Attitude Adjustment

“Get downstairs!”

“What for?” My question was information seeking, not challenging. As I got up and headed for the basement, I was genuinely puzzled. Not sixty seconds before he had said we were going out, just running errands; bank, grocery store, and maybe hardware store. And I was doing it. I really thought he had thought of some last minute chore that needed doing before we got into the car.

“Don’t ask me why!”

He shoved me hard face down onto the bed. Ohhhh, oh, okay. I get it. I had been pouting a bit. I've been better, a lot better, but still fragile, still not quite as sure of myself. And he had been pretty gruff all morning, and with each growl, each heavy handed correction I had gotten quieter, more distant, shrunken up deeper inside myself. A little attitude adjustment seemed to be in order.

I was already wearing my cuffs and collar and he wrenched my hands behind my back, tried to thread some rope through the rings and growled in frustration when the rope was too thick to fit through. I giggled and commented that I had not had ropes in mind when I designed these cuffs and crawled over to the side of the bed and reached for the toy bag and handed him a couple snap hooks. And then on impulse I slipped on a blind fold.

My heart was racing, it has been months and months since he has done any kind of bondage. I still wasn’t sure exactly what he had in mind. The last few times it was just goofy. Tie her up and see if she could get loose. Nothing rough or even sexual, just experiments to see what knot would hold.

He ignored the snaps for a while, still fussing with the rope and then picked up a snap and clipped my hands behind my back. Then he proceeded to tug at my arms and lift up on the waistband of my pants and I lay there trying to figure out what the hell he was trying to accomplish, not fighting but not particularly cooperating either, mostly because I just couldn’t bend that direction. After a while he snarled at me to get my ass up in the air and unsnapped my wrists and refastened them behind my knees. Another Ohhhhh moment.

He laid into me with a cane, hitting me exactly on the crease between my thighs and ass. It hurt a LOT. I didn’t know if he was hitting me harder than usual (though looking at my ass now… I know now that was exactly what he was doing.) but at the time I wondered if I was just feeling as physically sensitive as I had been emotionally. I howled and squirmed like crazy, tipping over from my knees to my side and as he continued to hit me, striking that same place over and over I continued to struggle and eventually rolled over onto my back and tried to hide my ass.

He dropped the cane and began to tug on my pants, forcing then slowly down over my hips exposing my ass inch by inch. Oh fuck, I knew if it hurt that bad over my clothing I was in deep shit if he got access to my bare ass. I was babbling, pleading, “You don’t want to do that. You don’t want to pull my pants down. It will hurt too bad. Please, don’t.” My pleas only seemed to spur him on. He took his time, selecting various implements of ass destruction from his armory. The strap was crazy, then that new narrow paddle, then the cane again, various floggers. I was squirming, gasping, screaming, yelling, giggling… more than once getting my fingers caught when I would reach down to somehow protect myself. And nothing hurts worse than taking a hit on the back of the fingers. Then, bang! Something crashed into my pussy, my bare tender exposed pussy. I think I got airborne with that one. As I thrashed on the bed, screaming louder and louder as the pain swelled and grew, blanking out my mind, he casually trailed the legs of the homemade flogger I have named ‘the squid’ over my tenderized ass.



I was breathless, “You did NOT hit my pussy with that????!!!!!”

He chuckled evilly. And I protested, “You will break my pussy!!!”

He did not say anything but when I felt a soft cloth dabbing at my labia, I asked incredulously, “I’m bleeding?”

“Just a little.” And then he chuckled, again!

“Oh you evil bastard, you broke my pussy. I just know it. You broke it.”

I had both hands clamped over my pussy. I did not care if he broke my fingers. I was not allowing him access to my pink parts again, EVAR!!! He grabbed my ankles and tied them up over my head. I think my squirming had made him accidentally hit my pussy and he wanted to hold me down a little better. I did not resist but I had not let go of my pussy either.



Once he had me tied down a little better, he was back at it, making sure that no part of my ass went unpunished, no tool or toy left off the agenda, from heavy leather flogger to nasty narrow gom jabbar. I remember him commenting once that he loved the strap best of all, because I had bought it for him. I do know he kept returning to it. He would stop and tease me, walking around the bed, touching my face, poking at my pussy and anus with the sharp tips of various things while I squealed and screamed and twisted and begged. I was raw, bruised and just a little bloody by the time he finished.

Then he walked away, leaving me blindfolded, bound, contorted, my legs up over my head, my hands still clutching between my legs, protecting my sore pussy. I lay still, puffing, listening, wondering what he had in mind now, what item he needed that he did not have at hand here in his room. I slowly, gently, tentatively ran my fingertips over my sore ass and pussy, as far as I could reach with my wrists still bound.

I had never really mellowed under that rain of sensations, he had made sure that nothing lasted long enough, predictably enough, changing up the pain too quickly for me to start to fly too high. But now, now finally left alone to feel the echoes of sensation, the afterburn? As it were? I could feel my body finally relax and the rush of my blood through my veins.

He made no effort to hide the sound of his feet on the stairs as he came back down. His voice was a little surprised, “You have not moved.”

“Was I supposed to?” My voice sounded a little foggy, distant.

He laughed and began to untie me, working his way from bound ankles and clipped wrists, ending with pulling the blind fold off. “Come on, we need to get going if you are going to get to the bank before it closes.”

Oh god, he expected me to just jump up and run those errands. Okay… okay… He is driving so I can do this… can do this… can do this. It was funny how everything seemed blurry around the edges, echoed in my head. I had to hold onto the stair railing tight as I wobbled up the stairs. When my vision cleared enough I peeked at my ass.

I am tattooed, marked, striped, and speckled. Black marks, blue marks, red, pink, and purple, my ass looks like an impressionist (snort... pun intended) painting. I bent over and check out my girl parts… was it broken???? The bite of the squid was unmistakable. A cluster of purple red contusions, sort of raw bruises the size of about two silver dollars reaches from my inner thigh up and across my labia. I am so impressed I run a fascinated finger across the sore and uneven surface, each mark raised up and tender. I hiss and cannot help but touch it again.



Even now, hours later, I can feel the sting, the ache and I remember those moments taken out before running errands. He has been an amusing mixture of pride and embarrassment. Attitude adjusted, both mine and his.

What to Say?

What to say? Not a lot and a butt ton of things are going on. The usual work on the weekdays, come home kind'a wrecked and uninspired... bike rides and shower sex on the weekends with lots of naps, add in some good food, TV reruns of nature shows and writing stories and you have my life in a nutshell.

The same old, same old... but little things stand out. Us walking through the grocery store. Him asking me what's next, me looking at the list and announcing, "Meat". Him saying, "I know you are, but what's next on the list?" Picture me humping his leg in a busy grocery store. Picture an old man teasing us with a "Hold it down, there." Me deliberately misunderstanding and shooting back, "You have no idea how hard it is to hold me down!"

A few days later after a long chatty email exchange with one of my virtual friends, the topic wound round to verbal humiliation, how he sometimes will say the words but it rings hollow because I can tell he really doesn't "feel" it. He doesn't think of me of me as even a bitch, much less meat and I am not so sure he wants to believe those words are true. He doesn't want a bitch or meat. But still, even when they ring hollow, they trigger something in me, a thrill of fear... a rush of heat.

I am getting ready for my annual pilgrimage to the land of my genesis. Every August I go to Alaska to visit my aging parents and engage in the yearly ritual of fish sacrifice. Yes, I kill fish. I like to kill fish... no... I LOVE to kill fish. This year, Master is not going. Instead I am taking oldest son, my enigma of a daughter-in-law and the miracle that is my five year old granddaughter with me. It ought to be fun... and exhausting. My very wise Master decided to opt out of the circus.

Last night Master mentioned he was going to miss me. He said that he is going to totally fuck my brains out before I go... and then went on to describe all the depraved and disgusting things he is going to do. (More leg humping...) He even mentioned bondage and name calling... maybe the conversation about verbal humiliation is going to pay off?

Already my ass is decorated with a lovely constellation of little marks, bruises, speckles of little red marks, lines, dots.He beat me into a limp pile of whimpering "meat"... and when he asked me if I had had enough... for the first time in a very long time I nodded and sort of groaned out an mmmm, hmmm... and you know what... that reluctant sadist kept right on... clearly he needed more. And he is talking about another session soon... so he is planning on getting in some extra licks to tide me (and him?) over until my return in 9 days.

My yard is sort of getting away from me again... too many afternoons and weekends just sitting on my ass... I know I could beat it back to the place I had it before in just a few hours of easy hoeing and chopping. Just getting the "round-to-it" to come up to the top of the pile. But Livie's pumpkin plant is growing into the monster I knew it would and we already have a couple of pumpkins.

Yesterday I came home from work extra drained... I think it was the realization that today will most likely (99% sure) be the last day that my best ever, most awesome, (and secretly... don't tell him... sexiest) principal EVAR will be there. When I return to work this September for the new school year, he will be gone. I will miss him so much. He sings, he laughs, when he yells good morning down the hall you know he is happy to see you there at work. He does not hesitate even for a second to step in and deal with the shit that comes raining down every day. He can just walk into a room and the kids behave better... not because they are afraid... but because they just want to more when he is around. And he has such an amazing smile... like a light house. The hallways will be just a little darker next September. I told him I would not hate him for leaving... that I will reserve that for who ever they find to try and replace him.

Today there is no kids at work... just a day for teachers to do end of year grades and it is my day to do all the last bits of filing and enter the last data and print out my end of the year reports. And then I get to do my favorite thing... I get to put away all of the last years files... I get to put it all to bed... finally finished, neat, organized, done... finis... I look forward to doing this all year long.

And then I will celebrate by going and getting my nails done. I am thinking about blue sparkly.

And answer me this, why, oh why are my bowels in some kind of an uproar... why did my insides insist on complete evacuation... three times... count them THREE times this morning??? My poor bung hole is sorer this morning than it is after Master uses me unlubed in the shower. Pooping: the last forbidden subject. Why is it somehow more permissible to talk about someone sticking their dick up there than it is to talk about what comes out of it??? ...go figure.

Well I guess I should pack it up and finish getting ready for work.

Empty Nest again

Another time of change… My son and his wife found an apartment and moved out. Our nest is empty again. Master is jazzed but for some reason I feel a little sad. I think I will be a little lonely. I won’t miss having to figure out a time when we can have sex or play. I won’t miss having my carefully planned menu all fucked up because the “night people” ate everything in the refrigerator. But I think I will miss having them around. I am more social than Master and just the knowledge that someone else is here, even if they are upstairs in their room is somehow comforting.

But anyway, Master is happy to finally have our house to ourselves, he crowed, he jumped around… but then he saw that little bit of sadness on my face and he asked me if I was sad, if I was going to miss them. I answered that I was a little sad, that maybe I was going to be a little bit lonely and then teasingly said that maybe he had been a little bit boring lately.

One should know better than poke at the sleeping bear.

I was sitting on the couch, in my usual place and he lunged up and grabbed my ankles and lifted them up over my head and proceeded to spank me soundly. I twisted around and squealed but on some level I don’t think that was quite enough for him and he went off and found a belt in my room and once again my legs were lifted straight up. More whacks, more squeals… yelps…

There is something about that position, sitting on the couch with your feet lifted up, it stretches the muscles, tightens the skin… and my ass is mostly on the couch so he is hitting on the tender sweet spot, that crease where the thighs meet the ass and on the backs of my thighs clear to my knees. It hurts so much worse there… so much worse. I cannot sit all that still, cannot absorb the pain, and just cannot cooperate. No matter how hard I try, eventually I struggle and twist around, fighting to find a position where I can bear it.

You know there are days when no matter how much you love something, you just cannot enjoy it right at that moment? It was one of those moments where I could not find a place of acceptance, and the pain just tore at me, abraded me, it ripped my mind apart. And strangely this fed his sadism, and I could tell he wanted this, this total lack of enjoyment, this horror and panic. Master clearly enjoys hurting me more when I did not want it, a lot more… and then he was gone, downstairs to his lair, to his arsenal… and he was back bearing in his hands the two most stringent, most frightening and most dangerous tools he owns.

Again my legs were lifted up. I was so terrified that I was stiff as a board, I could not soften, could not relax. I was sobbing with panic and as he hit me with the heavy strap I squalled and began to fight. I bucked. I twisted. I begged. It was beyond bearing. He let go of my legs and just began to strike at me, swinging and hitting me with the little fiber glass stick that I call “my gom jabbar”… and in his new found sadistic joy he was swinging hard. Each blow planting a seed of agony that did nothing but swell and grow. If anything five seconds later, it hurt twice as bad as when he first struck and it did nothing but continue to grow. It was as if something was burrowing under my skin. And he was hitting me over and over, fast unrelenting blows that left a scattering of glowing coals along my thighs.

I think eventually he realized how close I was to totally losing it, to pissing myself or throwing up… I think he could see me trying to figure out how tell him where I was at. I remember yelling at him that that strap and that little stick were too dangerous and he HAD TO BE CAREFUL!

He stood over me. I could tell he was all lit up. He practically glowed with energy. And he would brandish those weapons and grin with complete evil, diabolical delight as I shuddered and cowered in terror. He would touch me with them, gentle, threatening taps just to watch me flinch and whimper in abject terror. He commented that “tonight I was extra sensitive”… not quite yet aware that he had been hitting me harder and in many ways I agreed with him… that the primary cause of my pain was my mental state.

But that night when I stripped for bed my legs still felt like they were on fire. And as I tenderly ran my fingers along them there were sharp swollen welts, welts as wide and high as a pencil, raised up sharply from the plane of my skin. And they were not red. They were black. I went upstairs and showed him. I think he was surprised and because he is still exploring his sadism, a little daunted.

All night they hurt, deep singing pain of blood continuing to leak out under my skin. This morning instead of distinct black lines they have blossomed and joined together, the bruises spreading and merging. I lay over his lap as he examined me and we talked about it. Master does not like bruises and especially does not like accidental bruises. Hitting me when I am not being still is risky, not knowing exactly where the blow will land. Using two implements so very different in weight and application can lead to misjudgments of how much force. And the fact I was not nude, that I was wearing thin black cotton tights that did nothing to mitigate the damage but hid the results from his eyes. It was a learning moment… how to tell if he is injuring me, so that he will have that knowledge to use or not to use depending upon his wish, his will, his whim.

I do not mind that I am bruised. And on some very deep level, I love the marks of his ownership upon my flesh. I love the fact that right this minute as I write this just sitting hurts. And while I did not find any sensual enjoyment of the pain he inflicted upon me last night, I love the fact that I did not like it. It is hard to explain, but the idea that he would do that, enjoy doing that, doing something to me that I don’t like… that idea, that very knowledge is incredibly powerful for me. It makes me feel an awe for him, a deep and profound awe… it is like it makes him godlike for me… the source of pain, pleasure, joy, fear. And it makes me so hyper aware of him. Each movement, each shift in position, each time he stands or says a word triggers in me a rush of awareness, a little twinge of fear and anticipation.

And I love the fact that we are alone with this feeling… this knowledge that hangs in the air between us… that he can do that… that he can do anything he wants… anytime he wants… any place he wants and there are no other people here that may interrupt us… inhibit us. We are alone again and it looks like we are going to be learning more.

Thrashed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Master