What do I want?

May I come visit?  Visiting has a very specific meaning.  It means “may I climb up into your lap?”  Climbing up into his lap means on my knees straddling his lap facing him close, nose to nose.  It is the way we have our talks.

He had just gotten done telling me that he wanted to see a particular movie.  He then asked me if I wanted to see it too and I had looked at him with clear, calm conviction.  The very fact that he had wanted it, made me want it too.  “Sure.”

He had looked at me with those calculating eyes.  “No, not what I want.  I want to know what you want.”

And that is the thing… I don’t want to have wants.  I want to be told what to do… I want to be told what to want. 

So there I was, in his lap, trying to put this into words… that when he asks what I want, like, prefer, feel like… all those things… those words sort of echo in an empty place, that when I must answer that kind of a question, I grope around in that empty place trying to find the right answer but the only right answer for me is, “whatever you want”.  I tried to explain that I don’t want to be asked what I want, I want to be told.

I knelt there, nose to nose, saying those words in the softest of voices.  “I don’t know how to say it exactly but… but… there is no what I want, it is only what you want.”

Now don’t get me wrong… there are lots of times I do have very clear wants and even clearer ‘don’t wants’… but when he caves into them it makes me feel awful.  It makes me feel unfettered, loose, and frighteningly free.  I don’t want to be free.  It scares the fuck out of me.  I don’t want that.

And there he was nose to nose, listening and for once not arguing with… um… oops ‘correcting’ me.  And then he reaches up and takes hold of each nipple and pinches and twists, hard, really hard and shoves me over backwards a little, making me lose my balance and start to tip over backwards.  And as I dangle there, held up only by his relentless grip on my flesh, he fires at me, “What do you want?  Tell me.  Tell me now.”

I wince and gasp and squirm and refuse to answer. 

He jerks me back and forth a little, literally twisting me back and forth and interrogates me some more.  “I want you happy, bitch.  Tell me what you want!”

And I realize that one reason I don’t answer is that I don’t want him to stop.

I gasp out between clenched teeth, “As usual you get it completely opposite, but with a twist… literally.”

Confessions

What to say... about another weekend. 

It was a a typical Friday.  An indulgence in fast food followed by a rapid surrender to sleep.  I tried to suggest we change it up... go to a movie... but apparently a 7:25 showing was "too late".  It kind of is disheartening to realize that a 7:25 movie is too late.  A sinking feeling of life not passing by, but already missed tended to make the Wendy's fries turn to mush in my mouth.  But I know that I am not allowed expectations... and I do know that we wake up early and Master works hard all day and a want for a movie on a work day is not likely to be met.

Upside... better news... the Saturday morning it was bright and clear and beautiful.  That is one of the magical things about living here in the Pacific Northwest... the staggering beauty when the sun finally peeks out from behind the clouds.  You can't help but notice it, appreciate it.  Master and I took an extra long walk, meandering through the neighborhoods, looking at houses and the sparkles of the raindrops that still hung from every branch and strand of grass.  It is a jewel encrusted world.  We walked further and further... crossing streets and neighborhoods not seen since last summers cycle rides.  At one point Master seemed to realize that he the walk had gotten longer than he had planned and he abruptly turned us around.  Mr.  Predictable dragging us back to more familiar paths, the usual agenda... next item... shower sex.  And I have to admit the thought of it did not excite me at all.  It just made me tired.  And not quite tongue in cheek, veiling a long hidden bit dissatisfaction, I muttered under my breath.  "We can just go for an extra long walk instead of sex."

The walk halted and he swung me around and stared into my face.  "What?"

Not wanting to admit the truth that lately sex has become a bit of a chore... too predictable... too hard to become aroused... the orgasms too much work for the results... I don't mind being used.  In fact I kinda like the dynamic of being used as a masturbatory device.  Him taking with no expectations that I am supposed to have an orgasm.  It is that elusive arousal and stubborn orgasm that I am becoming increasingly avoidant of pursuing.  It is too much to admit, too much to talk about.  I refuse to meet his eyes and  paste on a fake smile and mumble, "Just being silly."

But he wasn't buying it, not one bit.  "Walking is not a substitute for sex.  Walking makes sex better."

My eyes meet his briefly, pained and just a little resentful and slide away. 

His hand is in my hair, tipping my face back and he is looking at me.  "Doesn't it?"

Wordlessly I shake my head, a tiny silent negative that makes the pull of his grip sting and hurt.  "Not really."

He lets go of me and looks at me.  I look around at the amazing sparkling world and admit, "Don't feel like having sex."

He laughs and gives me a hug and laughs again.  "Pretty girl, it is okay to have some days you don't feel like having sex."

I shoot him another pained look.  "More like some weeks."  Even this is a bit of a lie... it has been longer than that. 

He takes my hand and we keep walking.  He asks me about it.  I talk about how the predictability that works for him, works against me.  That I need some level of novelty and unpredictability.  Then he asks me about what else I think would help... and I talk about wanting more control... not so much as more pain as him being directive.  And then talked about how in nearly every story I write I end up in the bathroom with the Dom, Master, Abductor, Alien having some level of control over the bathroom use.  That lately all my fantasies involve bondage, sensory deprivation, teasing and denial and anal... lots and lots of anal.  Guys lined up around the room waiting their turn kind of lots of anal.  I talk about how writing erotica, reading erotica and watching porn help trigger my libido.  I don't talk about how suppressing my libido for a week at a time, waiting for my 20 minutes of shower sex on Saturday morning does not help... that banked fires tend to go out. 

So when we got home, he turned on the computer and got some porn running... but as usual, he is the only one allowed to select the clip... but he is a little more receptive to my statements about what is working for me and what left me unimpressed.  The bondage stuff was interesting, the mechanical fucking machines intriguing... but in the end I asked for more sex and less mechanics... naked bodies doing it... I realized I like the sound of the women... but the guys... not so much... so picky... sexual responsiveness so tricky.  My hand is between my legs, rubbing teasing, trying to catch it and hold it, keep it there and not lose it. 

It irritates me that it is such a complicated deal.  I just want an automatic on switch.

But it does work... I do feel the tension and arousal and I naturally move in closer to him.  We watch for a while longer.  Then he gets up and I start to follow... and he snarls at me.  "What are you doing?"

I stutter and hesitate.  Confused... "Aren't we getting into the shower?"  Master speak for... "Time to have sex please????"  The fires within rapidly flickering and threatening to go out.

He points me back to the porn.  "I am going to take a poop."  Pop... the fire just imploded.  How fucking romantic... what wonderful fucking timing.  I turn on the porn... watch naked men with improbably large and hard penises anally fucking this girl who keeps staring at the camera as if she is trying to convince us this is real... trying and failing.  I watch and touch myself.  And the porn works... I sit there, teasing myself, edging closer and closer to the orgasm and stopping myself over and over.  Then improbably, I pull my hand away and to my chagrin... I do not stop... the orgasm is small and infuriating.  And I am still very aroused.  Perhaps more so afterward.  I keep touching myself now... trying to get back to where I was before... close but I can tell that ship has sailed.  Since menopause... orgasms come singly.

He calls me to the shower.  You know... tooth brushing is not foreplay.  And neither is spanking.  But it does seem to work for him.  He can see I am tense, even angry... and he questions me again.  I mutter that his timing was not the best.  He raises a brow and shrugs.  And then strangely... announces we are NOT going to have sex.  That we are just going to shower.  I admit that I orgasmed while he was pooping.. that I had been touching myself and taking myself up to the edge and stopping and then it sort of just happened.  He did not seem to mind.  He made some kind of comment about finding that an interesting piece of information.

But he lied about the no sex.. he soon had me bent over and was fucking my ass in much the same way the guys on the porn had been doing before.  I wondered if my expression was anything like the girl's.  Probably not.  Master makes very sparing use of lubricant and it has been months since we have wandered down (up?) this particular path.  And every time I managed to get used to a particular angle, depth or tempo... he switched it up.  I think my face was pretty squinched up and the squawks were mostly those of outrage rather than appreciation.

It is strange how the concept of anal is so exciting and the reality is so fucking painful.  And it is even more strange that as soon as he is done... I want it again.  As we were drying off I said that he had lied.  He laughed and said, "Yes, yes I did."  Then he made some comment about denial. 

I was even more aroused and begged to be allowed to go down and visit my new friend.  (Master speak for the shiny new Hitachi).  Master came down and held me and kissed me and with the mechanical assist I was able to orgasm a second time which is sort a big deal. 



 

Not Fair

Sometimes it is just not fair.  I shouldn't be surprised, I know that there is no promise of fair, if anything quite the opposite.  But sometimes it still sneaks up on me and bites me in the butt.

I had already talked with him about this thing, in my eyes had gotten permission to do this.

I had talked with him about how I was just not going to eat the same food as him, that eating the meat and potatoes and all the fixins was making it easier and easier to slip away from my low cholesterol diet.  

way back machine...

About two years ago I got the heads up from my doctor that my cholesterol was just a bit high, any higher and we will need to talk about medication.  That was a bitch, I wasn't eating a lot of high cholesterol type food, I don't like eggs, meat, cheese all that much.  But I got ruthless and cut it ALL out.  Nada... day after day, week after week of 0 mg cholesterol and other forms of saturated fat.  I upped the amount of good fat, olive oils and seed oils.  I also started exercising... (in all honesty, the exercising was Master's idea... I was getting pretty crazy and he just dragged me out of the house one day and forced me to march for about ten miles in the hot sun.  It did wonders for my attitude and he instituted a pretty rigorous walking schedule.  It was good for us... time to talk, a way for him to exert control.)

All these changes had an unexpected result... the pounds just slipped away, five, ten, twenty, thirty pounds... it was effortless, the pants got baggier and baggier, Master made many very lecherous and appreciative comments about the "new" shape.  I threw out all the fat clothes, bought a whole new sexier wardrobe.  More lechery from Master... mmm... very reinforcing.   

Cut to to the present...

The 0 mg cholesterol thing slowly found excuses for a treat here, a snack there, a birthday, a holiday, a new set of expectations to menu plan and cook for Master every day... laziness crept in... and greed.  That pot roast can't hurt, I will eat just a small helping... cookies??? Well, it is Christmas.  Coworkers that find it not all that difficult to talk me into that piece of cheese cake.

The walking went from every day to every other day to a few times a week and now... now it's a few times a month.  We blame the weather and I have to admit that here in the Pacific northwest it has been pissing down rain for what seems like a year.

Those 35 pounds gone have started to creep back.  That new wardrobe was tight before, now it is getting darned uncomfortable. 

So now... now before things totally get out of control, I trying to get back to that original mindset.  No red meat, fat free dairy only, more fiber, more beans and vegies and fruit and whole grains... not some, no good excuses... nope... nada... it is like being a vegetarian... you don't say you are a vegetarian and then eat a steak on your birthday because it is a "special day".

So there is was, a re-commitment to eating different, being healthier and hopefully skinnier... and yet maintain my obedience and devotion to my Master who wants...  he requires meat, preferably cow meat or pig meat.  So I had talked to him about cooking his dinner but not eating the same food and he listened and said okay... he even questioned me about my weight gain and has started taking a more active role again in taking me for walks.  We have been driving to Malls... meh... not my favorite type of walk but it was raining so hard last night that we got soaked just walking across the parking lot.

Yesterday, for dinner I had planned for him a pork chop with rice and salad.  For me, steamed winter vegetables and a slice of fat free bread spread with garlic humus.  I love cooked cabbage.  It was yummy.  But I screwed up.  It seemed like a good idea if I was cooking two dinners, it would be easier to cook mine first and his when he wanted it... Master usually wants a late dinner, around 7:30... I usually am starving around 5:00... separate meals at separate times.  If I eat earlier, I am more likely to stick to regimen.  If I eat earlier, I would be 100% available to serve Master... I could even sit at his feet as he eats...   genius... or so I thought... until he walked in after work and saw the left overs from my yummy steamed vegetables... and roared...

 

"Why did you cook this now?!!!???"

"But... you said... I told you... we talked..."

Something inarticulate, loud and intended to shut me the fuck up.

So I shut up. And got all sorry for myself and weepy.

Not fair... not fair at all.  But apparently, he would have eaten the steamed vegetables too.  And apparently I was supposed to have known that.  So I got some very clear messages.  He likes steamed vegetables.  I may eat what I want, but do not assume that he is not going to want some of it too (even if he has already told me what he wanted for dinner).  I am required to eat at the same time as he is... even if I am hungry or it is late.  "You will not starve to death."

 

Jebus....

Friday was like many of the Fridays we have been having... a low key day of recovery.

My oldest son and Livie were here to get some more punkins when I got home and we had a nice long talk. There has been some infighting among the other branch of the family and son #1 wanted to talk about it. It seemed pretty trivial to me, the issues are ones that frequently raise their heads among family, religion, sensitivity, tolerance... someone got a little vociferous with opinions, someone else got a little butt hurt. I am sure that there probably was some alcohol to lubricate and fuel the whole thing. None of it had anything to do with me. Thank gawd (not God... chill out... jebus... not Jesus... oh heck... NOT HELL... for Christ's sake can't you peoples just calm down?)

Anyway son #1 was asking me about what to do. I just shrugged and said I would not take any of it very seriously. Act like it was a joke... apologize even if you don't think you did anything wrong... love people for what you can... try to tolerate those parts of them that are not so nice. Move on... be nice... stop sweating the small shit. Bottom line no one can control how others think, feel or act... the only person you can do that for is yourself.

But there was this thing, this message on my machine... (yes, I am sort of retro like that... no cell... no voice mail... just an old dusty machine)... anyway... the message was from son #2 saying that he and wife wanted to come over for dinner on Saturday to chat about something. DIL is a dear girl, I love her to death, but jebus... she can be oversensitive, can create a mountain out of the smallest of molehills, and lubs the drama.

When Master got home I played the message... his first response was "no tea party"... now this requires some explanation. A group of submissive types had been planning an outing to the local Japanese garden and were going to learn about formal Japanese Tea service. I had wrangled permission from Master to be gone... gone on a Saturday afternoon. That was huge. I could tell that he had been chewing on that bone for a few days, trying to find someway to retract that decision and this was the perfect excuse. No company for dinner AND getting to run off for tea parties.

I squalled a bit, did a small stompy dance on the floor right in front of son #1 which made him laugh. I tried a little "but... but... but..." but all that got me was an "AH! AH! AH!" from Master. He was having none of it.

So no tea party...

Saturday dawned clear, bright blue sky, a snap of fall chill in the morning air. Master gave me the option of choosing going for a walk or cycling... I chose a walk. We walked for a long ways..l through neighborhoods we have not gone through before. We talked about this "coming over for dinner and a chat"... talked about what the fuck this is about. Are they in financial trouble again.. need money? Heaven forbid... need a place to live again. Are they going to try and drag us into the little family drama? ...or most horrible to contemplate... are they pregnant?

Not that I don't like grandchildren... I just hope that when people make babies they have a strong family, strong economically and emotionally.

But anyway... Master and I have no idea what this is and our imaginations have been running on overdrive all day.

I got lots of yard work done... chasing the lawn mower around... cleaning out the garden and mulching for next year. Made a nice enchilada dinner with rice, refried beans, salad and cantaloupe. Took a shower and was getting dressed when Master walked and informed me he wanted me to dress intimidating. I had a a cute little sweater dress and he made me put on a pair of black tall boots and other black "intimidating" stuff. So I was all doom and gloom, power suit.

..... cut to two hours later.

Dinner finished, and I am more than a little drunk. They weren't pregnant... so there is a gawd. They wanted "advice" as to how to handle the "other people's" insensitive remarks. I said the same things, that you can't control what other people think, feel or say. That you need to take responsibility for your own feelings and accept people for what they are and not try to change them... about half way through the speech, DIL got her panties in a bunch and walked out.

She threw a comment over her shoulder about how "his family" never liked her, never wanted her around. I threw back that that was a thinking error and crazy fucking bullshit.

So much for my diplomatic skills.

But I am not too upset about it. Master who watched the whole thing said I did not do anything wrong. I drank three glasses of wine with dinner. Four plates... but just Master and I sitting at the table. Master said it was a good dinner.

And you know I am not too worried about the whole thing. I told son #2 that the door is always open but I am not going to mince words or pretend that I don't think she is just a little crazy, but owned the fact that we all gots our own kind of crazy to deal with... welcome to the monkey house. He was pretty sad and worried that we are not accepting her. I told him we accepted her, we just weren't going to change how we act because she don't like what we got to say.

I looked at Master, thinking about how having him there made all the difference for me. He gave me confidence and just the knowledge that I have him... or maybe I ought to say... he has me... makes all the difference in the world. It does not matter if DIL thinks I am the bitch mother-in-law... all I need is his approval. I leaned over and said, "You know what is the most important thing?"

He shook his head.

I said, "I love you very much."

He said, "That is good."

I think I will change into something a little more comfortable and ask for him to put my collar on.

You guys have a good night. Family... jebus.

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.

A Big Night Out... or Communication Sucks, part two

I guess I should write this all down while it is fresh in my head.

All week, it seemed like all I could to do was think about our trip and getting ready.

Wednesday, Master told me to go ahead and get a pedi with my Manicure so I took off the whole afternoon from work, I wandered around the mall waiting for the polish to harden. After I got home I tried on some different clothing and finally ended up with a black leather mini, textured black thigh highs, a skin tight black bustier that makes my cleavage very eye catching. I left the outfit on so Master could see and decide. The skirt was whore short… I was legs from ankles to armpits, but they looked good and judging from Master’s reaction, some very sweet and enthusiastic spanks and official approval, I realized I had my outfit chosen. Though I was rapidly having second thoughts about how I was going get from our hotel to the burlesque show dressed like one of the actors, but no guts no glory and if Master liked the way I looked, that was the important part.

Thursday at work went by fast, and I have to admit all my focus was on tomorrow. After work, I swung by the bank and then I got right onto getting the laundry all caught up and house cleaned and ready to go. The weather men had said that the weather was going to be absolutely perfect, high clouds in the morning and mid seventies in the afternoon. I decided to wear a skirt and packed some shorts for the ride home.

Friday, we had a nice quiet, lazy morning, I got packed and got the car all ready to go and dressed in a pretty skirt. The only thing Master did was say he wanted me to wear some different shoes… ones that have “bare feet” (read toes showing) so I changed into a pair of sandals. They aren’t quite as comfortable as the little flats I had chosen for walking around, but they are okay. I can wear them all day at work without problems. I figured they would work fine.

We got out the door at precisely 9:00 am but of course, we ended up turning around and going back because Master had one of those… “Fuck, I have to go shit again,” moments. I kept a very straight face, did not even roll my eyes. I was sooooo good. We got to the hotel with only one missed exit.

It is funny, how giving up on being right can take over your mind. I had told Master that check in was 4:00 but he contradicted me… saying I had said 12:00. You know, I just blinked and edited my memory. “Okay, twelve.” Well of course it was 4:00 but the people at the hotel were nice and let us leave our car there and we spent four hours walking around downtown Seattle.

I learned that Master has the worst sense of direction. Every time we would come out of door way, he would head off in the wrong direction and he would NOT listen to me, so we would end up with him staring at a map for about ten minutes with me vibrating because I knew where we were and he would not believe me. I was standing there with this wide anticipatory grin on my face waiting for him to admit I was right, again, when this one lady looked at us and asked if she could help us. I just laughed and said “Oh, no, thank you.”

It was a hell of a lot colder than those weather men said it would be but if we kept moving I was just barely warm enough. Pikes Place Public Market was a cluster fuck… there were so many people there it was almost impossible to move so we only wiggled through there about one time.

Then for some reason Master decided to take off on some huge cross country hike. I guess there was a time a lot of decades ago when he had found himself down and out in Seattle and was trying to find some of the places he had been. I allowed him to push me along, looking in windows and at the thousands and thousands of people. I would stop and ooooh and ahhhh over shoes or dresses or drag him into an art gallery here or there but then he would get back on track and push me along.

He would do this thing… tell me that this trip was for me and we could go where I wanted or look at what I wanted to… but, you know, every time I tried to turn or steer he wouldn’t go. He would stop and tell me “there isn’t anything up that way” and drag me off the other direction. I stopped trying pretty fast. One of my sandal straps started to rub a place on the top of my foot raw and I kept trying to walk different so it didn’t hurt. He growled at me about limping, but he finally turned us around and we walked back. We got to the hotel exactly at 4:00 and we laid down for about an hour. It felt so good just to lie down and be quiet.

So there we were, lying around in the hotel room and he arbitrarily decided that we had to "HURRY." I threw on my outfit, suffering another small spasm of “oh god, what was I thinking” but I did not have time to get too scared. He started to hustle me right along. He told me we could not eat at the restaurant I had chosen and hurried me to some fast food Mexican place. I could not figure out what the fuck he was doing but by that time I was all "yes, Sir."

Important piece of information… I think I told him that the show started at 7:30 but because we had "will call" tickets I wanted to be there a little after 7:00 ...about a HUNDRED times...

So anyway back to the story, there I was marching around crowded downtown Seattle in a micro mini leather skirt and cleavage during busy rush hour. I could not help but reach around and check that my ass wasn’t hanging out about every ten steps. I kept feeling this breeze ya’know. (And yes, there were panties… nice black ruffled panties. Master is not that kinky.) We ended up walking about a mile and got there an hour early. He looked at me with a "what the fuck" look and I repeated for the 101rst time... "Well, it doesn't start till 7:30. I TOLD YOU THAT ABOUT A HUNDRED TIMES."

He said, "You said 7:00.”

"I said I wanted to be there a little after seven to get our tickets.” By now I was not keeping the condescension out of my voice. Why the fuck doesn’t he get it???

So he had heard 7:00. Because the last word in my little speeches had always ended with was 7:00, that was the only word that he listened to or remembered and after he heard 7:00, he decided to be there by 6:30. So that is why we could not have a nice dinner and why he made me walk there so fast. So there we were at 6:00 …standing on the street in front of a still closed theatre. Me all dressed up in my whore clothes in a kinda run down neighborhood.

He was totally ranting at me about how why couldn't you just say 7:30 instead of going on and on and on… and I retorted that he never gets what I say...no matter what I say and my natural nervous response to this fact is to say it more and more complexly, to over explain, to make sure to include every fucking nuance of my decision making process and all the potential variables… and now that this had happened that things were only going to just get fucking worse and worse. What used to take four paragraphs will probable now take twelve. By the time I was done we were both laughing.

We ended up at a bar, him drinking coffee (according to him, some of the worst coffee he had ever tasted… and we were in Seattle for god’s sake) and me sucking down shots of kahlua. Nobody was really mad and we certainly weren't late. The whole time we sat in the bar, Master kept chuckling. I am sure he thinks I am fucking crazy but, ya’know, I am just as convinced that he realizes there is nothing he can do about it.

The show was AWESOME!!!! We sat right in the front row. The dancing, music and singers were great, lots of pretty semi-nude bodies (g-strings and pasties). The show was about this kind’a sleazy, down and out burlesque show that was out of money and had to do something to sell more tickets or lose the theatre and how they did not want to sell out to the more mainstream kinds of things. It was really funny and a little touching. The main star was a big fat, very sexy woman with big voice and lots of other big things and the suit guy that was trying to get them to be more marketable wanted to get rid of her because she was fat but they refused. Now when Master and I see a large woman who is obviously proud and beautiful, we smile and say to each other... "Keep On Humping the Dream." That was the finale.

Both of us were exhausted by the time we got back to the hotel… sorry no sex stories to tell on this trip. In fact Master hardly ever has sex with me when we aren’t home. Sad, huh…

Yesterday, as soon as we got home we took a three hour nap. We are old… too much excitement and we are down and out on the couch, Master said he wanted dinner at 6:30 so at six I got up and started cooking and he came in and asked me, "Are you making dinner?"... I started to babble... started to say all this stuff... "you said... it is... I was starting...”

He grabbed me by the throat and said, "Yes or no?"

I gulped and laughed and said, “…but I haven’t gotten the whole twelve paragraphs yet.” The fingers around my neck tightened and I squeaked out, “Yes?" But when he let me go and I started jumping around and singing, "I am just so full of words!!!!" He cracked up.

Speaking of words this has gotten book length and I have a whole weekend’s worth of chores to get caught up on.

P.S. Sorry about no pictures. I totally forgot my camera.

Communication sucks

Communication… transparency… everybody talks about it like it is the key to everything. Like if you don’t got it, things are doomed, can never work… just are generally fubarred.

Well, it don’t work like that around here. He does not tell me how he is feeling… and he definitely isn’t really interested in hearing about anything other than what he wants to hear about what the fuck is going on in my head.

I am still trying to figure out exactly what happened, where I fucked up. Because he certainly did not do anything different than he always has. He has remained perfectly consistent. He has not changed one iota from the same rigid, controlling, critical, emotionally distant, monkish, mind fucking bastard he was when I decided I needed him to be my Master. It was all me. Maybe I bought into the idea… that I needed to be “transparent”, to puke up all my angst, my doubts and questions like he would listen, have the perfect “Master” answer or even care.

So he had done the same things he has always done. And he jumped all over me for getting involved in some unimportant thread on Fetlife talking about sadism. I was sitting here on the couch, laptop in lap, and he idly asked what I was writing on. I just as idly mumbled something about a discussion about sadism. The next question out of his lips was, “Why are you talking to a SADIST?”

I have to admit being a little off balance, blinking, staring at him like he had suddenly grown horns. My voice may have taken on a patient, explaining tone… “I am not talking with a Sadist. I am just writing a comment to a thread she posted. It is a forum. Would you like me to read it to you?” (Master has dyslexia. He can read but it is not effortless and he avoids it if he can.)

Well long story long, about half way through the original post, he interrupted me, told me I should not be talking to people “like that” and it was end of discussion. I know better than to argue. I sucked it up. I said, “Yes Sir.” I just sat there with this sort of shocked and disbelieving look on my face.

But I have to confess that I had about a billion questions bouncing around in my head. I could not help but think, that this general type of statement made it almost impossible to continue to read, post or comment on threads on Fetlife. Everybody there was “like that”. Crazy bitch in the back of my head muttered, “And face it you stupid bitch. You are “like that” too. He probably thinks you are crazy and gross and dangerous too.”

He tried to explain, making general statements about how this person sounded imbalanced and like someone that should be left alone. But every single thing he said just emphasized what he didn’t know about this ‘sadist’ person. I tried to say that she has made lots of posts and said lots of different things and she seemed like a pretty reasonable and, in a lot of ways, a very intelligent person… but he interrupted and said, “You can’t tell that from just what people write on the internet.” Arghhhh!!!! But that was what he did!!! He listened to half of one thing, jumped to some conclusions and just decided.

Again I sucked it up, stiff lipped and obedient I conceded his victory. I swallowed down all the protests and mumbled, “Okay, I will not talk to her. I will leave that group.”

But it really wasn’t over. All my lonely, self loathing, isolated, ‘I don’t have any friends’ issues were rapidly flooding my thinking and it was all black and white. It was all or nothing. This general statement made it impossible to read other people’s blogs, to go to any of the local support groups (which, by the way seem to have stopped meeting for the summer of maybe forever but that is a separate issue) and I don’t have anybody in the whole fucking world to talk to about this. (My apologies to Stephen, ‘chelle and Kevin, I wanted to feel fucking sorry for myself and if I remembered you guys were there for me… I wouldn’t have felt quite so miserable, could I?)

So there I was… wallowing in my not quite rational place and I do not have a poker face. I probably looked like I had a pickle up my butt. And he got all up in my grill, demanding to know what was happening, what I was thinking or feeling.

And in hindsight, the first words out of my mouth weren’t entirely rational. “I don’t have any friends…”

And again he interrupted. This time it was a loud mocking, jeering hoot. The same “waaaa, waaaa, waaaa that kids yell on the playground to harass the cry babies.

I totally imploded. I was yelling at the top of my voice, “YOU ASKED!!!! YOU ASKED!!!!” And then there was a lot more, things about trust and communication, about him not wanting to really hear, about how much that hurt and how I just fucking wasn’t going to talk with him ever fucking, ever, ever, ever again. I got pretty inarticulate by the end but I sucked it up again and crossed my arms and shut down totally. He sat there, staring at me for a long time and I finally sobbed out in a broken voice… “and if I can’t talk to you… I don’t have anybody to talk to.”

I left the group. I answer in my best sweet submissive voice, “fine” whenever he asks how I am, how my day was. I am totally talking to him about nothing. He knows I am pretty blue. He even said he was sorry.

And when I looked at him and said, “What are you sorry about?”

He answered, “…about you being blue.”

And I am sort of stuck here… I know he does not want or like to talk about things except on his terms. I know he has the right to limit who I interact with and what I do. And this is one Master/slave or Owner/property… or what the fuck label fits best in your head… that does not run on communication and transparency. It runs on commitment and acceptance. I am committed to him and to my being his slave. I accept his ownership, however he chooses to express it.

It sometimes sucks monkey balls but I have to accept that as well. You have no idea how hard it can be to suck up monkey balls.

Post script, the original poster, the so called “sadist” sent me a private message, asking me why I left the group and talking about how I was valued as a member and had a lot of good things to say. I read it to Master and he changed his mind about talking to her or reading her posts and I got permission to rejoin the group. But he said no to me accepting her friends request.

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.