Its all about the ritual...

I was the one that started it.  When he would get home, I was expected to get up from sitting on the couch and walk to him and greet him.  All that was required was a hug and a kiss, a few moments of greeting, my single focus on him.  I was the one that started kneeling.  There is something about that posture, ass up, forehead pressed firmly to the floor that inspires him.  He will move to stand with his legs on either side of my hips and lean down and spank me.  Soon, it was the expectation.  Even though I had started it, it became his requirement.

At first it was good, hell it was great.  But on some level, this was not the reaction he craves.  He wants shock, involuntary scrambles to escape, rueful squalls and protests.  If a spank on the butt gets a coo, a giggle and an appreciative wiggle, he will move his attention down to more tender places and will up the ante until I am not cooing any more.  He will push those pants down or pull up the skirt, baring skin so it will sting more.  And every day it gets worse.

And now, when the front door opens I am not filled with delicious anticipation so much as irritated apprehension.  Tonight was no different.  He yanked my pants down and went from 0 to 60 in one second flat.  IT.  HURT.  BAD.  Warm up?  It is the very opposite of warm up.  Happy to see him?  No not so much.  I was squirming around on the floor squalling that it was tooooo much... too fast... for god's sake!!!  Which clearly amused the fuck out of him.  I could tell from how he was laughing and left me there on my knees with the flaming fanny available for a few more encore assaults.

Finally I was directed to stand up and pull up my pants in that condescending tone that somehow implies that I was the one that pulled my pants down.  And as he pushed me against the wall for some gratuitous nipple pinches and kisses his brown eyes were sparkling with devilish humor.  He met my wet and angry eyes.

"You love it."

I countered, "You love salt on your eggs.  So don't be surprised to find about a cup on each one tomorrow.  Don't worry, you will love them."

I tried to explain that hard spanks, fast spanks are doable if we work up to it, take our time, get the endorphins flowing and being a bit aroused can't hurt the equation either, but I suspect I just told him how to make sure to do the opposite if he is seeking out my sudden, shocked and unappreciative reactions.  Because it is not about the infliction of pain for him, it is all about that horror and fear and anger in my eyes.  It is all about the mind fuck, all about taking a ritual that was sweet, fun and reinforced my sense of submission to him and turning it into just one more mind fuck.

As you can tell my ass still smarts.  And I am still royally pissed at that man.  I mean if he is going to fuck my brain so rough and so often, he could at least use some lube.  When I read this post to him he laughed and laughed and laughed.  Grrrr... I am serious, a cup of salt per egg.  I am sure he will just love them.     





 

Fiction... Tell Me.

“Tell me!”

Ayva giggled and chewed nervously on her lip. She could tell from the heat of her skin that her face was five shades of red.

Dick's hand reached out across the console and tapped her on the knee. “You started this. You have to finish it.”

Ayva squirmed in her seat and looked out the passenger window. “It’s no big deal.”

“If it’s no big deal then tell me.”

Ayva knew that she had better tread carefully. If he even began to suspect that this was something she really wanted he probably would never do it. Dick had a talent for doing almost exactly the opposite of what she wanted. If she begged or complained it was a god damned guarantee she could kiss her wishes good bye.

It seemed like the more pissed she would get the happier he seemed. He would say with a huge grin, “You love it. Nothing makes you happier. Look, you say you are mad but look at your face, you never looked happier.”

It totally pissed Ayva off that he was right. She had such a kink for ass holes.

“Tell me.”

He could tell she was nervous. He was not going to let go of this as long as he had her squirming.

It had started innocently, a fun conversation, cum argument in the car on the long ride back home from the coast. She had no idea how the topic had spun around to fantasies.

God, if she told him would he do it? Or would he decide that she really did not want what she said she wanted. He had done that a thousand times before.

“Sometimes when... sometimes I like to think about...” Her voice was soft and distant, her eyes locked on the landscape as it slid by. This was probably the tenth time she had started and then stopped.

“And...”

“Spanking, I think about being spanked.”

She thought about a hell of a lot more than spanking. Hell, there was a whole fucking dungeon in her head, populated with the most inventive and sadistic of masters.

Like all her fantasies, it was long and complex. It was never Dick, sometimes it was Captain Picard, Sean Connery or maybe looking like that hot elf Elrond from the LoTR movie, yeah, that one played by Hugo Weaving. She had a picture of him on her desk top, anybody but Dick.

She would silently slip into the room and he would be there, disdainful, icily indifferent, reluctant to be disturbed. He would be busy, preoccupied, watching TV, or reading. He would look up and in an almost I'd rather not be bothered manner direct her to kneel before him.

She would know what he wanted; it was how he always made her wait. She would be wearing a long loose dress or night gown. She would kneel facing away from him and put her face on the floor, pull up the fabric of the dress to cover her head and expose her naked ass and pussy to him. She would stay like that, hidden yet exposed for what seemed an eternity waiting for his whim.

Finally she would her him, a sigh, a movement, a muttered comment under his breath. Whatever had been occupying him was finished. Perhaps he would notice her. In the same bored irritated voice he would tell her to scoot closer to him. She would creep back until he would tell her to stop.

She would kneel there, quivering in anticipation. Not of spanking, it would be something harsher, crueler and more demanding of her fear. A belt, a whip, a cane; it would be something dangerous.

She would have to beg for it. Each blow a gift. Each blow crueler that the last. She could stop any time, but there was the need to test her own limits, to take more than she thought she could.

She would reach up between her legs and stroke herself between blows, the excitement too much to ignore. She would beg, “Again please, again.” And then buck and scream as the searing agony would cut through her. Each time she would wonder if she could bear to ask again, choking down her sobs, rubbing frantically at her pussy to sooth her hysteria. And then she would beg again.

He would demur, suggest that she did not deserve this attention, but she knew that this was what he wanted and needed even more than her.

The fantasy would always end up with him grabbing her, tearing her clothing off and throwing her over the back of a piece of furniture, her ass up, her head down. He would force himself into her mouth and fuck her face, ramming his cock violently and endlessly down her throat ignoring her choking gagging protests.

Finally he would take her from behind, lunging abruptly into her pussy and humping her with an animal intensity that would shake her whole body, knocking the chair or whatever, across the room with the violence of his fucking.

Just as she was about to come he would deny her and pull away from her. Ignoring her pleas, he would force himself up her ass, as she screamed in pain and frustration, brutally slam into her. He would grab her already tortured ass cheeks and spread them cruelly apart, reveling in her howls of pain as he rutted and filled her with his come.

This fantasy was good for at least a half dozen orgasms start to finish. She was realistic enough to know that she would never really like a scene that rough. Hell the first ten minutes of kneeling would have her whining and complaining. She had never been hit with a cane, or even a belt. She would probably pussy out at the first smack. But it was fucking hot to think about.

Ayva knew if she told Dick all this he would either be horrified or make fun of her until the day she died, probably both. Even though he seemed to take pride in being a jerk, when it came down to doing what she wanted. He was a very physically gentle man. He would never be the man in her fantasy. Ayva was cool with that, but if he could maybe spank her, it would be a start.

She kept staring out the side window. “You know, like before we do it, you would spank me. I could lay across your lap or lean over in front of you.”

“Seriously? You want me to spank you?” He was getting that obnoxious little boy snide tone, and that maybe I will, most likely I won't grin on his face.

She cleared her throat nervously. “Like a game, just playing. It’s not all that big a deal. I just thought it might be fun to maybe try. We don't have to if you don't want to.” Her voice trailed off.

As she was unloading the car, carrying the bags and extra coats in from the day trip Dick struck for the first time, a sharp pop on her ass as she leaned over the car trunk. Ayva yelled and jumped, banging her head on the trunk lid. She whirled indignant, “Not like that, not when I am not expecting it. It’s for like foreplay or something.” Her voice becoming whiny.

He crowed with delight. “It’s more fun this way.” Ayva shut up, she saw the absolute joy in his face. If she told him now that she did not want him to spank her, it would be useless. This was one cat that was not going to get put back in the bag without a fight. Ayva looked at him warily, rubbing her head and her ass at the same time. Shit, how come he always could fuck things up so ingeniously.

After that things only got worse, he refused to spank her when she was cooperating, saying it wasn't fun that way. But he was always sneaking up on her and nailing her when she was not expecting it. His favorite was in socially inappropriate situations. She did not mind the grocery store so much but when he did it during a parent teacher conference she nearly lost it, and in front of her mother for god’s sake. Fucking was a nightmare. He was developing a talent for giving her a good hard smack right when she was just about to orgasm, effectively knocking the come right out of her.

For Dick it was not sex, it was one more way to keep her off balance, keep her pissed at him. He was never quite as happy as when she was sputtering angry at him. He would taunt, “You love it.” And it infuriated her that he was right. How come she loved assholes so much?

"O S M R puppies, C M P N?"

So one of the things I did last weekend was go to this "Easy Advanced Body Work" class that was for kinky people only. It was very cool and the (I want to say "girl" but that would be showing my age) lady that taught the class was really great. Easy techniques to relax and work muscle groups. (I have been shopping for a reasonably priced massage table ever since.)

She is an acupuncturist and some other eastern type treatment specialist with her own practice here... so when my back continued to get worse instead of better and Master said I had to go to the chiropractor I begged to try out this instead. So I go permission to go to her instead. On Monday I went in and got punctured and then manipulated. And I feel better, all better.

While she is active in the community, her practice is primarily with vanilla people, it was wonderful to go somewhere where I did not have to filter the "Master" word out of my vocabulary and have someone who knew what a collar was and took the time to compliment me on it.

If you live locally and want a referral...

***

Last night I was in a not too uncommon prickly mood. Perfectly comfortable to do my own thing, to crank out an "adequate" meal. But Master could sense I was a little snappy, a little irritable and was all over it, deliberately poking at me just to watch my hackles rise up and giggle maniacally when I would swallow it down over and over. He was having a mind fuckers super fun night.

He kept poking me. (Literally poking, jabbing a finger into me.) And every time I would say, "Yes, Master, is there anything I can do for you?" He would grin and giggle a little evil cackle. Finally I was just barking "WHAT?!!"

He gave me this wordless narrow eyed glare when I told him what his meal options were. But when I asked him what he would rather have, he just stared some more, clearly enjoying the squirmy feelings I was having. He finally grudgingly settled for the hamburger steak, rice and salad... and as I placed the meal down in front of him, I said... "If there is a meal you would like to have tomorrow, now would be a good time to tell me what you would want so I could make sure to have the ingredients ready." Bastard just gave me another evil wordless grin and shook his head and began to eat.

The poking commenced again after dinner, and I gave up on all pretense, just ignoring him the best I could, avoiding his eyes and clenching my teeth, resisting the urge to rip his head off.

Finally he ordered me up off the couch and dragged (drug?) (I never know which one of those is correct, neither sounds quite right.) ...made me go to the Mall for a forced march up, down, back, forth, up, down, back, forth for about an hour.

At one point he paused and stared at the empty store front that had been the pet store for as long as he could remember and I pointed down the long hallway... "They moved down that way." As we continued marching he asked if one nail salon was where I got my nails done and I pointed another direction, "No, they are down that way."

We found the puppies and paused and stared at them longingly. It has been a long time since we had a dog and we both miss it, even though we are both realistic enough to know that with no kids and both of us working full time that a dog would be pretty lonely all day. But we still stare at puppies with a kind of wistful "awwwww" thing. We were only a little way from the nail salon and I pointed down there and idly commented, "That is the place I get my nails done."

So we proceed, and Master pauses in front of the nail place and stares at me accusingly. "You said the puppies were down here." Um... duh... didn't you see the puppies we were staring at, talking about, going awwwww, dude... what the fuck???? I point back toward the pet store. "No that is the pet store, this is the nail store."

Growl... "You pointed over here and said..."

"No I didn't."

oops.

(Never, never, never argue. Mind fuckers love to argue. Crap, crap, crap.)

So there is this poem...

A B C D puppies.
O L M R not puppies.
O S M R puppies.
C M P N?

So rather than argue, I grin and point pack toward the pet store, and say... "O S M R puppies, C M P N?"

And no matter what Master said to prove I had was wrong about what I may or may not have said, I refused to say anything other than, "O S M R puppies, C M P N?" for the rest of the forced march through the Mall.

Humiliation revisited

I did not end up going to the Erotic Humiliation thing. I did not even ask again, even though he had never really said no. He had just emanated disapproval. And perhaps, it would have been just a little too embarrassing, a little too humiliating to show up to something like that alone.

There are lots of other things happening this month that he has said yes to. Yes to going to the erotica writers group, yes to a body work class... and a maybe to a munch where there is an open mic thing for people to read their stuff... in public. I have an unspoken fantasy of reading my poem "Devotion" (you can find it under the poetry key word at the bottom of the page)out loud, dedicated to him, with him there in the audience. We will see.

Speaking of humiliation, which seems to be the topic of the day... he made some callus, selfish directive and emphasized it with the word bitch and all he got was that suppressed giggle grin. He grabbed me by the throat and glared at me. "Seems like the word bitch is not quite humiliating?"

The grin just got wider.

He pushed me down, pinned me to the bed and narrowed his eyes, "I think I will call you..." And he paused thinking.

I lay there, wide eyed waiting. Words like cunt, whore, slut dancing about in my head.

"...Pooh bear." Gahhhhhhh!!!!!!! Bastard, mind fucking bastard!!!!!


This morning he asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I shrugged and said that I thought that the recumbent tricycle was my present for every day of the year for the next three years. Then I said tentatively, "but... if I could have anything I wanted... I would ask for a ring of steel 1/4 inch stealth collar."

He directed me to show him the images and said, "Okay, order it."

That is how things are done. I tell him what I want. He gives me permission to purchase it. So easy for him. No surprises for me. And I don't much like surprises anyway.

Welcome to December.

Still trying to get back in balance after the busy holiday week. We were low a lot of things, most crucial... toilet paper and coffee creamer (or coffee poison as Master calls it.) So I drove straight the grocery store from work.

Master was home when I came in with my arms full of food, TP, and you name it. And I got an earful about not being home when he got here. It is times like this that I think again about getting a cell phone, so I can call and ask permission to make a detour to the grocery store... but then I am not allowed to call him on his work phone unless it is an emergency... and is going to the grocery store an emergency??? Dunno.

I rushed about, putting away groceries, making a quick dinner for him, making a completely different dinner for myself. I am tired of compromising my diet to fit his tastes... tonight I made a spinach salad for myself, with avocado and tomatoes. Yum. Master will have left over turkey noodle soup and a green salad. (I loathe iceberg lettuce and celery, and for him it just isn't a salad with both those ingredients. Gag.)

As I sat down with my yummy spinach salad he gave me this look, a dark frowny glare and I froze and went, "What?"

He narrowed his eyes, glaring at my meal choice and I start to yammer, defending spinach and avocados, extolling the relative nutritional values and he snarls for me to shut up. He says he was sort of thinking of doing "something" with me when I got home, but me going grocery shopping and cooking messed all that up. He does not elaborates on what this something might be... exercise, fuck, play, christmas shopping??? ...fuck if I know. I instantly offered to put my food in the fridge and be available for him, but he shook his head, "No, you go ahead and eat." The "its too late now, bitch." left unsaid and yet hanging in the air between us.

Bastard, I would bet about a thousand dollars that if I had just come home, been on my knees waiting when he came in the door, he would have done exactly what he always does... fall asleep in his chair... no playing... no sex... no nothing, just snoring. But because I made a left turn, that mind fucking bastard hangs out this "something" that can't happen now.

I have learned not to expect anything, to be satisfied with the comfortable routine. I have learned to not even think about the possibility of play, or fucking, or ropes, or whips... I have set myself up for disappointment so many times that I don't even think about the one in a thousand chance that he just might do that "something", especially on a week night, after work any more.

To give him credit, we have not had any kind of play or sex beyond a quick roll over and poke it into a warm wet place in the middle of the night in several weeks. He knows I want more. He probably wants more too. But he did not say a word, did not make a hint... and to expect me to read his mind... Like I said before, mind fucking Bastard.

Quack....

Mannnn....

I have been tired when I get home. I am totally zonked. I have not really been working all that hard, I just have been so stressed. When things start to go wrong, things put away in the wrong place, other people not doing their job right... things left undone... I start to stress. I way over react. I try to fix everything. I want predictability... I want CONTROL. I get biiiiiiitchy. I irritate people. I don't even like me at times like that. So I have decided that I am a duck.



I am not in control. I am not the queen of the whole fucking school. I can't fix things. I sure as hell can't control things. I am a duck. Stress is the water that rolls off my back. I can keep busy, do my job the best I can, help and support people when they ask... and not BEFORE they ask.

I can be a busy duck...



See the busy feet... yet serene... all blue water and happy feet. Yes I am a duck. In fact just about any time during the school day, you will see me going "quack" quietly, serenely or even frantically. Quack.

So speaking of cheese... You regular readers may remember me commenting once about poisoning the ants that have been eating my house.



Look what those little fuckers did to my house... MY HOUSE!!!!



Now Master has to fix it.



I know, not the most flattering of angles, but I am a little mad at him... well, a LOT mad at him.

I was in the kitchen, making cornbread to go along with the delicious left over vegetable beef soup we were having for dinner. He was walking back and forth, up and down the stairs. I was not paying a whole lot of attention to him. MISTAKE!!! BIG MISTAKE... BANG!!!



He hit me with this.

It was like a bomb going off in the kitchen. It lifted me right up off the ground. I peed my pants. It scared the holy living fuck out of me. It hurt, but it was not the pain, it was the complete, total, absolute shock and subsequent terror. I cried. He laughed. I cried some more, blubbering in incoherent outrage. He laughed and laughed and laughed. I got MAD. There is nothing that shakes my resolve to be good than being scared and then mocked.

I was shooting daggers at him. I lifted my hand to hit him. And he lifted a brow, shut the front door and bent me over and caned my pissy ass. If I was allowed gratuitous ass pictures I could put up the rosy red result. And I am still mad and if I don't watch out...



...my goose will be cooked.

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.

Getting 'Bent'!!!

This all started months and months ago. Wayyyyy back in midwinter there was a bicycle expo at the old expo center. Master has been talking for years and years and years about getting me on a recumbent bicycle... Now I have periodic inner ear problems, infrequent bouts of vertigo and frequently have balance issues. Riding a conventional two wheel bike can be a challenge. The idea of one of those strange looking long bikes with the guys half lying down on them sounded dangerous. I had a girls frame because I needed to put my feet down frequently to keep from going Benny Hill. (Flop over onto my side.)

Well at the expo they did have lots of styles of recumbent bicycles and they had this one type with three wheels... a recumbent tricycle and inside the big building on the glass smooth concrete floor they just flew. They were easy to ride, comfortable and FUN!!!!! I was instantly hooked.

I wanted... really wanted. But they are pretty spendy... ranging from a $1000 to you just don't want to know. But I kept wanting. And we do have the money. The worry was... "If we buy this really expensive toy, will we really use it or will it just be one more expensive thing gathering dust taking up space in our lives?"







But the memory of flying along did not go away and I kept bringing it back up... and up... and up. But Master kept putting it off and it was raining and raining and raining. But this last Saturday, Master was spanking me and once again made the complaint that my ass was too bony. Pffftttt... like he isn't happy I lost all that weight. I mean I have repeated offered to eat lots of cheesecake for his spanking comfort but he just says no. Darn it... anyway this last Saturday I did say... "If you buy me a recumbent tricycle, I would get big muscley buns..." So Master said, "Okay, we will go for a test ride on city streets and see how you like it outside, see if it is still like you remember." Happy dance.

Sunday we went to the specialty bicycle store and took out a Terra Trike 24 for a spin and it was just as fun as I remember... more fun. People naturally smile at you as you ride by. I feel confident about my balance. I can go slow and not feel like I going to flop over.

So after the ride, Master asked me what I wanted and I pointed at the secksy blue trike and said... "I want that, if you will permit it." And he pulled out a little square of plastic... dontcha just love plastic??? ...and abracadabra, it was my secksy blue trike.

One downside with trikes is they just don't fit in the trunk of a Pontiac, so Master had to pick up with is truck on Monday. I raced home a half hour early with all these plans to get dinner ready so we could go out for a ride the instant Master pulled up to the house but surprise, surprise, Master was already home. His truck parked in the usual place, but no bike in evidence. I walked into the house and he was sitting at the computer playing dumb computer games... grrr... I said.... happy, excited voice... "You are HOME!!!" And he made a small noncommunicable grunt. Voice growing suspicious, this could easily be a terrible mind fuck... "Where is my bike?" Again a shrug and grunt, he does not look up from his computer. I go into the garage and then look out at the back yard... nothing.... nothing... nothing... Louder voice, tears starting to fill my eyes... "You didn't get it?"


He is a truly evil bastard... but not that evil... he started laughing and ran into my bedroom. I am really puzzled now. How the fuck did he get that big trike into my bedroom and why on earth would he put it in there? I mean he is an evil bastard but not usually a crazy bastard. But he comes out with the flag and proceeds to beat my ass with it... and it is a nasty length of fiber glass... it really stings but I am not paying attention to that... "Okay where did you hide my trike!"


Turns out it was in the basement. We went out for a ride but his old bike tires blew out after only a few blocks so it was a very short ride. I did test out the steepest hill in our neighborhood and I could put my secksy blue trike in granny gear and power up, up, up, up... awesome. I could do it. Boo Yah.

Master and I spent most of the evening driving around town shopping for new tires for his bike. I swear, Master has five broken down bicycles that he won't let go of... but when I want to go for a ride, none of them work. I am half tempted to take my magic piece of plastic and go get him a bike but then he would still not let go of the five broken down pieces of junk.

I find myself fearful...

Since Master beat me last Friday, beat me with the Gom Jabbar, leaving those evil black welts along the sides of both my thighs, the bruises grew and grew, black, red, purple... the original black welts changing to deep red stripes surrounded with a sickening yellow. The bruises are like flowers, deep black and purple hibiscus with strange yellow hearts and red stamens. And they still hurt to sit upon... six days later.

And it is a disturbing fact that when Master gives me those random swats, those unexpected smacks as I walk by, lean over to get laundry from the dryer, or make the bed... when my ass is within reach... he aims for my flanks, for those twin islands of pain that linger there. He hits me there deliberately, I think to remind me that they are there as much as for the fact that he likes that it hurts me there more.

And I find myself fearful. I have not been seeking him out, not been deliberately placing myself within reach, not flaunting, flashing, swinging the target provocatively in his face. I have not been waving the red cape in the bull's face... In fact I have been retiring, avoidant, and when he does reach for me... terrified. My mouth goes dry, my heart pounds in my throat... and he senses that fear and seems to like having it there.

And it is not a small part of me that trembles in anticipation for when he does take me down to his lair, does decide to really beat me again with intent... how will it be different? ...will I still laugh? ...or will he indulge in this new appetite of his, his hunger for my fear. And if he does, will I be strong enough to give him what he hungers for...

So far, there have been no beatings beyond those random swats, the daily endless "love taps" that punctuated my days. He seems to be focusing on the plundering of my mind, pursuing the endless and varied mindfucks that keep me off balance, unsure of myself... little things like asking if I am feeling better when I had never said I felt bad. And when I respond, "But Master, I've been feeling just fine." He attacks, grabbing a nip, pinching and twisting so cruelly that I cannot speak, his voice cruel and amused, "But, my pet, that is not what I asked." Yet there is no way to answer that question... If I had said yes, that would not have been true... I have not been feeling bad so if I had said "yes"... that would infer that I had... and if I said "no" while that would be the literal correct answer, because if there had been no actual change in my well being... it still would have inferred that I was in some way feeling "bad"... meh... he just wanted me to be confused and wanted to pinch my titties... bastard... It wouldn't be so bad if there weren't a dozen other similar things a day. Thank god he has to go to work. His dick has been in my ear all week... it is starting to chafe.

Last night, deep in the dark, hours after I was sawing logs... he grabbed me, rolled me over and just shoved it in. He was going at it top speed by the time I woke up enough to realize this was the real thing and not a dream. It was all him, I was just a warm wet hole to masturbate in. No words were ever spoken. It was awesome to be used like that... like a fuck hole... an object, a tool to use to make it easier to fall asleep. I think he enjoys the sensation of fucking me when I am not aroused more, I am dryer, there is more friction... he calls it traction. He comes faster... and pulls away without words or cuddles... and is soon asleep.

I found myself walking around in the night, doing those prophylactic measures to keep the UTI's away... peeing and taking my antibiotics. Happily I went right back to sleep. Normally when he uses me like that it frequently means I am up for a couple hours... thinking, analyzing, savoring... I got to leave that for this morning.