Damaged goods...

That little bruise on my nose??? Has turned into a lovely black eye. Master says I am like an add for Lucky Strikes. And repeats "Damaged Goods" under his breath now and then to make me flinch.

Public disclaimer, this is a work injury. Master did not punch me. I had a head on collision with a violent kid. I regret to say he does not look any worse for wear... while I... well you will see.

Yesterday I was talking with Master about how a coworker forced me to eat cheese cake (he did literally... he brought it and said "if you don't eat this I will just go get you another piece"... I mean with pressure like that how could I refuse?) (Master has not forbidden me to eat cheesecake. All of my dietary restrictions are self imposed.)

Anyway I was talking about that and Master grabbed me and squished his hand onto my face, growling... "Did he do this?"

He was not careful and caught my sore, sore nose in the mock force feeding. I squawked, "Not the nose!" "Not the nose!!!! Jesus Christ man, anything but the nose!!!"

He apologized.

Later that evening he dragged me off to the mall for a sort of a wander and peer into store windows kind of stroll rather than a real walk. (It has been frickin cold, wet and dark... no walkies outside in ages.) And when I was just a bit uncooperative with the hand holding he threatened to go for the nose.

I said that for the first time I had a hard limit and it is this swollen bruised and painful honker. Last night the black eye grew and darkened. It has turned out to be my first real shiner.

I have been humming "I feel pretty under my breath". When people at work ask me how I am feeling, I answer "smarter".

Attitude Adjustment

“Get downstairs!”

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

“Don’t ask me why!”

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

What to Say?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Empty Nest again

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

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

One should know better than poke at the sleeping bear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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