The Master Voice

Last Friday we went to a party… no, not one of those parties… it was a vanilla, family type party.  It was my younger son’s birthday party and because it was his party there were people there that I did not know.

Master and I got there a little late and when we walked in there was this girl and man sitting on the couch next to my older son… nobody was doing introductions… just asking if you want to be dealt into the next hand of Apples to Apples.  Hells yes.  I got Master all situated in the most comfortable chair and made sure he had a diet coke in his hand then quickly settled down at his feet to play the game.  (Gotta love tiny crowded apartments where it just seems normal to sit on the floor at your Master’s feet.)

Lots more people showed up… ex-husband and his SO came in.  Ex was on crutches.  I swear half the time I knew that man he was having some kind of foot, knee, ankle problem.  The poor guy was born with crap cartilage... now he has bolts and stuff holding his toes on his foot. 

We sat and played games and talked.  It was fun.  My older son and his best friend are a drop dead comedy duo.  We were all joking and laughing.  The stranger guy did not say much, he just sat and drank a beer, the girl played the game and talked and laughed.  Then he made some comment about having to call someone and he and the girl went out front of the apartment.  There was some yelling, but I did not pay much attention.  Then the guy came to the door and in a very belligerent manner demanded my older son come out front… and my son being a nice trusting guy went out to see what the problem was.

It was so bizarre, so outside our family experience, it took a minute or two to realize that this guy was trying to get in a fight… he accused my son of looking at the girl’s breasts and was moving up in a very threatening manner… everyone was sort of just stood there in shock… this was so unexpected… I remember seeing Livie, who is not quite six, standing there with both her hands on her face staring at this man coming after her Daddy, looking absolutely terrified…

…

…

…and you want to know what happened after that???

Master

is

what

happened.

He stood right up and said in his most scary voice… “OH, HUH UH!”  And he marched right out there and grabbed my son and shoved him indoors and told that other guy in that same voice that makes me cringe (and melt at the same time) that… “This is NOT HAPPENING.  You go away from here, NOW.”  And he came in and slammed the door.   And just that quickly it was over.   

Ex-husband’s SO gave me an amazed and delightfully envious look and said, “He is good at that.”

I smiled proudly and agreed.  I could not help but wonder if she was as turned on at that moment as I was. 

It turns out Mr. Belligerent was the boyfriend of an old girl friend of my younger son’s wife.  They had lost touch for a while.  Nobody knew the dude.  He did seem really out of place in party filled with a strange mix of gamers, geeks and old folks.

Older son’s wife summed it up later.  “He was not looking at her breasts.  Everyone knows he’s a butt man.” 

The whole thing was the topic of conversation the whole evening and Master was very clearly the hero of the night.   

And I must admit… Master and his Master voice was the sexiest thing at that party.

I reject your reality...

...and substitute... what the fuck?

I find Master’s habit of remembering things that never happened as the most difficult of all the things I must adjust to.  Before committing to be his slave, I would just roll my eyes, say he was crazy, or remembering some other woman, or dreamed it… I would stubbornly hold onto my reality.  Now I cannot do it.  Now I must accept his reality and forget my own.

It is the always the most mundane of things… This weekend it was where I bought my first pair of hiking boots… somehow he injects himself into that story… he “remembers” that he was there.  He says he bought the boots for me.  And I know he was not there… I know exactly when I bought those boots.  It was an impulse buy… an unexpected snowy day… a cold wet evening with the knowledge that I was going to be standing, waiting for the bus home.  I walked into an upscale department store in downtown Portland and paid what was at that time an extravagant amount of money… $92.00, I even remember buying a pair of gloves too.  It was in the bleak years… when then husband was relegated to the role of ex-husband and I was temporarily single.  Master was not there.  He could not have been there. 

Now, years and years later, now when the boots wore out long ago… somehow the conversation turns to boots and he has this memory of something that never happened.  It is ridiculous.  It is a nothing thing, where a pair of shoes were bought so long ago… but the hard thing is to have ones memories attacked, modified, Master artificially injected into scenes and situations that he was nowhere near.

Master asserts that I am the one that “does not remember”… that I am forgetful… even though my lapses in memory are minor compared to his… and usually specific in nature.  I own my numerical challenges… I can do math… I am a whiz at algebra and geometry and equations… but raw numbers… how many of something, or a phone number or a date or price or a time or weight… there is no file drawer in my head for such things… abstract numbers blur and slip away within minutes… I can barely remember important things like my phone number or SSN… I still cannot remember Master’s birthday from one year to the next.  So when Master quizzes me about something numerical, I just screw up my face and plea… “you are asking me about numbers again.  I can look it up for you if you want.”  Because if it is important, I will write it down… I save receipts and have a duplicate checkbook.  I know my limitations.    

But anyway… Master holds up this forgetfulness for numbers and generalizes it for forgetfulness for places and experiences.  He points at me and perhaps projects his own forgetfulness upon me.  And part of his forgetfulness is this disturbing habit of fabricating elaborate memories and then insisting I was there and I must “remember” it too… and when I don’t… and it held up as one more piece of evidence of my poor memory… it is a self perpetuating cycle of crazy making.  

So I am charged with the task of swallowing down my protests, my better knowledge, of swallowing down my urge to argue and swallowing down that Rubic’s Cube of submission.  I can do it.  I blink, I know I must look like it hurts all the way down, but all I can do is say, “Really?  I don’t remember that”… WHEN I DO. 

But I do not know if I can really substitute his reality for my own, forget what I know as fact and edit him into a impulse shopping trip so long ago on a dark, wet, snowy afternoon, where I wore the boots out of the Meir and Frank and stopped and pulled on the gloves before stepping out into the wet driving snow to catch that bus home.  I wonder why he would ride the bus… when I never have seen him ride the bus???  Maybe I will have to edit out the bus… but then why would I have wanted the boots… if I was riding home in a warm dry car???  

Who is this guy?

Last I checked he had a pulse.

This tongue in cheek comment is in direct reference to a tired old joke I would make when people would ask if I was going to some fun and exotic kinky public event.  I would pause and listen, shrug and smile and say, "Last time I checked he was still alive."  An indirect indication that it is an "over his dead body" kind of situation.

So you can imagine my surprise when he was willing to at least listen to the various things available to do at the local Kinkfest this March.  He was pretty dismissive... definitely not the slightest bit interested in three days of stuff.  But then the option of Saturday only became possible so the willing to listen happened again.  But then the cost, $90 plus made his eyes bulge out... there wasn't anything there he was wanting to do or see that was worth that much.  But to my meek, plea of "But there are lots of things I am wanting to do.  Could I go by myself???  Puleassse?  Pleasepleaseplease???" was miraculously met with a grudging okay.

Pause, boggle... wow.  I did resist the urge to check to see if he had a pulse... at least until I had his cock in my mouth... but um... well how is a pretty girl supposed to express her gratitude?

So on March 19... this pretty girl is going out to the big city and rubbing shoulders with the kinky crowd.  

And then yesterday, as we were going through our good bye ritual before going out the door before work... (imagine hands fisted in the front of my coat, being lifted up off my feet and slammed against the wall, kisses taken rather than bestowed and you can well forgive the way my car tends to weave a little the first few blocks)... um, what, oh... anyway... back to the original topic... between kisses he made some reference to the fact that the Deacon X Fetish night was this weekend.  He made it clear that it was not a promise, but at the same time it was an option.  Goodness, what is going on with this guy??? Next thing I know, he will bring a flogger and make me get semi-naked... um... doubt that... but the guy keeps surprising me.

And I have a definite maybe for a little kinky dress up outing and ogling the other peoples this Sunday.

Add to that... a definite yes to a vanilla outing to see a gamer friend's band on Saturday night, a baby shower on Sunday, gaming Sunday afternoon... and all the other stuff we always do on the weekend and I am thinking we will be napping all day on Monday.  Gotta love holidays.

Tangential...

Tangential...

Main Entry: parenthetic
Part of Speech: adjective
Definition: digressive
Synonyms: departing, detouring, differing, discursive, excursive, parenthetical, rambling, tangential

It seems like my mind has been all over the place this week...

I turned on the Sunday morning news and found out that somehow I had missed all the tragedy this weekend. I had gotten so burned out on the "new guys taking over the congress"... the one side of the aisle getting theirs from the other side. I am not a bit expert. I have not read the multithousand page bill that makes up the health care bill, but I must admit that I have always been of the belief that this country needs public health care. And I am sure that the current laws will need some (or a lot of) fixing. But I am of the definite opinion that we were finally going in the right direction when we got this far. It was disheartening to hear all the talk about repeal. I got sick of it. Every time I hear that fucking word "Obamacare" I want to kick the television over. I turned off the news.

And now, this morning I realized I have missed out on some kind of "big news". And strangely as I watch... some reporter tried to explain this act, this senseless act of murder to some kind of rage or protest because Congresswoman Giffords had supported the health care bill. It makes me sick all over again.

meh... so often the events and the manner that the media spins these events seem to conspire to make me flinch and look away and try to not think about it. It all makes me want to put my head in the sand.

Deep breath... and another one... lets look away... think of cheese.

Once a month Master gives me permission to attend a group of writers that meet. I am not totally in love with the group, but it is something to do outside of the house. They seem to have too much of their own agenda, too much drama with other peoples. But this month it totally disintegrated into two hours of back stabbing gossip about people I don't even know. And even when we do talk about writing, it is not about the kind of writing I am interested in. Exercises, poetry forms... it is less about what you are writing than about writing in general. I want to talk about what I am doing. I really need to find a different group.

Makes me wish Master was more open to having strangers come to our house. It would rock to have something here with a group of carefully selected writers. Wish I did not live on the periphery of this metro area.

Man... I am in a whiny mood. Speaking of bitchy... and cheese.

My darling, and totally perfect, and never does anything wrong ever Master... cough, cough, chokes on words. Smacks self up aside the head... has to move the vehicle he said he was going to dispose of years ago (I am forbidden to utter the word Volvo aloud in his presence.) ...from its parking space on the street to the somewhere on the lawn. The city finally is cracking down on derelict vehicles in our neighborhood. We really need to move to a trailer park... or out into the country where we can have our very own personal back field to park the dead cars on.

So right in the middle of writing this... at 6 fucking thirty in the morning I was directed to "put on some clothes, pretty girl. I am going to need your help." So in the dark and cold (at least it wasn't pissing down rain... just the normal everyday drizzle)... we were pushing dead little dirty white car and then towing and pulling and pushing that nasty little car to a new parking place on the lawn. And now, looking back... 6 fucking thirty in the morning is the ideal time if you think about it. We had the entire dead end street we live on blocked off. Any other time or day of the week we would have had to deal with traffic. I just hope we didn't wake up too many of our neighbors with him yelling at me to "go forward! STOP!" "what???" "PUT IT IN REVERSE!!!!" "what????"... Like I said earlier, we really need to move out to the country.

To give me credit, Master said I did good. I didn't ask questions. I didn't winge or complain or balk or whine. I was a good helper.

And totally cool cheese...

Master said yes to going to a local, kinky dress up event next weekend. I am all a'twitter. Not only to I get to wear some of those shiny, sexy, totally inappropriate things in my closet, but I get to dress him up too. Yum... I already ordered the leather vest from Amazon... and a pair of hand cuffs. Yes, definitely all a'twitter.

And other tangential shit...

The absolutely delightful television series "Firefly" that was doomed to be canceled by Fox after only thirteen episodes was airing nonstop on Ovation television all day yesterday. Master actually dusted off his guitar and spent some time figuring out the cords for the "Ballad of Serenity."

Cool song... cooler show. Shame it had to die so young. 

And there is something so sexy about Master playing the guitar.  Yum...

Well I have not been writing as much as I would like... too much time blogging... so you guys take care.

xantu, Master's pretty girl...

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.     





 

Great Dominants

According to D - The sign of a great dominant is "being able to want something, and convince you that you want it, that you need it and crave it and that you are being spoiled and treated like a princess when he gives it to you..."

SFP's D, Bachelor #1 made this statement to her... she did qualify that he did not necessarily claim that he was a "great dominant" but this statement did resonate with me.  I started to comment on her blog but it got to be so long and started to sound a bit whiny that I ended  up deleting it and deciding to think about this for a while before I went off the deep end.

I started out wondering if it was also a sign of a "great dominant" if he discovers something you want, and cultivated this want in you... teased you with the prospect of maybe, possibly, eventually getting this want.  Like all your life dreaming of that little red convertible sports car and having him take you to the show room, letting you walk around it a few times but going home in the old station wagon in the end... with the hint that maybe... or maybe not.  Finding pictures of little red sports cars in magazines and showing them to you.  Making you want and want more and fucking dream and salivate... and never exactly say yes or no.

Is that the sign of a "great dominant"?

In all fairness, my Master has never aspired to be a great dominant... unless you define a great dominant as a man that just wants things his way without any concession to what other people think or want or say.  He has always lived his life this way, strong, independent, not necessarily right but stubborn and fiercely focused on doing things his way.  I was married to this man for nearly ten years before I learned to stop fighting with him about this.  And it has only been in the last four years that I really have put energy in believing in him, accepting him, embracing him exactly as he is, wrong or right.

I know that along the way, I made a habit of saying, that there is not right way or wrong way, there is only Master's way.  I know I have repeated this to myself over and over, choking down the raging protests that filled my heart when I knew, just knew, that his way was crazy, wrong, more difficult, time consuming... and then laughing and finding peace when it does or does not work out exactly as planned, but worked out none the less, worked out better than fighting ever had.

He might not be right all the time, but he is brilliant.  I know that more and more I do share his vision because if he alters something, changes what is "Master's way" I bristle and defend the older, original and not necessarily correct or most efficient way.  And looking back, I remember how hard it had been when I had to learn to do it that way and now I own it like it was my own.  He has wormed his way deep inside my head and heart.

And yes, because he finds it amusing to play with my longings, to see me yearning and wanting without the promise of fulfillment, he will continue to dangle that forbidden fruit just out of my reach.  The chances of me actually ever having that "red sports car"... (metaphor people... metaphor) is between slim and none.  And because I see the amusement in his eyes, the pleasure he takes in my frustration, I will continue to want what I cannot have... if for no other reason than to see the pleasure reflected in his eyes.

And that willingness on my part, to suffer for his enjoyment, that cultivation of my emotional masochism, I guess that is a kind of greatness.  I just have to be careful for what I wish for.

  

Master's Way

If you have been reading my blog for long, you would have gathered that my Master is a bit of a control freak. He is always watching me, getting all up in my grill, telling how to do even the most simple and mundane of tasks... loading the dishwasher, sweeping, brushing my teeth... whatever I am busy with, pretty soon he is there, watching and perfecting.

It isn't always easy... sometimes I interpret it as "you are doing that wrong", as criticism. I do not take criticism gracefully. I have to stop myself and blink, to look at it again, to see if for something different...

I have so see the faces instead of the vases...

I had to learn to change the word 'criticism' in my head to the the word 'correction'. I can accept correction gracefully, gratefully.

I have also learned to say to myself, "There is not right way. There is no wrong way. There is only Master's way." I say it over and over some days. It is not about if I was doing it wrong, or if one of us is right... it is about who ultimately in control.

But today, I realized how much I have internalized Master's way. I was talking to someone about a little thing, and I realized how much I was reflecting Master's wishes, rules and ways in my comments to her. I realized how much they had become my own. I have not said the right way, wrong way mantra in months and months.

Sooo Sleepy

Dunno what it is. It ain't stress. I've been staying home all week. I am not tired from working, Master has been way easy on me. The lists have been short and manageable. Some days he has not given me anything to do at all. And yet I can't seem to keep my eyes open.

I was supposed to make enchiladas for dinner last night and I forced myself to get up off the couch and go to the store but when I got home it was everything I could do to just put the stuff in the fridge. I was sound sound asleep when Master came home and rather than chastise me he decided it looked so good he sat down and went to sleep too.

He finally woke up around 8:00 pm and called to me. When I woke I was in a panic. I couldn't figure out what day it was, what time it was and when I realized it was so late I was freaked out. It was way to late to start the enchiladas. I was still half zonked, my body felt all weird and wooden with strange hot and cold tingles that come when I am woken from a deep deep sleep.

I sort of was babbling in broken curses and apologies and he told me to stop and come crawl into his lap and snuggle while I woke up. He held me and rubbed my back and told me to stop worrying about the food. And I fell back asleep.

He had to keep nudging me back awake. Finally, all in very good humor, he put on a very "mock" mean Master voice and shoved me off his lap and tried applying a cane (very very lightly) to my ass. It sort of worked. We went into the kitchen and found a little steak in the back of the freezer and I made rice and a salad to go with it.

But I was sleep walking and I was back asleep by 10:00 and this morning I slept through his alarm clock. I NEVER sleep through an alarm clock.

Dunno what it is. Maybe the shorter days. And we have not been getting much exercise. I really am resolved to not waste all this day, but that I had begun yesterday with the same resolution and it was the worst ever.

Well speaking of cheese...

I went to a small gathering of erotica writers on Tuesday. The leader talked about writing goals. And I once again put into voice the wish to finish my projects in a more timely manner.

I really want to finish Demon Child. But the more I write, the closer I get to the end the more things seem to demand to be said. And it has become the "never ending" story, which makes me discouraged about ever finishing. Upside. I have been enjoying the writing... Aylanna has really been coming into her own...

But.... full speed ahead... going a million miles an hour... and SCREEEECH!!!!! take an abrupt left turn and this thing, this thing that had been lurking about in my head involving nonconsent, extreme rape and the risk of death and torture kept surfacing at the oddest times, as I drove, as I sat at work between crises, as I lay underneath Master. It was becoming more and more intrusive and I had this idea, this image of an empty porch swing, swinging back and forth, back and forth, on a still night like a person had just been there, a pink flip flop left on the decking like it had fallen off and no other clues. Just vanished.

This is what I wrote:

The porch swing was still moving back and forth, swinging in the still night air. One pink flip flop lay on the decking. The front door stood half open, her car keys were in her purse sitting on the kitchen counter. A television droned unwatched in the front room. The police report did not say a lot about possible reasons for her disappearance, too many women had vanished that night, over a hundred in this town alone, a hundred in a city of just over 100,000, almost 1000 total across the state of Washington. All of them gone without witnesses, without any signs of a struggle, gone in a single night. All of them young, ranging from teens to mid-twenties.

The government had no answers. The news services were filled with wild speculations ranging from terrorists, to cults, to government conspiracies to aliens abductions but no one had any evidence. In one city, there was even a riot when a number of family members were prevented from searching a local army base. For years afterward there were annual observances across the country, the names and pictures displayed, night long candle light vigils held at sites. Generations later, the August night was still remembered, a night of fear and mystery. The incident became known as “The Vanishing”.

And like a projectile shot from a cannon I was off. I wrote 6000 words in just a few hours and I am still furiously typing away. Demon Child sits languishing. Master shakes his head and gives me "are you fucking serious" looks when I guiltily confess starting something new, a dark and horror filled alien abduction story.

I get so fucking turned on that I am masturbating a couple times a day. (mayyyybe that is why I am so fucking sleepy. snicker... double snicker... usually masturbation orgasms do not make me sleepy. I grab the vibrator and bust one out in a just a few minutes and hop right up and get back to what ever I am doing. Master has never set any limit to that little self indulgence... bless his heart.)

So I am obsessively writing... on something new... rather than finishing all the other things I am supposed to be working on. As usual.

At the writing group I readily admitted that never have trouble writing. I just have trouble writing on the things I am supposed to.

Arghhhh... Master just walked into the room with "a new idea of a story"... the story of a rock star who pre-celebrity was a bit of a loser, could not get laid, then over indulged as he became more popular and then as he became a superstar felt pressured by the sheer numbers of women who threw themselves at him. He grew cynical and jaded, started becoming increasingly misogynistic and abusive.

Meh... I wonder where that came from. I sure as hell don't need any more story ideas and I sure as hell have not been "throwing myself at him" lately. Actually I have had to work at not rolling my eyes and acting bored during the weekly formulaic fucks, but that is a different post and this one has gotten pretty long.

So today's resolution. To be awake when Master gets home. To write at least a thousand words on Demon Child before going back to the alien rape scenes... and get dinner made. Not too hard you think? Well I failed miserably yesterday.

Master at the horstipipple

The hospital tests turned out good. Despite the "blood in the sample" his colon is all good. Our little outing to the horstipipple went swimmingly. As usual he did wait to the last minute to leave the house and there was a HUGE traffic jamb so I got to enjoy his inarticulate growls of rage at the other "dumb fuckers" and hold onto the inside of the car and close my eyes as he weaved (wove?) through traffic. But to give him credit, he got us there on time.

I did not go in with him, I am pure dee smarter than that. I sat in the waiting room with my computer and wrote about a thousand words and eventually a nice lady in blue hospital greens came and got me. She said everything went fine but now he would not wake up and I was supposed to go in and talk to him and try and get him to open his eyes. I looked at her like she was nucking futz. "DO YOU KNOW HOW DANGEROUS THAT IS????" She laughed.

I kissed his forehead and he opened his eyes and then closed them. I touched his hand and told him, "They say you need to wake up now." (See... shoving the blame and responsibility off onto the great and guilty "they".) He blinked and frowned and stubbornly closed his eyes again. I tried again and got the peremptory grunt and hand gesture that unquestionably means, "Shut the fuck up, bitch." Eke... I sit back and shut the fuck up. So well trained.

The nurse came in and started a line of chatter. He opened his eyes more. She offered a drink of something and he shook his head. Finally he mumbled, "Am I supposed to put my clothes on?" He was still all IV's and other stuff and I laughed and said, "You are supposed to wake up first, then we will worry about getting dressed."

He kept drifting off and every time I touched him, talked to him he would open his eyes and say the same thing, "Am I supposed to put my clothes on?"

I took a while, Master does love to sleep. But eventually he did accept the drink and then the lady took out his IV and all the other stuffs and I helped him put on his clothes. I remember one moment with him sitting on the edge of the bed, looking a little out of it still and I just wrapped my arms around him and held him close to my chest, just held him close to my heart.

He had to ride in the wheelchair and protested. I giggled and said he had to follow the rules just like all the other peoples and when would the next time I get to push him around like an old fart come along.

He did insist on getting out of the chair as soon as we were in the parking garage and walking in sort of a drunken zigzag off out to the side walk and smoking. I glared at him with impotent rage, fucking nicotine addiction... but he had in that "don't you dare talk back voice" ordered me to "take the chair back" and then wait in the car until he came back. Grrrrrrr....

He was so sleepy that there was zero, zilch, nada back seat driving when I took him home. That was huge. We had a nice quiet afternoon. I made chicken noodles... soup with so many homemade noodles that they soak up all the stock and it turns into this big pot of chicken, noodles and vegetables. Yum... just as well, Master said he was not in the mood to eat anything soupy. (too many bad memories from the bowel clean out experience... poor baby... (super quiet snicker))

We have been walking again, which is just as well. My pants have been getting a little tight, the muffin top has been getting bigger. When he ordered me to "put on the walking shoes, bitch" I gave him the cow eyes and got a vicious pinch to some that flabby middle stuff. Motivation and explanation all in one efficient youch!

Well time to get ready for work. Got to love the Fridays... especially a Friday before a week off. I do love my work schedule.

Hi Ho, Hi Ho...

It's off to work I go. Today is my last day alone for about a month. I did work three days this week, helping get the new principal guy up to speed on a few things... (he seems okay... I knew him from a job I had about eight years ago. I will make a genuine effort to not hate him because the last guy left me so heartlessly.) ...and doing back to back nonviolent crisis intervention trainings, and just generally tidying up around. It is amazing how much pure crap a school can accumulate. Next Tuesday is the big day, first day back for kids. The new guy is too green, we are not ready, he has no idea what all needs to be done and I cannot do all of his job for him. He will have to learn by the fine art of falling on his face a few times.

But let's not think about work... after all it is my last really day "free" for many weeks... yes I have Monday, Labor Day, but Master will be here and when he is home all my focus is on him. When he is here, I am so aware of him, hyper alert to his moods and needs, each time he moves, my attention is drawn... I watch him.

Like yesterday afternoon, I have a really good friend from work who is a consummate hunter gatherer/wheeler dealer and he had bartered some rhubarb he that had begged from me for some totally awesome tree ripened peaches. He gifted me back one peach and ended up with both rhubarb and peaches himself. (I was just happy to find someone who wanted some rhubarb... the peach was an unexpected prize.) I am sure my friend expected me to eat it instantly... but he does not know how much my Master (otherwise known as 'husband' at work) LOVES peaches. My friend, with his peach connections, does not know how much my Master/husband mourns the neighbor's dead peach tree and waxes rhapsodic about the "really good" peaches of the past. My friend does not see the wistful regret in my Master's eyes each time he bites into a dry, tasteless, pithy peach from the supermarket. My friend did not see that the light in my eye at that perfectly ripened peach had nothing to do with greed or appetite, that it actually had everything to do with a plan to surprise Master with this bit of peach perfection.

It came wrapped in layers of newspaper to protect its tender peach curves from damage and I gently unwrapped it and displayed it in a position of prominence, thinking that Master would see it the instant he came through the door, but sweetly he had eyes only for me, ears tuned to the patter of happy feet running to greet him, appetite only for the curves of my ass and his wish to pour out the accumulated frustrations of his work day before he even sits down... purge the angst and frustration and reenergize his spirit with a quick, exacting series of sharp smacks.

He did not notice or comment on the peach. It was nearly two hours later when I presented a plate with the peach carefully pitted and quartered and stood back with expectant eyes. And as that first delectable slice disappeared between his lips his eyes rolled back and he grunted with joy. "Ohhhh, ohhhhh, oh honey, oh pretty girl..." I stood back in the kitchen, and I cannot begin to tell you how much I enjoyed watching him eat that peach, tasting it through his lips, his taste buds, his orgasmic moans. For almost an hour after he raved, reliving the experience, comparing this peach with all the others, bestowing upon it the "best ever" crown, and carefully archiving the memory.

I had only eaten the tiniest morsel, a paper thin slice to confirm that what I was putting before him was going to live up to my hopes. It wasn't until some hours had passed that Master realized that I had not eaten any more than that one taste, that I had just watched him eat... he protested that I should have had some and I tried to somehow explain to him that while his delight stems from the consuming of the peach, my soul is fed on act the giving it to him, watching his face, listening to his moans of pleasure.

He did leave me with a list and it is pretty long so I better get going, clean the bathroom, sweep and vacuum the floors, mop the kitchen, get nails done and work on Demon Child. (I love it when he orders me to write.)

I really ought to do this more often...

I need to just sit down and reflect on all the little things that fill up my life. Perspective may help the understanding but distance blurs the edges. Just one day passes and all the thoughts, the sudden surprises, the explosions of laughter and rushes of rage mute and fade. After a day, or two... or three... I just can't seem to remember why I was standing in the middle of the kitchen laughing my ass off. I remember thinking that I ought to write about it in my blog but now... now it is gone.

It was probably a small thing, totally forgettable. I know it had everything to do with Master... he had exerted some level of control that had gone beyond the realm of reasonable or rational (as far as I understand reasonable and rational) and I had boggled and blinked, I had choked down the "you can't be fucking serious". It is like when you get a swallow of something just not quite right in your throat. A large chunk of something not quite adequately chewed. You have some choices, you can gag and vomit, you can choke and die or you can just force it down... exert mind over convulsing throat muscles and swallow... it hurts all the way down... it feels like you have swallowed a Rubiks Cube and even after it gets to your guts you can sense the angular lump in your digestive system. Sometimes accepting Master's control can be like that... swallowing a Rubiks Cube.

***

Once a lonnnngggg time ago I knew someone who when they wanted to change the subject, when whim or thought takes an abrupt left turn... they would say this thing. They would say, "Speaking of cheese." Now you must realize no one had been discussing dairy products or this person really had anything to say about cheese. It was just a way of announcing that this person was well aware that the next thing they were going to talk about had absolutely nothing to do with anything mentioned up to that time.

So... speaking of cheese... During our weekly... yes you perves... us old people have sex once a week. ONCE A FUCKING WEEK. Master's choice... if it was up to me I would have probably fucked him to death years ago. Swallowing that Rubik's Cube was and continues to be extremely difficult. Back on track...

So... speaking of cheese and back door shenanigans... During our weekly shower sex this Saturday Master's fascination with spelunking... prising open my bung with both thumbs... (I have no idea what he is looking for.) ...stretched me a bit further than reasonable or rational. I think the tones of my squawks changed from enthusiasm to a "What the fuck chuck!" howl of outrage. Master instantly got the message and lightened up a notch.

Master says it makes my pussy tighten up on his cock while he does that. And he also admits it is a turn on to mess around with my ass while he has me bent over in the shower and without a question his messing about with my ass turns me on. It is all good... very, very good... but now, my poor ass does not so much hurt as much as itch. I am going crazy, I want to scratch... scratch hard... scratch deep... I have fantasies about bottle brushes. It gets so bad that not scratching my ass is just not an option... I squirm, clench, grind my teeth... and finally give in. I sneak off to indulge this urge (just scratch, you perves... Master would never allow me to soil a good bottle brush and one just cannot really root around in their butt around other people so I sneak off to hide in the bathroom or bedroom) it feels sooooo good that it is hard to stop. I am just a little worried that I may be at risk of literally scratching my ass off... rubbing my little butthole right off and leaving a crater behind. But the multiple buttgasms are irresistible.

Okay... that was cheesy.

***

Master and I actually went out around other people this weekend. We got all duded up and went to a wedding of one of his coworkers. People seemed happy to see him, strangers calling his name, approaching him, introductions, names I will not remember, hands shaking. People like him. (well of course... I like him too.) He must talk with them when he is at work. We sat through the ceremony and then he hustled me off like a thief in the night before the reception even started. It kind of made me sad... this is the closest he comes to having any kind of social circle.

He had said to me... "Well, pretty girl" (yes, that is what he calls me... and he can say "pretty girl" in a tone that makes your heart sing or sink... he can use it like a whip or a goad, like a warm soothing caress.) "well, Pretty Girl, I really did not want to stay very long. Do you want to go?"

I answered a good slave answer... which was... "You are my Master... if you want to go, I want to go." (and honestly... I am not totally comfortable with strangers but I could have done it... and if we had found a table and sat down, I could have had a witty, entertaining conversation with just about anyone.) But with that we were gone... before the hand shaking, before the cake and toasts and good wishes. He asked me later if I had "really" wanted to go and I answered again... "that I don't have wants beyond wanting to please him"... he called bullshit... he insisted that when he asks what I want I am required to really have wants... my own wants... I do know I want him to have friends... to get out more... to be less isolated. I worry that he spends so much time with only me.

***

Chapter 20 of Demon Child just posted on Literotica. I have put up the first couple thousand words of Chapter 21 on the "What's she writing now?" page of this blog.

Have a nice day... x

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.

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.

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.

Feisty?

Yeah, that is the word. Feisty... Lately when he randomly reaches out and hurts me, I have this almost irresistible urge to hit back. I literally was doing a crazy jumping up and down, squirming convulsion while I was snarling and roaring at him this morning. Feisty... I just want to hit him back.

I told him that I was feeling strangely energetic, full of piss and vinegar, and that I have been having these irrational impulses to attack him. He blinked and mentioned a time months or even years back when I totally took him out with a sharp punch to the solar plexus. He commented how it had hurt and how he did not want that to happen again.

And thinking that because the words were all laid out on the table, the issue had somehow miraculously been taken care of we went blithely on with our day. I cleaned the kitchen, (even scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees wearing nothing but a sexy black bra and frilly black panties. What, it was hot and heck I didn't want to get the knees of anything dirty... pfffttt... the fact that it was completely calculated to attract attention had nothing to do with it.) And it worked... totally got a stellar fuck session. Then I cooked him his breakfast and then we went to the store.

We had a great morning... and because it is one of those miraculous rare blue sky days, I actually got out and dug up some more of the encroaching green stuff. And finally Master got all up in my grill... and made me dig through the whole huge compost pile looking for black berry roots because... "THEY DON'T GO IN THERE"... So I was doing that... and mumbling... and pissing and moaning under my breath that there was no way to keep all the fucking black berry roots out. He grabbed me, spun me around to face him and I...

I PUNCHED HIM RIGHT IN THE STOMACH... hard.

Shit... shit... shit... at least it wasn't in the solar plexus, but he was not amused at all. I instantly had my arm twisted up behind my back. His voice in my ear was a low growl. "You did that on purpose."

I was babbling that no, no it wasn't on purpose. It just sort of happened. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

He let me go. I did get all the blackberry roots I could out of the compost. I got my ground cover roses planted. I helped prune back about a truck load of blackberries, ivy and other random green things while he mowed. Pork loin and foil wrapped Yukon gold taters are slowly cooking on the grill. Vegies are marinating to throw on at the last minute. And I am sort of fearfully waiting to see if he remembers, and if he does... what is going to happen to me.

Caning can be delicious

There is an art to caning… and it is definitely delicious. At first after that class, the first few times Master put his hand to me, he seemed to deliberately reject all the things we learned at the class.

Lately he has approached giving pain to me in a harsher and harsher manner… starting harsher and harder each time we try until I cringe when he reaches for me. But there is still some part of me that hoped… hoped that maybe he could learn from another what he refused to learn from me.

The teacher had spoken at length about two things, one was where the muscle is deep enough to absorb the cane strike without hitting bone and two about watching your subject, taking the time to watch them absorb the energy of the blow and process it, transform it and ultimately enjoy it. And once we were home Master pushed those limits. Even with just his hands, he seemed to perversely reject the concepts of warm up and pacing. And when I would cry out and plead that when he does that, it pushes me too fast, that it is nearly impossible to bear. And he would laugh and gloat, “Oh, I know. I always knew that.”

At first I was sort of disheartened, that I was the one that asked for this, started us down the rabbit hole, and now… now… now that he has taken control, he has taken the things I ask for and distort them, mutate them into something different, just close enough to what I beg for to give me hope and yet… just off the mark far enough to frustrate the hell out of me.


I had almost reached the point of deciding to not ask, to avoid pain from Master… one can only ask for ice-cream and get a dish of pickles so many times before they stop asking for ice cream. I mean I can eat the pickles and if I try hard enough I can even convince myself that I like pickles or that maybe this is pickle tasting ice cream… or hell that maybe all ice cream is really pickles and I was somehow stupid to think it had ever been anything different.

And then last night, I had been tired, just beat… I had not slept well the night before and when I got home I just had run out of gas. He directed me to rest, take a nap if I could capture sleep. I sat there for an hour, not quite asleep, not quite awake… and an hour later he woke me. But I was dopey, waking was almost beyond my reach and he pulled me to lie across his lap and began to spank me awake. At first he just spanked my bottom and it felt good… but then as I sighed and told him that it was good, feeling really good… he hit my thighs hard. And I lunged and protested that he was going too fast, hitting too hard… not going at a pace I could manage. And finally, miraculously he slowed. And once the pace was within my ability, I found myself doing what the teacher guy spoke of, absorbing, analyzing the sensation, moving it around my body and enjoying myself.

We talked about it, about the caning stuff and he told me to come down to his lair and picked up the length of rattan we had purchased at the very beginning of this M/s relationship. He hit me really hard right from the first and I cried out, begging to ask him one more question before we started… I asked him… “Is this for you? …because if it is, then do your worst, I will bear it. But if it is for me, please be open to my words; listen to what I have to say… please.” And once again, miraculously he listened.

I found myself lying, sensually luxuriously bathing in sensation as he lightly began to tap, tap, tap, tap… raining fast light taps up and down my ass and thighs… back and forth… up and down… sensitizing me and then “whack”… an exacting blow, not so hard as to interrupt the music but a punctuation mark in the storm. And it was interesting to feel the wave of pain… if it was pain… roll up my body, accentuated by the feeling of the continued taps. I spoke… soft continual comments, “That’s good. I like that. I like the way the two feelings blend and contrast and fit. I like that a lot.”

We did that for a long time, experimenting with different positions, different styles of blows, different implements, different body parts being struck and talking about it… talking and feeling listened to. There was no loss of awareness, no subspace… in fact I felt very clear minded, very calm, very relaxed, very sensual and very safe. It was awesome.

I am sure there will be times that it will be for him… times when he will not wait for me, will not allow me to enjoy it. And that is okay… in many ways that is more than okay. In fact those scenes push me into that mental place, where I feel my submission and awe of him more than any other times. And afterwards, for days after, I continue to feel that for him. But now I know that sometimes, even if it is hardly ever… it is good to know that sometimes the ice cream will really be ice cream.