Rituals and consequences

If you are a regular reader, you would have gathered that Master is at his strictest out in public.  Trips to the grocery store are fraught with tension, sidelong glances his direction as I take that tentative step just beyond the permitted distance away from his side I am allowed to stray to pick up something shiny and interesting, pausing a few moments too long to read a label. 

He pushes the cart.  I am not allowed to touch it.  I am required to walk at his side and carry the grocery list.  I am required to stay within arms reach.  If I must move beyond that distance I must ask and usually he says no, usually he turns the cart around and we have to go back up the aisle.  Items placed in the cart are frequently picked back up and examined and approved.  I then mark it off the list and announce the next item on the route.

He takes the things out of the cart and puts them up on the conveyor belt thingy.  I stand and write the check.  He packs the grocery bags.  And again as we walk out I am required to march in step, locked at the hip to him, my hand on his arm just so... not too tight... not too loose.  At the car I not allowed to help transfer the groceries into the trunk of the car.  I am required to go sit in the front of the car.

Woe to me if I fuck any of this up.  Retribution is immediate and public.  This Saturday I was blithe, unfocused, loose and sloppy.  Over and over I strayed too far.  Repeatedly I sighed and shot him less than submissive glances of frustration as he growled and yanked me back by arm or hair.  Finally we are by the soup and he has his arm locked around my neck, the other in my hair twisting my face up to look at him and was interrogating me about what the fuck was wrong with me... and I spied this lady... with a horrified look on her face, revulsion and disgust wrinkling up her brow,  and I giggled and whispered to Master that he was getting looks.

And he let me go and I straightened my hair I gave her an apologetic smile and told her... "We are just playing."

Later I commented to Master I should have said, "Sorry, sorry... I promise I will be good.  Please don't hurt me again!!!"  Which got me a promise for more private consequences when we got home.

I must admit, that is the first time we got a disapproving regard.  Usually people smile or laugh.  More than once we have gotten playful comments usually from older men about me being a handful... Makes you wonder. 

Oh and those rare times when I get to go to the store by myself... so much fun... though I kinda miss him.  That makes you wonder too.

 

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.     





 

Stepping off the Path

I think one of the best things about Master’s rigid adherence to routine is when he does make a left turn, changes it up; everything is suddenly filled with sweet surprise. Suddenly I don’t know what to expect.

As I write this I have this thought that the routine, the predictability breeds expectation and on some very basic level the illusion of control. If I know what to expect, I know what to do and if I know what I am supposed to do, I am getting ready for the next expected step in the dance. When I am bent over in the shower, not only am I focused on what I am supposed to be doing at that moment, I am also getting ready for the inevitable tap, the signal to switch position, to spin around and open my mouth.

So when Master steps off the path, the treadmill, and heads off in some unexpected direction, it takes me by surprise, leaves me breathless with uncertainty. I can’t know what to do, can’t know what he expects; I have to pay infinitely close attention to him. All sense of certainty and control magically evaporates.

I know we have been flirting with various ideas of bondage. I have been sanding and painting and attaching various pieces of hardware to my spreader bar. He has been demanding that I wear my collar, wrist and ankle cuffs during everyday activities. He took me to the hardware store and bought a number of snap hooks and dug out some rope and figured out an ingenious way to just hook them to a loop.

But Master is not one to show his hand. And definitely not one to change his ways, and I know better than to even hope for change or have a wish or indulge in expectation. And our day started exactly like every weekend day does. Quiet and coffee, computers and parallel play… him killing monsters… me writing about them. Then the quick, sharp directive comes to change gears, to put on exercise clothing and to come for a cycle ride. All normal… all expected… all safe and predictable.

We get home and I know without needing to think that I will be in the shower soon, bent over or on my knees, waiting the signal to turn and present the other orifice for his pleasure. And there is a certain masochistic pleasure there, the knowledge that he likes it this way and that his likes take precedent, that my need for kink, need for novelty, need for pain and helplessness and humiliation take fourth or fifth or last place in his world. I don’t know if selfishness is the right word… because it rings negatively in my head. He definitely puts himself first but so do I.

All the rituals were there, the stripping of clothing, a brief interlude in the bedroom when he questions why I have two towels… somehow this offends his sensibilities. I guess a person in this house should have only one towel hanging on their hook. This is normal, a constant observation and constant correction… it is the core of control. It is familiar; it is the real rope that binds me to him.

We move to the bathroom, all the same preparations, micromanaged tooth brushing, shaving under his sharp eagle eyes, waiting to enter into the shower after him, careful to stay in my tiny corner while I shampoo, soap and finish shaving. Waiting his touch to let me know when I have permission to move into the water to rinse. I remember I got soap in my eye and stood there all squinched up, waiting. It did not occur to me to tell him that I had soap in my eye. He noticed my face and said in an impatient voice that I could have asked to rinse my face if I had soap in my eye. But that is not part of the dance, me asking for things. I think I would rather stand there with soap in my eye than to step off the path. I am not allowed to step off the path, break tradition or ritual.

His first touch is familiar, the sudden demanding shove down on my shoulders and after a token resistance, a sparkle of mock “make me” in my eyes, I am down on my knees, fluffing him for the next step in the dance, the tap that means stand up and bend over.

But the tap does not come.

He says… SAYS… (you need to know that Master rarely verbalizes during sex) He says, “Stand up.”

I boggle. I stop sucking and my eyes lift up and up and meet his, staring at him in confusion with his cock still in my mouth, not sure if I heard him correctly.

He turns off the water. Now I really don’t know what is going on.

We get out and dry off. He is talking about mundane shit, politics or maybe social issues? For the life of me… I can’t remember. I don’t think I was listening all that closely. I am still trying to figure out what is happening. Trying to guess what is coming next so I will know what I am supposed to do. I have lost my sense of control and I am more than a little uncomfortable.

He does not head downstairs. He wraps the towel around himself and wanders into my room and begins to gather up things… rope… leather collar, wrist and ankle cuffs, spreader bar. He does not speak when he walks down stairs and I follow with wide eyes.

He wordlessly hands me the cuffs and I begin to put them on, fumbling with buckles, distracted because he is taking the rope and tying it to the bed. He puts snaps on it. My hands are up and no longer under my control. He grabs my ankles and snaps the spreader bar between them and with a strong grip and lift, two more clicks and my feet are up attached at the same point as my hands. I am spread wide with my feet fastened down somewhere up over my head. I am rewarded by the sight of my shaved pussy about six inches from my wondering eyes.

Every time I move, there is the rattle and click of stainless steel snaps, I tentatively stretch and struggle but I am well restrained. I could get away if I needed. I can just reach one or two of the snaps with my finger tips, I could just unsnap myself, but the possibility does not occur to me. I have the ability but not the freedom. Master comments that I well and truly fucked.

I can see him, see him peruse the selection of implements of ass destruction, touching, hefting, lifting, swinging. His eyes meet mine and seem alight with sadistic anticipation. He grabs the strap and hits me with it. Crack! It sizzles across my ass. Crack! Crack! I buck and squall. The snaps rattle. He moves up my thighs. It is so close I can feel the wind on my face, my eyelids reflexively blink. He picks up the old cane, the first one we bought and greets it… “Hello, old friend.”

I can see the welts raise up, the white lines that slowly grow pink and then red. Master comments how he likes to strike exactly “There…” as he repeated slashed into the tender crease where thigh meets ass. I blink and blink. I know he won’t hit my face but it is so close. None of the blows are beyond bearing, the intensity manageable and I find myself savoring each new wave of pain, of burn, sting, ache, itch… like a gourmet, tasting, analyzing, luxuriating.

He keeps changing weapons. And I watch… I see… I know what is coming. He picks up the squid and I blurt out a fearful warning, as if he did not already know… “That thing breaks pussies.”

And he grins and drags it between my legs and then taps me threateningly with it a few times and then moves on to floggers and focuses his cruel intentions upon my pussy only inches from my face. I can tell he is moderating his blows but I am spread, open and vulnerable. I can feel the hits right on my clitoris. It sends electric shocks of sharp pain through me and rather than subside, the burn builds and I can feel my clit swell.

He frees my hands and hands me my vibrator. No words, no verbal command, but his expectation is obvious. It always is intense, that first rush of contact with the buzzing end of that little machine. It always makes me shudder and whimper. I think he likes that. His eyes light up with approval. He digs around in the toy bag and returns with the largest dildo… a silly great big pink thing that vibrates and soon I am filled to bursting, new waves of sensation rising up from inside. He tips it sharply up, deliberately searching for my g-spot. I think my eyes must be crossed, unfocused, my whole body tense and trembling with the immense orgasm I can feel building within me.

Right as I come, I open my eyes and meet his gaze. Right before I come, there is that precious moment of clear, pure, intense pleasure, that sudden exponential build of indescribable sensation, and I stare deep into his eyes, suddenly still, perfectly still, a deep gasp of wonder as I exhale and relax. All the struggle is over, I know I don’t have to focus anymore, try anymore… I could not stop it now if I tried. In that briefest of eternities I am calm, euphoric, infinitely in love. I am there, standing in the path of raging flood, fully aware that I am going to become engulfed.

And then it is here. It crashes into me, sweeps over me, through me, picks me up and shakes me. I am no longer in control of my body, my voice. I cry out and convulse. The sounds of the metal clips are loud in my ears. I fight my bonds. But I know he wants more, demands more, will not accept anything less than all I can give. I do not drop the vibrator. It comes in waves… crashing peaks that only seem to build and build. And the valleys between the peaks are filled with all the clarity and pure pleasure that is that perfect moment immediately before I come. Over and over I pause and sigh, meet his eyes and connect and before it takes me away again.

He only relents when I drop the vibrator, finally spent, drained, used up. My legs are starting to ache from being bound over my head and I tense and pull against the rope and snaps holding them to the spreader bar, forcing blood to flow. He reaches up and unsnaps the bar of wood holding my legs apart and presses down on the backs of my thighs, pushing my legs down and up even further as he enters me.

My mind is clear and I watch him as shadows of pleasure chase across his face, his lips tighten and pull back. His brows are furrowed in a frown of intense concentration. His hands are hard, gripping, his fingertips digging into my skin. I watch with awestruck, fascinated eyes. He moves slowly, deliberately. I can see how each movement, each thrust, each slow slide out and back in, sends waves of pleasure through him. I reach down, touch him where our bodies join, slide my fingers around the hot, wet, slickness, and am rewarded by a soft groan. His whole body shudders and flexes, little trembling spasms shake through him as he comes.

Master unsnaps the last of the hooks holding me down and I finally can straighten my legs, turn and curl up on my side. I lay there for many minutes, empty of thought, floating, warm, soft… savoring the surprise… the sweetness of stepping off the path.

"I'm home."

Its always little things, the way the breath catches in my throat when I hear the door open, the eager leap up from my place on my couch and scampering to greet him. He always pauses at the shelf by the kitchen where he empties his work pockets, cleans out the notes, keys, little tools and miscellaneous crap that accumulates and I throw myself at his feet, kneeling low, my forehead pressed to the floor between his feet waiting for him to finish. I arch my back like a cat stretching, reaching up with my ass, swaying provocatively, waiting with breath bated... and finally it comes, he reaches down and spanks me with his work hard hands, reaching down to the tender tops of my thighs, demanding the gasps and soft cries of pain. Yesterday it extended past a few exacting smacks to an unexpected test of my enthusiasm. I squeal, squirm and giggle with excitement. He pulls up my shirt and the smacks continue up my back and flanks and then return down, past my tough ass to the tender thighs and finish up with a a dozen sound thumps to the valley between my legs...

He pulls me to stand and wraps his arms around me. Holding my trembling body close, he laughs and kisses me, "I'm home."

"Yes, Master is home. How was your day?"

Days filled with a thousand little things.

It seems like my days are filled with little things...

And yesterday was filled with a thousand little things. Work was long, challenging, hilarious... it started with a terrible rush of adrenaline. I had taken the billfold out of my purse and somehow forgotten to put it back on Friday. So when I got home Friday night I discovered my lapse. Master was pretty irritated but I really didn't need anything in it over the weekend and I knew exactly where it was so I wasn't too worried.

...not too worried until I got to work Monday morning and I walked into work and it was not where I knew I had put it. ARRRGHHHH!!!!! But it was just a helpful coworker who saw it out and 'helpfully' locked it up for me. But it was an adrenaline rush.

Then the kids at work were extra crazy... I mean really extra crazy. I spent about a half hour trying to convince a kid he was not the hulk... finally settled for telling the 'hulk' that I did not care if he was the 'hulk' but he had to stop knocking over the furniture. Helped serve lunch to some out of control autistic kids that kept throwing their food... and last but not least... I had the privilege of monitoring a kid in seclusion dancing around naked singing "Ninety-nine bottles of Beer". ...cough ...cough.

I bought groceries on the way home (didn't get that done on the weekend because I didn't have my billfold... remember?)... got home... finally really tired. Master took one look at me and ordered me to take a rest.

After a thirty minute nap, I made a quick dinner... hamburger gravy over boiled red potatoes, cauliflower, and salad. I made the gravey with turkey burger and when Master noticed the difference he gave me this look like I had pooped in his favorite chair and I was just tired and dopey enough from my nap I snapped at him... "What?... what... at least I cooked!"

Got a bit of a correction for that. Just a sharp grab of the back of my neck, a sharp pinch and a growled word... "willful bitch".

I glared back... and sweetly asked, "Would you like me to make you something else?"

He just pushed me away and growled "willful" again.

After dinner he said, "What do you have on your feet?"

I just held up my ratty old sheepskin slippers and gave him a "um... duh..." look. He glared at me and I sweetly said again... "What would you like me to have on my feet?"

Now you have to get this... Master rarely ever orders me to do things... he will do something like that... like ask what I have on my feet and expect me to extrapolate that means he wants me to put on my walking shoes. The fact he decided we needed to go for a walk had everything to do with my snotty attitude. Walking is an exercise in obedience.

I knew that... but like I said... snotty... tired and snotty enough to repeat... oh so sweetly, "What would you like me to have on my feet, Master?"

And he finally growled, "Get on your walking shoes, bitch." And with that clear order, clear expectation... I jumped right up. I might have been having and attitude, but that does not mean I don't hop to if he orders me to do something.

The walk was once again a lesson in obedience. I could feel my rebellion boiling around inside me. Just the way he was holding my hand felt wrong, prickly, sweaty, plain uncomfortable... and I kept trying to rearrange my fingers to find a place that felt right. And he would not let me... in fact once he figured out that I was having trouble with it he deliberately squeezed harder, twisting and hurting my fingers. That man has iron strong hands and in my state I felt like my fingers were breaking.

It took about a mile before I could relax... relax and just walk. I could finally let go and just enjoy the warmth and strength of his hand holding mine. It was dark, the sky above our head clear, but a light spring rain was falling. There must have been a cloud up there somewhere. Each tiny drop was a sparkle of coolness as it touched my skin, warm and sweaty from exertion. It felt wonderful.

When we got home I finished my taxes... always a foray into unfamiliar territory. I am not strong with numbers and legal speak and it always makes me anxious. But it is finished at least for this year. It is a good feeling.

Then we watched a video, a couple of episodes of Master's favorite show, "House of Cards" a BBC series that I bought him for his birthday.

Then I brushed my teeth, a nightly act of personal hygiene that he requires. He has stood over me and watched to make sure that each individual tooth gets cleaned to his standards. (Giggles... he is stricter about my mouth than he is about the kitchen.)

Then as is our nightly ritual, I knelt at his feet and asked, "Where would you like me to sleep tonight Master?". He wrapped his arms and legs around me and commented that he should use me for a foot rest. I giggle and moved to my hands and knees and he rest his feet on my back. He asked if I could do that for four hours. I honestly answered that I think that four hours would be beyond my ability. And he agreed... he told me to sleep in his bed... he always tells me to sleep in his bed, but I am required to ask.

I slept soundly. And I was still half asleep when I stumbled upstairs in the morning at 5 a.m. for my morning shower. I think I must have had my eyes still closed as I brushed the tangles from my hair. Master was there, his voice soft, warm, loving, "Is my pet still sleepy? Here let me help." And then he pinched the fuck out of my nipple.

Woke me right up.

Ready for another day filled with a thousand things.