Crazy lady

Wednesday was like many before and likely the same as many to follow. But all the day long, I felt different inside. I was not comfortable in my submission. I have the urge to resist, to kick his ass into next week. It was not the same as the resistance that comes with wanting to make sure the limits are there, that he is strong enough to contain me. It was the genuine impulse to take him on and prove to him that he was not strong enough.

It scared me. I fought the impulse, but he could the flames leap up in my eyes, the tightening of my muscles. He saw me start to lift my hands and push them down again as I mastered the impulse. I wonder if somewhere deep inside his fight or flight reflexes were triggered. I wonder if he knew what kind of danger he was treading so close to. I wonder if he experienced the same little rushes of fear.

I don’t want the freedom… not really. But lately I am the crazy lady gnawing at the bars of my cage.

I don’t know if it was the series of ‘no’s’ that have emphasized my sense of isolation. Or the stress I have been swallowing down by the gallon at work. I know that the shock of terror I experienced when he did that sneak attack that night knocked down a lot of my carefully constructed internal walls. The crazy lady was loose, prowling through my psyche, clouding my perceptions.

I bit him that night. To give myself credit, it was not the savage, primitive, go for the throat and drink down his blood chomp that my gut was hungering for. It was just a nip, a kind of ‘look out, she has sharp teeth’ kind of a warning… playful like… but he was not having any of it.

And he is strong enough to physically dominate me. I am submissive enough to pull my punches, to not quite bite hard, to grudgingly comply even when I am sneering and baring my teeth, I will turn and submit to his punishments. But I don’t feel it. I don’t feel sorry. I don’t regret my actions. I send looks over my shoulder, clear, unequivocal looks of ‘go ahead, do your worst, you can’t really touch this, really make me give a flying fuck’.

Yet there is this other part of me, panicked, fearful, needy, weak and profoundly ashamed… I don’t want this rebellion, not really; but I can’t seem to relax, trust, enjoy. There is the irrational wish that he could do something to fix this, some external application to fix this internal disorganization. But the more he exerts his dominion, the more I resist. And I am not at all confident that in this battle anyone can win. I think everyone will lose.

Last night I choked on the word ‘Master’. He did the usual, kicked my chair and gave me the expectant look. I know I am supposed to say, ‘Yes, Master, is there anything I can do for you?” It is our first and oldest ritual. He kicked and I choked. He was shocked and hurt.

“You deliberately did that. You did that on purpose!”

But, you know I inhaled, I formed the words in my mind, I tried to say them and they got stuck in my throat. I was as shocked as he was. I tried to explain, to cry out my sadness but the words were confused and the tears would not come. I don’t know why I am feeling this way.

He ordered me to come and sit in his lap, to talk to him about this but I don’t have a clue as to what is going on for me. He asked a hundred questions, about food, about sleep, about work, about sex… he even asked if this was hormonal, some ten year late echo of menopause. And all he got was sad, defeated, ‘I don’t know’s. He asked if I needed more hugs, more mushy snuggles and attention or harsher, crueler, longer punishments and I said, “Yes”. He laughed and held me close for a long time.

And when I finished my bedtime routines and knelt at his feet, he delayed releasing me to go down to his bed, telling me to wait, looking down at me thoughtfully. Finally he reached down and tenderly gathered my hair into his fist and twisted my head back, forcing me to arch my back. The only thing that kept me from falling was my desperate grip on the front of his shirt. He leaned down and began to bite and kiss my neck, not hard, not painful and for some totally inexplicable reason it tickled. It tickled like crazy and I could not help but squirm and giggle.

He tightened his grip of my hair, pulled me even further out of balance and pushed it further, growling, scrubbing his whisker stubble against my neck, ears and chest, making motor boats, biting, tickling until I was screaming with uncontrollable laughter. He kept me like that until I was weak, my belly aching from laughing, my face wet with tears. And you know, even though I could not cry, could not find my tears… the laughter loosened some of the tension in my gut, freed some of my fears and doubts.

This morning he is extra attentive, extra watchful… his eyes sharp and gauging. He is taking my measure and I sense he is making his plans.

And today is a new day. Work has gradually been getting better, getting less stressful. Being a duck has been helpful. Now I need to focus on what I am here at home, while I am his.

Bats in my Belfry? ...or worse?

All yesterday afternoon I would hear this thump and rustle. I would pause in my writing and wonder, "Is Master home?" He has been known to sneak in. Sometimes to spy on me, sometimes to scare the crap out of me. Twice I got up and looked out the front window.

It was loud enough to be a door opening or closing... or someone walking in the empty bedrooms upstairs. I would listen carefully but it would be quiet again. Nothing... but then a few minutes later... there is would be again. I even walked around the house, looked in every room... the noise was loud enough to make me nervous. I grabbed the hammer that was sitting on my leather working bench... telling myself I needed it for a little repair job on the main floor, but I found myself gripping it firmly and finding a small amount of security to have a weapon in my hand. But again there was nothing, nothing out of place. The house eerily silent as I patrolled.

Then the more easily identified sound of the screen door and I found myself hurrying to greet Master, my tension making me babble... "Finally, it is you, really you?" (Another release the squirrels moment.) I knelt at his feet, my forehead firmly placed between his feet, so happy he was home. Something creepy was going on in my world and I wanted him here with me... here with me now.

When he lifted my up and wrapped his arms around me, I asked him, "Do you sometimes hear things in this house? Like doors opening and closing or people walking around?" He responded all the time, saying that it must be a ghost. (I know he does not believe in ghosts but it is also true he hears the same things sometimes.) Most of the time it is squirrels dancing on the roof but this was closer, more mysterious, stranger.

Then as we walked together to through the house, I found a clue. A black sooty, ominous clue. In front of the fireplace was a smooth black layer of pitch black soot with the tracks of bare feet going back and forth, my bare feet from each trip I had made through the house. I freeze and point, whispering in pent up excitement... "Look!"

Master's voice was confident, "Something is in the chimney. Sometimes birds fall in and get stuck because they can't fly straight up." We stand still listening but the house is silent for the moment. I vacuum up the mess and run a duster to get up the last of micro fine particles. I open and shut the flue violently a few times... BANG! BANG! BANG! I stick a poker up the chimney and rattle it around but there is not a sound. Maybe it was gone? Master tells me to close the flue tight and go wash off all the soot I had gotten all over me, before I sit on any furniture.

Then later, an hour later, Master calls me into the front room. "Listen." But it was quiet, he says he had heard it, that it sounded exactly like a bird, maybe a jay or a pigeon. Several times through the evening, it would tap, thump and flutter and I would envision that poor thing caught, covered in fine soot, choking on the dust it was kicking up. The practical part of me thinking that nothing could live long in such conditions and hoping it would hurry up and die. The worry wart part of me wondering if this thing would stink or clog up my chimney, vaguely pissed about having one more household thing to put on the list that makes me question and nag my Master.

And now this morning, my precious Friday morning, my one day a week I am not working and Master is. The one day I have to myself to get those extra chores done, to work on special projects like writing, crafts and reading. After Master leaves for work I am sitting in my special place on the couch... there it is... thump, tap, rustle...

Shudder... that thing is still in there, still struggling, slowly dieing. Part of me wonders about going and opening the flue and seeing if it will finally fall out... but enough of me is terrified of what it might be, some kind of black monster that once freed will flutter and flap all around my house, spreading germs and soot. Or worse grow to unrealistic proportions and come after me in some kind of vengeance for my callous wish that it would just hurry up and die.

One of the tasks Master has left me with is to clean all the ashes out of the fireplace. He says that we should try and get the corpse out.

I am reluctant to approach the fireplace... creeped out to being even that close to horror. I think this is far worse than ghosts.

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.

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.