Welcome to December.

Still trying to get back in balance after the busy holiday week. We were low a lot of things, most crucial... toilet paper and coffee creamer (or coffee poison as Master calls it.) So I drove straight the grocery store from work.

Master was home when I came in with my arms full of food, TP, and you name it. And I got an earful about not being home when he got here. It is times like this that I think again about getting a cell phone, so I can call and ask permission to make a detour to the grocery store... but then I am not allowed to call him on his work phone unless it is an emergency... and is going to the grocery store an emergency??? Dunno.

I rushed about, putting away groceries, making a quick dinner for him, making a completely different dinner for myself. I am tired of compromising my diet to fit his tastes... tonight I made a spinach salad for myself, with avocado and tomatoes. Yum. Master will have left over turkey noodle soup and a green salad. (I loathe iceberg lettuce and celery, and for him it just isn't a salad with both those ingredients. Gag.)

As I sat down with my yummy spinach salad he gave me this look, a dark frowny glare and I froze and went, "What?"

He narrowed his eyes, glaring at my meal choice and I start to yammer, defending spinach and avocados, extolling the relative nutritional values and he snarls for me to shut up. He says he was sort of thinking of doing "something" with me when I got home, but me going grocery shopping and cooking messed all that up. He does not elaborates on what this something might be... exercise, fuck, play, christmas shopping??? ...fuck if I know. I instantly offered to put my food in the fridge and be available for him, but he shook his head, "No, you go ahead and eat." The "its too late now, bitch." left unsaid and yet hanging in the air between us.

Bastard, I would bet about a thousand dollars that if I had just come home, been on my knees waiting when he came in the door, he would have done exactly what he always does... fall asleep in his chair... no playing... no sex... no nothing, just snoring. But because I made a left turn, that mind fucking bastard hangs out this "something" that can't happen now.

I have learned not to expect anything, to be satisfied with the comfortable routine. I have learned to not even think about the possibility of play, or fucking, or ropes, or whips... I have set myself up for disappointment so many times that I don't even think about the one in a thousand chance that he just might do that "something", especially on a week night, after work any more.

To give him credit, we have not had any kind of play or sex beyond a quick roll over and poke it into a warm wet place in the middle of the night in several weeks. He knows I want more. He probably wants more too. But he did not say a word, did not make a hint... and to expect me to read his mind... Like I said before, mind fucking Bastard.

A very full week.

About a million things happened this last week. My sweet, darling and so very old parents flew in on last Monday night and just left this afternoon. It was a good visit. But again, they make me face mortality. Every time I see my Mom, she is just a little more forgetful and a little more absent... it is like she is already taking the first steps down that last highway.

But the visit was wonderful. We ate a ton... ten tons of delicious, fattening, decadent food. We drank a little to much and laughed and talked and just had a blast. Great grand daughter Livie was a star, sweet, funny, charming, cute and oh so good. We shopped and played games. I spent a ton of mommy and daddies money. Got a new vacuum, bought a mountain of new clothes for grand baby #2 who will be arriving early this spring (we're getting another girl... hells yes... girls rule).

We rented the movies, "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo" and "The Girl That Played with Fire". They were both in Swedish with English subtitles. I very much enjoyed that because I did not have to turn up the volume to ear blasting levels for my mother and father who cannot hear. We could just read. The downside is Master, with his dyslexia cannot quite keep up with the reading and ended up wandering off. He also had not read the books and I think the movie is easier to follow if you had read them first. But I very much like the movies though. They followed the books pretty well, and the actors fit how I pictured them to be as I read. I would recommend them, but you really ought to read the books first.

Thanks giving was a huge success and I always get so many compliments and rave reviews for my cooking that it totally strokes my ego. The last of it is simmering on the stove as I write, rich broth and thick chewy homemade noodles. I can hardly wait for Master to wake up and I can eat.

I am back to work this week and holey moley, the crazy kids are loonier than you can imagine. But for some reason, I am not the slightest bit stressed. It was the weirdest thing, I was cleaning vomit, urine and fecal matter off a kid and the walls of the seclusion room after a particularly nasty psychotic temper tantrum. All my coworkers were totally grossed out and I was all business as usual.

It was nice to come home to an empty house this afternoon. I did a quick sweep, gathering up all the dirty towels and putting right all the things that the old people had put wrong. When Master got home, it was so right to be able to kneel and place my forehead on the floor between his feet. I had missed that a lot. He scolded me sharply for not having my collar and cuffs on... and actually gave me a little kick right in the ass as I scrambled to put them on.

Well he finally woke up. And the soup is amazing.

"Roll over"

He did it again, the second time this week. The being yanked from deep sleep to urgent, demanding hands... awake hands... There is a qualitative difference. Instantly I too am awake and keenly aware. He wants me. He wants me now. Wordlessly I shift and spread, lick my fingers and reach down and moisten my lower lips to ease his entry and guide him into me.

He is hard, so hot and raging hard in my hand. I wonder if he had been lying there unable to sleep, stroking his cock to get it so hard, so ready. Or did he just have a dream and wake up this way, aching and hungry for me. He makes a small grunting moan of satisfaction as he first pushes into me. I am awake but not aroused. The first thrusts are rough and just slightly painful in my dry and sleepy cunt.

I am on my back, on leg pulled up and the other over his hip. He grips those legs and spreads them even wider, making me grunt with effort and discomfort. His thigh slides up onto my belly as we scissor and I become aware of how much I need to pee. I grit my teeth and tighten up on him, both to enhance his pleasure and to keep from leaking on him as he slams into me.

He pulls at my legs impatiently and grinds against me, pushing as deep as possible and the breath catches in his throat as he comes. He keeps his grip on my for a long time, sliding his cock in and out of me, teasing every last shiver of pleasure out of his cock before he releases me. I finally reach for a cloth from the stack by the bed and hand it to him, whispering that I really, really need to pee, pushing his heavy leg up and off my bladder.

I scoot out of the bed and rush to the toilet, holding a second towel against me to catch the spill of come the wants to trickle down my leg and shudder with a tiny spasm of dreadful delight as I can finally let the piss out. It feels so good.

He lifts the blankets up, a gesture of apparent invitation and I slip up next to him preparing to snuggle close and his elbow slams into my face as he turns his back to me. I gasp and chuckle at the accidental blow. His voice is soft, sleepy and just a little amused, "Get back on your side of the bed, Bitch." But then he reached around and pulled me to spoon tight against his back, and spoke one last word. "Sorry."

I can see over his shoulder the red letters of the alarm clock. 3:00 am. I press close to his back and close my eyes, savoring the warmth and the slight sting and tingle between my legs. As I fall asleep I think about how much I like this sex, this sex that does not expect anything from me but my devotion to his pleasure. There is no thought of my needs. I am just a receptacle, a warm and willing hole to use... an object to masturbate into.

Fiction... A Thanksgiving Fantasy

“I bought you a present, Pretty Girl.” His voice was warm, calm, even happy. It was a Christmas morning kind of voice.

It penetrated her sense of mounting anxiety. Her voice was tense and squeaked a little, “Present?”

Her eyes widened as he held up a new thing, a black and strappy thing. It took a minute for her eyes to sort out the shape of it, to assign meaning to the tangle. It was a gag, a penis gag like she had pointed out to him so long ago on the kinky toy website.

He nodded as he saw the recognition and understanding grow in her eyes. “Open up, Pretty Girl.”

She nervously licked her lips and hesitantly spread her lips. The plastic cock filled her mouth, not too long but wide, it forced her jaws wider as he pushed it in and buckled the straps around her head. She blinked and moved her tongue around it. The plastic flavor was unpleasant and the scent of it and the new leather straps filled her nostrils. It did not penetrate too deep, she did not feel sickened or like she would choke, but it filled her mouth and the leather it was attached to covered her lips snugly. She bit down experimentally. It was just barely resilient.

His voice dropped to a demanding growl, “Scream for me.”

She flinched and surged against the ropes binding her as the pain lanced through her. She let out a muffled scream.

“Yes, good, exactly what we needed.”

She nodded her understanding. It was Wednesday, the night before Thanksgiving. The house already smelled of sage and cinnamon. Tomorrow the house would be full of the sounds and movement of loved ones. Some had already arrived and were hopefully sound asleep in the upstairs guest room. The gag meant he had every intent of hurting her but did not want to disturb the guests.

“Stay there, Pretty Girl, I will be right back. There are just a few more things I need to get before I can get cooking.”

She could not laugh at this joke, but she raised her eyebrows at him. She was already trussed up like a turkey. Those were his exact words; “trussed like a turkey”. Her arms were pinned behind her back exactly like she would soon twist the Thanksgiving turkey’s wings in the morning, bound behind her back and as she lay on them they forced her back to arch and lift up her full breasts to his sadistic whim. Her legs were sharply bent at the knee and bound up to her chest, spread wide. The arch in her back prevented her from lifting her head too high, but she knew that between those spread knees lay her empty holes. She lay there, thinking of what might come next, thinking about her holes, wet and hungry gaping holes, raw and meaty holes, waiting holes, holes waiting to be stuffed. The image of her hands filled with bread and onion stuffing, moving into the gaping hole of the turkey, pushing the sage scented filling into that dark opening until it was filled. These images mixed with her own predicament, her holes and his hands, the scent of lust confused with the scent of roasting meat. Her mouth flooded with saliva and as she swallowed convulsively she felt a matching trickle of moisture spill out between her legs and run down the curve of her ass.

His hands were full as he came back into the room, full of things from her kitchen, turkey basters, onions, spatulas, cucumbers, barding needles and cotton twine. He paused and let her stare at his hands, a slow sadistic smile slowly spreading across his face. His voice was softly taunting, “I was inspired by all your meal preparations today.”

He casually dropped the items on the bed and reached for the blindfold. “Time to get cooking, Pretty Girl.”

The next morning as she moved about the kitchen, as she met and wrapped her arms around all the people of her life, her smile was soft, her eyes thoughtful, soft little giggles seemed to rise up from nowhere as she prepared the bird for their meal.

Happy Holidays...

It was a regular outfit… form fitting jeans, long red polka dot shirt, black cardigan. The polka dot shirt did hang out below the sweater making a sort of a frilly, flouncy skirt thingy. But something about it caught Master’s eye. He was happy with it, making rare positive statements about what I am wearing. Usually, the only outfit that draws his attention is the lack of outfit. Naked will always catch his attention. But his compliment was a bit strange, he said I looked like Wilma. Wilma??? This was no off the shoulder, mammoth fur mini dress. There was not necklace of big white rocks around my neck. My legs were not bare… Wilma?

I screw up my face in my classic ‘Master, I just don’t get it’ expression. “Is Wilma sexy?”

“Oh yes, very much.”

Sexier than Betty?”

“Without question.” He seemed very serious about this. I have some vision of him as a pimply faced teenager masturbating to old Flintstone comics.

“And I am like Wilma?”

“You ARE Wilma.” Okay this is a bit much. He is NOT Fred. I can’t really come up with a comic book character that would fit what he looks like… maybe you could visualize a bald fifty-ish Shaggy from Scooby Doo. But you would have to put in the personality and smarts of The Brain from Pinky and the brain. But I can definitely picture him yelling, “Wilma!” There are echoes of that in the sing song, warning of “Pretty girrell….”

My black eye has gotten even prettier… spread to the other side and while they don’t match… I definitely have two black eyes now. And the yellow of the healing bruises has suffused to surround my nose and both eyes. I told Master that the yellow, brown, red and purple colors are just my fall colors. He asked if that meant my nose was going to fall off soon.

I tried to plead that marathon fellatio does not go with bruised and swollen noses. But from his unsympathetic expression, he apparently did not care. And it wasn’t so bad… actually it was very good, judging from the sounds he made as he came. For me that is better than any orgasm, that wave of joy that I feel when he comes so hard that he gets loud.

Today it is cold and nasty and wet… as usual… but the house is warm. My parents are flying in for the holiday and are arriving this evening. I am staying home all week, so I have a whole day to finish up and to just rest and relax. I got ninety percent of everything done this weekend, so there is not all that much to do. As Master was about to leave this morning and I went to kiss him good bye and wish him to drive safe and come home soon to me… and as he pushed me against the wall he said his usual… “I should tell you…”

And you know what? I interrupted him and said, “I wish you would stop talking about what you should do and just tell me.”

So I got a list of things to do. He told me to go down and hide that big pile of implements of ass destruction, to sweep and vacuum in his room. That is huge… not the hiding of whips and paddles, the dusting and sweeping stuff. He usually, hell he NEVER lets me clean his room. I washed the sheets too… something he never objects to, as long as it is all put back together before he gets home. (ppsssttt… the weapons are now under the bed in a duffle bag…)

In many ways I am fortunate that Master does not care about dust or cobwebs. He does not care about that kind of house cleaning all that much. And I am equally lucky that my parents come to visit twice a year, so that I have some external motivation to beat back the creepy cobwebs. Part of me wishes he was stricter, part of me knows I am a lucky lazy bitch.

Anyway, it is all done. I knocked down six months accumulation of dusty spider webs, swept herds of dust bunnies (muskoxen would be more accurate) into the dust bin. I had time to go get my nails done… the ultimate spoiled girl indulgence… red sparkly in honor of the holidays. And I still have about four more hours to hang out and write.

So holidays... here I come. Ohhhh, speaking of holidays... time to get that turkey bird out of the freezer. I don't know if I will have much tome to poke my head in and say hi, what with family and cooking and all those kinda fun thingies... you guys have a good one.

Toy box... um bag?

As you can see the "box" is more of a bag. You would be surprised how much you can stuff into a bag...

...see all the nice neat plastic bags? Master makes me be so neat and organized. He stands over me and micromanages the meticulous scrubbing of the insertables. (so humiliating... washing ones pussy juice off (or something far, far worse) off something and then having your Master look it over, even sniff it to make sure it is not "dirty" any more.)

See all the pretty toys? It seems from looking that my kink seriously lies in bondage and te' buttsecks. How embarrassing.

Remember how I said Master likes to make sure I am all organized and "clean"???? Just look at the mess that is his collection of implements of ass destruction...

There is no way I could fit all that into a bag... no matter how many Ziplock baggies you apply to the equation.

Speaking of cheese...

Here is a pic of that spreader bar I made. It was pretty simple. Buy bar. Sand bar. Spray bar with satin clear finish. Drill hole and twist in eye screws on either end. Add a couple of snappy things so Master does not have to bother with the tying of the pesky knots.

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".