you?” (Master has dyslexia. He can read but it is not effortless and he avoids it if he can.)

Well long story long, about half way through the original post, he interrupted me, told me I should not be talking to people “like that” and it was end of discussion. I know better than to argue. I sucked it up. I said, “Yes Sir.” I just sat there with this sort of shocked and disbelieving look on my face.

But I have to confess that I had about a billion questions bouncing around in my head. I could not help but think, that this general type of statement made it almost impossible to continue to read, post or comment on threads on Fetlife. Everybody there was “like that”. Crazy bitch in the back of my head muttered, “And face it you stupid bitch. You are “like that” too. He probably thinks you are crazy and gross and dangerous too.”

He tried to explain, making general statements about how this person sounded imbalanced and like someone that should be left alone. But every single thing he said just emphasized what he didn’t know about this ‘sadist’ person. I tried to say that she has made lots of posts and said lots of different things and she seemed like a pretty reasonable and, in a lot of ways, a very intelligent person… but he interrupted and said, “You can’t tell that from just what people write on the internet.” Arghhhh!!!! But that was what he did!!! He listened to half of one thing, jumped to some conclusions and just decided.

Again I sucked it up, stiff lipped and obedient I conceded his victory. I swallowed down all the protests and mumbled, “Okay, I will not talk to her. I will leave that group.”

But it really wasn’t over. All my lonely, self loathing, isolated, ‘I don’t have any friends’ issues were rapidly flooding my thinking and it was all black and white. It was all or nothing. This general statement made it impossible to read other people’s blogs, to go to any of the local support groups (which, by the way seem to have stopped meeting for the summer of maybe forever but that is a separate issue) and I don’t have anybody in the whole fucking world to talk to about this. (My apologies to Stephen, ‘chelle and Kevin, I wanted to feel fucking sorry for myself and if I remembered you guys were there for me… I wouldn’t have felt quite so miserable, could I?)

So there I was… wallowing in my not quite rational place and I do not have a poker face. I probably looked like I had a pickle up my butt. And he got all up in my grill, demanding to know what was happening, what I was thinking or feeling.

And in hindsight, the first words out of my mouth weren’t entirely rational. “I don’t have any friends…”

And again he interrupted. This time it was a loud mocking, jeering hoot. The same “waaaa, waaaa, waaaa that kids yell on the playground to harass the cry babies.

I totally imploded. I was yelling at the top of my voice, “YOU ASKED!!!! YOU ASKED!!!!” And then there was a lot more, things about trust and communication, about him not wanting to really hear, about how much that hurt and how I just fucking wasn’t going to talk with him ever fucking, ever, ever, ever again. I got pretty inarticulate by the end but I sucked it up again and crossed my arms and shut down totally. He sat there, staring at me for a long time and I finally sobbed out in a broken voice… “and if I can’t talk to you… I don’t have anybody to talk to.”

I left the group. I answer in my best sweet submissive voice, “fine” whenever he asks how I am, how my day was. I am totally talking to him about nothing. He knows I am pretty blue. He even said he was sorry.

And when I looked at him and said, “What are you sorry about?”

He answered, “…about you being blue.”

And I am sort of stuck here… I know he does not want or like to talk about things except on his terms. I know he has the right to limit who I interact with and what I do. And this is one Master/slave or Owner/property… or what the fuck label fits best in your head… that does not run on communication and transparency. It runs on commitment and acceptance. I am committed to him and to my being his slave. I accept his ownership, however he chooses to express it.

It sometimes sucks monkey balls but I have to accept that as well. You have no idea how hard it can be to suck up monkey balls.

Post script, the original poster, the so called “sadist” sent me a private message, asking me why I left the group and talking about how I was valued as a member and had a lot of good things to say. I read it to Master and he changed his mind about talking to her or reading her posts and I got permission to rejoin the group. But he said no to me accepting her friends request.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Expections and Surprises

Well, I obeyed Master... I spent most of yesterday afternoon cruising the web reading erotica, looking at nasty videos, thinking about sex... generally pushing all my horny bitch buttons over and over... without masturbating.

And I worked hard at not having the bad, bad, bad expectations. I did not let my head even go to the "he promised... I need him too..." place. I just rode the wave of my mental tease, savoring the throb that seemed to lodge itself permanently in my belly.

And you know when Master got home, he wasn't all that goal directed. He was all debate about what to do... trip to hardware store... dinner out... sex... walk... bike ride???? The sex option did not seem to be standing out as even having a chance. And I was good, I did not even have a bit of rage or disappointment... I just asked clarification and changed into a dress in case he wanted to leave. He sat and sat and finally after about an hour he said to me... "I will let you decide."

You know what I said... "Oh, if it is up to me... I want the sex."

He still sat there for a long time but finally wandered about the house, found some fans, turned the AC up and ordered me to clean off the bed in my room. This was a change in our routine but my room is closer to the air conditioner (old clunky window unit near his big chair). I cleaned off my bed and grinned at him and threw myself down, still expecting that "get in the shower" command... heck, I can count on on hand the number of times we have had sex without starting in the shower. Master is a hygiene freak after all.

But as I lay on the bed I heard the familiar rattle of canes and paddles and floggers... mmm... I ripped the dress off over my head and threw myself back down on my belly, presenting my back and ass, writhing and vibrating in anticipation. It had been weeks since we had a good pain session. He took his time, sensually tap, tap, tapping in fast light cadence up and down my body with the cane, occasionally throwing in a sharp snap to keep my on my toes and to keep me from getting too relaxed.

He switched up weapons and kept the lighter sensation play going. He spent a lot of time just dragging the flogger or the tip of the cane over my skin. I lay there totally zoned out, just feeling it. Yet, now and then there would be this unexpected surge of pain as he would bring something down on my hard... a paddle... the cane... or that odd, dangerous flogger made from the discarded jump rope... that thing is a frightening mix of intense thump and burn. It is hard not to turn my head and watch him with apprehensive eyes when he has it in his hand.

But today, he was focusing on the sensual. He grabbed my panties and ripped them down my legs. And that is soooo hawt. He shoved my legs apart and the end of the cane explored my crack and folds... and it tickles so crazy that I cannot help but shriek and giggle. He began to focus the blows of the string flogger between my legs, rhythmic light swishing snaps that make my cunt sting and glow.

I was totally floating and I turned over onto my back, keeping my legs wide and closing my eyes. He took the time to include my breasts in the rhythm, the string flogger snapping my nipples, sending the sting through me but always returning to my eager, offered up cunt. Then this totally strange thing happened... something that nearly lifted me right up off the bed. It felt like about a hundred little fingers tickled and massaged and poked me in about a hundred places at once right between my legs. I sat right up and shrieked staring down at that weird pink jump rope flogger being swirled, jiggled and rubbed against me. It was like being attacked by a very amorous and talented squid... ten amorous and talented squids. It tickled but it also felt crazy good.

I looked up at Master and exclaimed... "That is not a flogger... that is a sex toy! That feels fucking awesome!"

He grinned and continued his alien probing of my pussy.

I collapsed back and focused on not laughing like a hyena and letting those new and amazing fingers do their magic. Now normally, it takes A LOT to make me come but after all the porn and all the sensual caning and flogging, I was totally fucking turned on and it wasn't more than a minute than I was coming like crazy. This is very cool... because it isn't very often I can come without a little assist from a vibrator or my own fingers. For Master to get me there solo... is very, like I said, cool.

Master threw a blanket over me and went off to look at porn on his 'puter. After basking in the warm tingly after glow I got up and floated out and snuggled up to him and looked at numerous improbably buxom and slim young beauties being restrained, hurt and forced to orgasm... endless fucking machines and stylized fake orgasms. It was pretty... if not realistic... but I have to admit... in small, infrequent doses, pushes my buttons.

We did end up in the shower and had usual hygienic fucking under the hot water. And to my happy surprise, I totally turned on again by the time he was done with me and I begged to be allowed to come again. He laughed and sent me downstairs to my vibrator... telling me to not fall asleep because he was hungry and wanted me to get him dinner. I was totally giggling with satisfaction when I came back up to make salad.

It was a fun Friday night, a great way to start the weekend.

I think I will call that funny pink jump rope flogger "the squid"... and when he picks it up, I think I will have more than fear in my eyes.

Friday, July 9, 2010

Looky, looky

Here is my new collar I made this morning. It feels so cool on. I am sure Master will be pleased. He has been all up in my grill, making me wear my new wrist cuffs and old pink collar all the time I am at home. I can't wait to hear him say, "Do you have on your collar?", in that 'I am not looking for an answer, bitch, just stfu and get it on NOW voice. And when he grabs it, I think I am going to melt.

You don't have any idea how hard it was hard it was to get a shot of this collar on my neck without getting too much of the turkey neck thing going on. I had to lift my chin and stretch out my arm and look at the image on the computer screen.
Sorry about my sorry assed photography skillz. This is a little out of focus. The main band is 1" wide with a series of 1/2" slots and a half inch band threaded back and forth, three d-rings and lots of shiny rivets.
Wrist cuff and collar. I made ankle cuffs too just like the wrist cuffs but just a hair bit wider than the wrist cuffs. Lots'ofun. Now to get him to use them to fasten me down.

Okay enough hobbies...

What else, work was a barely getting our feet wet. We only had the kids for a day and a half and attendance was down. It was a cake walk. Next week will feel more real.

Last weekend, Master had one of those post fifty experiences when the little soldier failed to salute. Its the first time the ED has raised its ugly head... no amend that... nothing was raised... in nearly a year. Master was not too disturbed, we had some good laughs as I did every magic trick I knew and I finally looked up at him my mouth full with this "what the fuck, chuck" expression and he started to laugh and I started to giggle and then sucked hard and crossed my eyes at the same time.

We decided to put the whole thing on hold for a day and see how things worked later. And the next morning, it was still a reluctant puppy but finally with due diligence on my part we managed to wake him up. (Master refers to his man stuff as "will-he-won't-he" at these particular times.)

So this morning as he grabbed me and pinned me up against the wall and gave me some endless, deep, soft, warm good bye kisses before going to work, old "will-he-won't-he" started doing a definite will! will! WILL!!!!! I pushed back and gave him a smoking, "Oh please, please be late for work" look. But Master decided to go to work... but he told me to read lots of sexy stuff, to write something that makes me hot and to refrain from any masturbation.

I think I am at great risk of having some expectations when he arrives home. I must remember to be ready but not to let my ideas of what might happen get in the way of me enjoying what will happen.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Vacation Over

Last night as I knelt at Master's feet and reviewed my day and spoke of tomorrow the main topic was the fact that my June break was over and I am going back to work. Master commented that he will miss me making his breakfast. (He always goes to McDonald's for breakfast when I work. Yuck.) This having me make his breakfast is a new development... he never used to let me do that for him and this admission of liking it better was wonderfully reinforcing.

I impishly suggested he could "order" me to quit my job and I would be here alla time to cook for him. (I wisely did not point out that it is entirely possible that he could "order" me to get up earlier and to stop fucking around with my computer and watching morning news shows and make his breakfast before I go to work.) I do love my slow lazy mornings.

Anyway back to the suggestion of him "ordering" me to quit my job... It is a hawt fantasy, but he and I are both completely aware that I would get pretty fat and lazy without a lot of structure... fat, lazy and poor. I commented that if I was a stay at home slave he would have to work hard to come up with things for me to do all day. Master being the mental sadist he is, said, "Yes, I would have to keep you naked, tied up all day with things stuffed up your orifices." Suffice to say by the time the whole sentence was out I was humping his leg enthusiastically.

The sadist thing is... the chances of him actually doing anything like that are between slim and none. He and I are both completely aware of that as well. He just likes to watch me drool and then squirm in frustration.

And I don't mind working... I do have a really nice schedule... I work for a public school, so it is not quite full time. I work eight hour days but only about 190 of them a year, but I don't have the summers off. I get a week or two off about ten months of the year and lots of holidays. My job is challenging and for most people heartbreaking but I seem to have the right personality to manage to keep a good amount of personal distance. And the paycheck makes it possible to have cool new recumbent tricycles and trips to Seattle to see burlesque shows... and a trip to Alaska this August. Live is good... and I like my job, even when the kids kick me or throw chocolate milk in my hair.

Monday, July 5, 2010

Woot... a big night out!

Master has said "YES!". We are going to Seattle to see a sexy burlesque show called "Shine"... I got tickets for Friday the 16th. Now all I have to do is find a nice but not too expensive hotel in the area.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Craft Project: Making leather bondage cuffs

A month or two ago I went to an interesting leather working class put on by the PLA. I think the coolest thing I learned was you don't need a ton of expensive equipment to get started and that it was not all that expensive to make the cool looking stuff. So when Master ordered me to get out and do something, ordering me to look at leather stuff, I went to Tandy Leather and walked into the most delicious leather scented place. The staff were just the right mix of leave me alone to wander and touch and sniff and think... but as soon as I asked something they were knowledgeable, quick and wonderfully nice. I bought a piece of split leather, "rough on both sides"... well not rough, soft and suede really, black... about 2.5'x4'... for less than $30... that is enough to make a dozen cuffs and prolly other stuff too.

I had looked at a lot of different styles of cuffs on the internet and chose to make some that have a wide strap with two smaller straps that weave back and forth to anchor the d-rings and put the buckles on. I sat down and made a pattern out of paper to get an idea of exactly how wide I wanted the cuffs to be and how wide the straps should be.

Mine are 2.5" wide and about 8.5" long. This does leave me with about an inch overlap to pad where the buckles are. You should make your own pattern and custom size your own cuffs. (Master says I am big boned... and here all the time I thought I was a dainty little girl.)

I use a one sided razorblade and a metal ruler on a cutting board. It cuts just like butter. I did mess up the first couple but that gave me scraps to practice on. (Be careful, leather is sort of stretchy. Take your time, move your hand on the ruler to keep even pressure next to the razor blade... oh and make sure the sharp side of the razor blade is down. It makes you feel really stupid to try it the other way. Take my word for it.) Anyway... you will get your rectangle and two straps (make the straps about 3" longer than the strap is long.

Because my base rectangle is 2.5" wide it is really easy to score it on the back side and divide it into five equal .5" sections and then I found the middle... 4.25 and that is where the d-ring would go. I want to make slots for the straps to weave back forth so I figured out that I want to slots (one on either side of the d-ring about .5"... so the middle two slots end up a total of 1" apart. Then the straps need to weave back up to the top again and I decided to make that 1.5" further down... again on either side.

Cutting the slots for the straps is a bit nit-picky. You can buy a punch that does it perfectly every time... just put it on the leather and hit it with a mallet... but I was reluctant to invest a lot of money in tools I am still not sure that I will end up using a lot... so the cheapo way is to take your hole punch... (the one indispensable piece of equipment I did end up purchasing... not too expensive... less than $20... I rationalized it because of all the weight I have lost I need to alter a few belts.) ...anyway, take the hole punch, choose the size of hole to match the thickness of your leather and punch a hole at either end of you .5" wide mark and then carefully take your razor blade and cut the narrow piece out between the punched holes.

If you are at all like me, the resulting slots will not be perfectly regular but once the straps are through it looks just fine.

Next putting the buckles on the straps. I found it easier to do this before I tried to thread then through. (Tandy has a bewildering assortment of buckles and cool stuff, you can spend all day deciding exactly which ones you like best.) Look close at your buckle... I am sure advanced leather workers even know what all the parts are named... but I just call the little middle thing that goes through the belt hole the "tongue" probably wrong but what do I know... all I know is I am having fun. Be sure to get the front in on the front end... I sluffer from a sight clase of dysexia... and get things turned around very easily... so I actually went and got a belt and looked at it and then played around with the buckles a bit to make sure I wasn't getting it back-assward.

The tongue needs to be able to move freely so the hole you make for it to fit through is not really a hole... it is a slot about half and inch long. I put it in about an inch from the end of the strap (I gave myself an inch and a half originally so I would have extra if I needed but I ended up trimming .5 inches off.) Cut a slot, using the same technique I described earlier... maybe choose a hole size a little wider... look at the buckle you chose... compare it to the hole on the punch. Thread it through... look at it... if it looks right, you are ready to rivet!

You use a rivet to hold the buckle on. I was a bit leery about rivets. I thought they would be hard to do. I took some of my scraps and practiced and found out they are EASY PEASY... come in all kinds of cool sizes and decorations. You will need a tool... basically a little concave base and a little shaft with a concave tip to tap on... I used double cap rivets (with pretty stars on them). The bottom part of the rivet has a shaft and the top of the rivet is the cap... the length of the shaft should be just long enough to stick up out of your leather about 1/8 of an inch... any longer and it will be too long, the whole thing with shift and bend and not line up right. Take your punch... choose the hole that will just fit the shaft of the base and punch a hole through both layers at once... push the base through the hole... the cap sort of snaps on and stays while you position it over the little round base anvil thing. Take the punch and position it over the cap and tap, tap, tap. This is where a nice sturdy work surface is invaluable.

Now that you have buckles on the end of both your straps, thread them through the slots in your bigger rectangle... be sure to remember to put the d-rings on... that is why we are making these suckers, right??? Masterly types can fasten us down??? Though I must say they are very much a fashion statement as well.

Next I put rivets through both the big rectangle and the straps... measuring halfway between where the two 1.5" apart slots. This looks cool and I think will help anchor the strap to the main wider strap.

Last I put them on, thread the straps through the buckles and looked carefully to decide where the holes should be for just the right amount of tightness... I like them tight... so tight it is hard to twist them around on my wrist...

punch the holes and put them back on and rush down and show Master...

Cool, huh?

Next I am going to make ankle cuffs and then a play collar to match.

Erotic Fiction: Make It Last, Make It real.

She didn’t know how long she had lain there, drifting between her thoughts and dreams. Seconds, minutes, hours had become meaningless concepts. Time was tracked by his intrusions into her solitude. Eternities of dreamy, floating, endless waiting would be suddenly shattered by assaults of sensation. It was all sensation. She could not see. She could not hear. She could not move. All she could do was feel his touch upon her skin. She never knew what to expect when he pulled the heavy blanket off her. The slither of the rough fabric as he exposed her bound and tortured body would tear from her reverie, baring her to his whim.

Sometimes she would shriek in terrified panic. Sometimes she begged for him to free her, forgetting her promises to not speak, forgetting her pleading with him to do this thing to her. But he never wavered, never once spoke or made a sound beyond the soft grunts of effort as he used and abused her body. Worst of all was the not knowing, the uncertainty.

Sometimes he would beat her, inflicting long agonizing beatings upon her body. Beating her until she could not scream or cry, until exhaustion from the pain would numb her and pull her down, sinking below the surging sea of pain.

Sometimes he would attend to her physical needs, washing her, changing the diaper, putting the tube between her lips so she might suck down the liquid nutrient drinks he concocted to keep her body alive.

Sometimes he would rut upon her, using her body to relieve himself, fucking her endlessly. He brutally hammered at her with his body, using all her holes until they ached and burned, ignoring her cries, cries of pain, cries of passion.

Sometimes he would just sit and run his hands along her body. Slowly, sensually he would stroke her sensitized skin, petting her, soothing her.

But worst of all was when the blanket would be pulled back and he would do nothing. She did not know if he walked away or stayed there looking down at her, staring at the thing he had made of her.

When she had first described her fantasy to him and begged for this, pled for this. He had been reluctant, ambivalent, even angry at times at this obsession of hers.

“Please, I need it. I need to know what it is like. You don’t know how much I think about this.”

“But that is crazy. You have no idea. You will go crazy.” And the worst of all, “I don’t think I can do that to you. I love you too much.”

Finally she had dropped the subject or at least pretended to drop the subject. Without his knowledge she cleared the small room in the basement. She had bought the narrow cot and dug the heavy coarse blanket out of the store room. When he wasn’t home she would lie there, face down. She bought the head phones and the white noise generator. She would lie with her arms outstretched, pretending they were bound, pressed down by the heavy scratchy blanket. She wished it was heavier. Somehow she wanted to be compressed, smashed, pressed down and she worked at sewing a weighted quilt, filled with pounds of carefully stitched in washers from the hardware store.

She would lie there naked, quiet, alone, fantasizing that she was tied there, tied there for days, even weeks, for as long as he wanted. The he in her fantasy always had his face but deep inside he was darker, harsher, twisted, and cruel. He would hurt her solely for his sadistic pleasure. He would keep her as a convenient fuck hole. Transforming her into an object, a place to plunge his cock, selfishly taking anything and everything he wanted. He would reduce her to a thing, a thing that writhed and screamed and suffered just for him. He must have noticed the bed in the corner of the store room. But he did not say anything, did not acknowledge its presence in their lives. She never lay there when he was home or she expected him home, but his business kept him away for long periods of time.

One day she was there, deep in her dreams. Her blindfold on, the white noise blanking out any sound from the house, her hands twisted in the ropes when she felt the bed move, sag under the weight of another. She convulsed in sudden guilty terror, trying to get up but his hands had held her down, pushing her flat, holding her brutally crushed to the thin mattress. Over the sound of the white noise she had heard his voice, loud and somehow angry. “How long have you been here like this?”

The force of his grip on her body and the rage in his voice both terrified and excited her. Her breathless answer sounded strange, muted, “I don’t know, a couple hours?”

The heavy blanket was lifted up, up from the base of the bed baring her legs and ass, the weight of it dumped down upon her head and shoulders. The air felt shockingly cold on her naked skin. He growled something but it was hard to tell what and she flinched violently as he struck her ass with his bare hand, spanking her hard, harder than he ever had before when she had begged for it in the bedroom. She could not help but scream but he did not seem to hear her. He hit her over and over, beat her until his hands ached and then pulled his belt from his waist and lashed her with it. She had writhed and howled in panicked shrieks but she did not once let go of the faux knots that she had looped around her wrists, she did not once beg him to stop.

He had beaten her until she could not move and then he had thrown himself upon her, his body weight infinitely heavier than the blanket, his hard cock stabbing brutally into her. His hands had been iron hard on her hips, lifting her ass up, his knees shoving her thighs grotesquely wide. There had been no tenderness, no touching, no warning. It was fast, hard, primitive fucking. It was the animalistic raging rape of her body she had always fantasized about. He had battered her burning cunt with his cock and then without any discussion or even a word of warning pulled out and forced himself full length into her ass.

She did not think she had the strength to scream again but as she felt him rip into her she found her voice once again. And she heard him laugh harshly, mirthlessly at her cry. He yelled something about her wanting this and if it were possible lunged against her even more violently. It seemed to last forever and she wondered if he would ever finish. Each thrust deep into her ass felt like she was tearing apart and she lay flattened under his assault, whimpering, begging for him to finish. And yet when he did, when he stopped and jerked free, spraying her buttocks and ass with his come, she felt a wave of frustrated sadness crash over her. She really did not want it to stop, she wanted it to get worse, hurt worse, humiliate more. She wanted it to go on forever. A wild irrational thought rose up, she wished the room were full of men, dozens of men all waiting to do that and more, far, far more to her.

When he pulled the blanket off her head, had taken the head phones from her ears and growled in her ear, “That what you wanted bitch? Was that enough? Are you fucking satisfied now?” She had clenched her hands on the ropes and shaken her head violently.

Her yell of, “No!” rose up from the very depths of her soul. He had stilled for an instant and then spoke in a very calm voice, his lips close to her ear. “Then stay here. Don’t move. Don’t get up.”

He put the head phones back on and pulled the blanket up over her and left her.

She had lain there savoring the sting and burn of her body. Her whole back, ass and legs practically sizzled with the welts and pain of his beating. He had beaten her many times before, but never like this. She could tell she was bruised. She could feel the blood still leaking out of the capillaries under her skin. Her cunt and asshole felt raw. She had dreamed of this moment for years and now that it was here it was so much more than she had ever dared to hope. Slowly she deliberately writhed against the rough weave of the blanket, savoring the way the prickly wool scraped and itched at her wounds. As she relived each moment, each blow, each wave of agony the reality of it began to strike home and she could feel a strange kind of wild exhilaration build in her belly. When she thought about his use of her ass, the moment she realized he was going to do it, take her there, when she felt the tip of his cock find its path and the sudden raging burning stab of agony as he had slammed it deep in one brutal thrust she stiffened and groaned softly with the memory.

She must have slept but it was difficult to know. She had been lying lost in her dreams when the blanket was torn from her body again. He had ripped the headphones from her head. He had yanked her hips up again, and placed the head of his cock against her asshole. His voice had sounded loud in her ears, “Have you had enough? Are you satisfied?” Her voice sounded raw and terrified but once again the only thing she could say was, “No!” And she squalled in a strange mix of terror and triumph as she felt him lunge deep into her. If anything, it hurt a dozen times worse than the last time. Her ass was horribly sore and this time he was dry. It felt like a knife, a dozen knives were stabbing into her. She hated it and because she hated it, it was perfect. It went on and on and on. It felt like he must have fucked her for what seemed hours. Her mind was a red haze of agony when he finally shoved deep and came. His come burned inside her like acid.

Slowly she became aware that sometime while he had been on her, in her, she had lost control of her bladder and urinated on the mattress underneath her. He seemed to take no notice. He whispered in her ear, “Okay, I am not going to ask you again. Are you satisfied yet?”

She could not help but whimper as she shook her head no. “Then you must stay here.” He put the blanket gently over her body.

He had not replaced the headphones and she could hear him walk away. She could hear his footsteps in the rooms above, the sound of the shower and finally the sound of him driving away. She was still there. She had not moved an inch when he returned in the evening.

He had come down and pulled the blanket off her, pulled her hands free from the tangle of loops she had fashioned only a day ago to pretend she was bound. He took away the blindfold and the earphones. Gently he had called her name and begged her to get up, to come with him upstairs to eat and take a shower. “Please, come upstairs. We need to talk.”

She had moved stiffly, her eyes refusing to focus in the bright light. But she had followed him up and out of the darkness. Everything upstairs had seemed strange, dreamlike, unsubstantial. She found herself reaching out to touch more than one mundane thing that had shared her existence for decades like she had never seen it before, like she was not sure if it was really there. He had taken her into the shower with him, tenderly bathing her and then holding her close under the falling water, he had wept. His voice was hoarse. “Sweetheart, I need you up here with me.” She had not answered but held him, stroking his back, mutely rocking him in his misery.

In many ways life went back to normal. But she did not feel the same inside. Things upstairs, things in the light seemed different now. Food tasted different, in many ways more sweet, but at the same time more filling. Everyday tasks took on an importance they had never held before. She felt calmer and more thoughtful. She sat for long periods of time with her eyes closed just listening to the sounds around her.

He was more attentive, in many ways gentler and he made love to her endlessly. It was as if he could not get enough of her. Her body seemed more attuned to his caresses, responding effortlessly to his touch. Always before she had been impatient with his tenderness, begging for pain, harshness, intensity but now, now she could finally feel the love as they came together.

It may have been weeks or maybe even months before it began to call at her again. And eventually her mind slipped back down the stairs into the darkness and she began dream again of being tied, taken, forced; dream of being made into a thing again. She replaced the mattress, covering this one in plastic. This time she deliberately stayed down there for him to find her. He had touched her back and asked, “Again?”

Her answer was hoarse with need, “Please, I need it.”

Gradually, they developed a pattern. They each found something in the dark there that fed their souls. While he never started it, he learned to see the need build up inside her, and could sense his building in tune with hers. She had learned to take him by the hand and lead him down, wordlessly holding the old and now tattered weighted quilt in a silent plea to begin again. He had learned he could do it if he completely divorced himself from the awareness that this was her, his wife, the one he loved and cherished above all others.

He had made some changes in the room to help him hide her face and asked her not to speak. He had bought a leather hood. The bed was replaced with a complex padded wrack that kept her upper body perfectly restrained, covered and remote, but left her lower body accessible to him. And he learned he needed it as much as her, needed to hurt, needed to use. He never gagged her. He loved to hear her scream. And he learned that once she forgot and began to talk that she was reaching her limit, and was finally satisfied, at least until the next time. It worked, the more she spoke the more he remembered it was her. And while he never really started it, he was always the one that ended it. And once they had sated their inner demons, they found the light of their other lives to be brighter, clearer, all the more precious.

This last time, as he had led her down the stairs she had spoken her last words to him before climbing onto the wrack he had built, “Make it last. Make it real.”

… and she didn’t know how long she had lain there, drifting between her thoughts and dreams. Seconds, minutes, hours had become meaningless concepts. Time was tracked by his intrusions into her solitude. Eternities of dreamy, floating, endless waiting would be suddenly shattered by assaults of sensation. It was all sensation. She could not see. She could not hear. She could not move. All she could do was feel his touch upon her skin. She never knew what to expect when he pulled the heavy blanket off her. The slither of the rough fabric as he exposed her bound and tortured body would tear from her reverie, baring her to his whim...

Friday, July 2, 2010

Just a moody bitch

“What is up with you?”

“Nothing major, just been in a bit of a funk… just moody bitch. I am fine.”

He stares at me, his eyes narrowed. “I’ve been worried about you.”

My eyes waver… this breakfast time grilling has been getting to be a pain in the ass lately. I know I have not been in control of myself as much lately. I have been distant, loose, irritable, not particularly horny. I’ve been bucking and fighting the leash lately. Even pain has not been welcome. And last night, when he could not get much of a rise out of me… just monosyllabic mmm hmms and mmm mmms to his questions, he tried to spank me, grabbing me on the couch, lifting my legs up into my most hated position. All he got was a flash of rebellious anger. I fought him hard, resisting and he could tell from my grim angry expressions he was getting nowhere fast. I was not laughing or moaning… I was not even crying out in pain… all he was getting is snarls. He did not persist and perhaps it was a wise choice. It is fun to fantasize about being forced, being broken down, but I think I would have just lost it. He ended up letting me go and to his surprise I marched downstairs and stripped and threw myself face down on his bed.

He stood there and finally asked, “Why are you doing that?”

And I growled out between clenched teeth, “If you want to hit me, I prefer it this way… not on that fucking couch.”

He beat me for a while but then he stopped and began to rub my feet and legs, exploring for pressure points. And I almost instantly melted… we talked for a while… and it was all going good but the sadist in Master cannot resist the opportunity to strike and stir up a calm, relaxed target and just as we are about to move on to dinner he hit me… hard with the heavy leather strap, hard enough to lift me right up off the bed in shock and outrage. All the fight and anger bubbled back up to the top once more. I cry out, “Why do you have to do that? I was just starting to feel good.” He just laughed and hit me one more time to prove he could.

The rest of the evening I was still quiet, still distant, still irritable. We ended up going for a walk and I did not talk much. Master talked and talked about his work, this lock here, that fire alarm thing there… but I have to confess I did not listen that carefully. I was lost all up inside my head, wondering why I was not enjoying it so much. I do know I am not trying all that hard and I got to thinking about that, how I had written in my journal about six months ago that I had to “Master” myself… that he was not going to do it and my submission had to come from within…

Excerpted from my journal 10/09
Mastering myself… the phrase keeps coming up in my thoughts.

I remember how I had used the metaphor that the ropes I feel binding me feel too loose, that I must move carefully, even hold them trapped against my body to feel them, to keep them from slipping away. And I know this is true, that he is not sure about this and his lack of confidence stems from his fear that if he asks too much, pushes too hard, strikes too cruelly he will somehow damage it, lose it, and with it, lose this sense of ownership that he is becoming accustomed to, addicted to. I find myself reassuring him, praising his tentative assertions over me, gently encouraging him that I am not fragile, that I can bear the weight of his ownership.

So I cannot rebel, I cannot protest, I cannot indulge in even a moment of doubt. I must show only strength and determined submission. I cannot shirk a single duty, disobey a single directive. I can only show a slave’s face and a slave’s heart to my Master, a slave spirit that glories in every gesture of assertion, every nuance of control. I must Master myself.

I must create my own set of chains, bind myself to him. He is not going to “force” me. I have to shackle my own heart and lay it at his feet. He is not going to hold the key or keep me captive. I can throw off the chains at any time. He will be my owner only if I keep making the choice to be his property. And if I chose to free myself, to untangle myself from this web of my own making, I do not know if either of us could survive. We each have tasted this intoxicating thing, the exchange of power. I am not sure I could survive without it, without being owned by him.

…That was six months ago, and lately I think I need him to step up more… I am not sure exactly what I want him to do… but I want him to do something. And I sure as hell don’t feel like Mastering myself right now.

And he has been doing more, stepping into the vacuum of me pulling back, taking more control. He is more confident. He knows now that it is durable and lasting and that he cannot lose it by doing too much. And mostly I am very happy with that (and I ought to be fucking ecstatic… and perhaps I will be tomorrow or the next day), but there are these low points, moments of depression and less than stellar attitude. I mean I do it, I do obey, I do all assigned tasks promptly and thoroughly… it just does not feel fulfilling. And when I finish I don’t have this sense of accomplishment. I am busy all day and in the end I have this false sense that I have been spinning my tires all day.

In that last post there was this dumb question, “If you were a crayon what color would you be?” and I must confess saying that I would be the shit brown one… and that is so out of character for me… normally I would be the glow in the dark one with pink sparkles!!! Yay!!! Whoop-de-fucking-do!!! Like I said… shit brown.

And this morning he sat there, interrogating me about my mood. Then he said this thing that totally pissed me off. He said he was going to work on this thing he has been procrastinating about for weeks and months but because I was acting the way I was he was worried and didn't. This is a half done job that sits in the middle of our lives and rubs our noses in our short comings. It pissed me off because he has been finding excuses to avoid doing that for fucking EVAR and how DARE he use me and my temporary moody bitch thing as one more excuse. That was total bullshit. I just sat and stared at him with this horribly pained and angry screwed up forehead, narrowed eyes and squinched up lips, struggling to keep the words inside… and he said “Okay, spit it out.”

I protested that I hated that he used me for an excuse for something he has not been doing. I said it respectfully and he owned that he has been finding all kinds of excuses and but then deftly turned it back onto me, dropping the mention of the undone work and focusing on my mood, grilling me about what I was going to do today. He gave me a couple of assignments.

They were terribly onerous… go to IKEA and walk around the whole store. Oh ouch, ouch, ouch. Buy a knife sharpener, any kind. Buy him a new pillow. (I sort of melted down on that last one… they have wayyyy too many kinds of pillows and I was convinced that I would get the wrong one and get chastised. In my mood I could not even begin to conceive of being verbally berated.) Master kind of boggled and said, “Then don’t buy a pillow.” But once I calmed down I went down and looked at the labels on his old pillow and armed with more information I got a little more confident.

He told me to go to the downtown leather store… (forgets name) but once again I start to freak out… “Downtown???? I hate to drive to down town…. Please could I go to Tandy??? Please, please, please???? It is close to IKEA… I can go to both… pullleeeaaaaasssse?” And because he is controlling and not a total bastard, he said okay.

So I went to IKEA and bought both the knife sharpener and the pillow… and some more wooden hangers and a light and a pillow for me. At Tandy I got a quarter of thick black split… (suede on both sides) and some D-rings, buckles and Chicago screws. I am going to try and make bondage wrist and ankle cuffs and a play collar. (Post script… after working for a day and another trip to Tandy… it is clear I am going to have to learn how to do rivets… the Chicago screws are just too long… crap. Once I get it figured out I will post a “crafty” how make’m post.)

A handful of unfinished rattan canes and a long narrow spanking stick I had ordered off the interwebs came in the mail in the afternoon.

The kitchen table was layered up with loot when he got home. And the first thing he did was force me to my knees, pushing my face clear down to the floor. (mmm... yes Master, step right up... don't take any bullshit from the moody bitch.) And now a day or so later I am doing better... I am in a slightly better mood. At least it felt like I am accomplishing somethings. And we did manage to test out the new spanking sticks. And this time the application did wonders in helping me adjust my attitude.