Tip ‘o’ The Day

You know how, when men stand up to pee, there’s the splatter effect?

Did you also know if he pees in your mouth first, there’s no splatter?


In case you were thinking about complaining about having to clean up pee splatter… it tastes better if you don’t.

You’re welcome.

Shit Or Get Off The Pot

I woke up this morning with a migraine trying to make my head explode so Master fetched me some excedrin and told me to stay in bed. Of course I’m grateful, but any time something like this happens and I miss that morning service, I feel off the rest of the day. Disappointed in myself, feeling like I failed him, wishing (a little) that he was callous enough to not care and make me do it anyway– all while still being grateful that he isn’t because migraines really suck, dude.

A whole lot of my desires when it comes to bdsm activities fall into the ‘my eyes are bigger than my stomach’ category and he’s honestly the more level-headed of the two of us.

It is much more often that I hear something like “I’m not going to do that to you, cunt.” leaving me to decide if he’s just lazy/not that into it/responsible/just dumb.

Depending on my level of pms, the outcome of what I think varies widely. :D

I asked him yesterday if he had any idea how much power he held over me and he turned to me and said “Would you open your mouth and let me shit in it?”

And I’m like, jeez man, go straight to the ick-factor why don’t you? But before I could even say yes or no, he turned away and said “Of course you would. You’ll always obey.”

Which is much too true to be comfortable so let’s all thank the gods of whatever needs to be thanked that he’s just lazy/not that into it/responsible/just dumb about scat play because ick.

Though while he agrees he’s not into scat, that it holds no appeal for him whatsoever, if there’s a message that needs to be driven home by shitting in my mouth, he’ll do it for that reason alone.

So anyway. Today I find myself stewing and wishing he’d utilize more of the power he holds over me because I’m a needy, greedy whore, and I’m trying not to be surly about it because I really do not want shit in my mouth.

I want him to do what I want to do (which doesn’t involve shit in any capacity, actually) but I know if I get petulant about it he’ll do what HE wants to do (it only took me 10 years to figure that out, ha!) and it is very hard to say what he might choose to do to drive a message home.

It would give new meaning to having a shitty day.

Think I’ll pass, tyvm. ~nods~

Let’s Play A Game…

Match the mark to the implement and win a million dollars!

IMG_3196 - Copy

Just kidding. I don’t have a million dollars.

IMG_3198 - Copy

I don’t have any prizes, actually.


I just need a hobby. :)

1. Singeltail
2. Brass knuckle meat tenderizer
3. His fist
4. Paddle
5. Rubber loopy hateful thing
6. His open hand
7. Misery stick

Yay! You win! Let me know what you want for a prize. ;-)


So much for easing into the Houston scene. I was super nervous about going, I’m shy and I have body image issues and I didn’t wanna. He placated me, patting my head and saying we’d just watch, check things out, see how things work. He packed the toy bag anyway because the last time he went (before I got here) he played with another girl and didn’t have any of his own stuff, so, you know, he was being a good little boy scout and soothe soothe, pat pat, don’t worry baby, we’re just observing.

I could tell he was getting itchy while we were watching another girl I’d met earlier that day getting her poor butt hammered on and she was making delightfully sexy moans and groans and whimpers- and I knew I was toast.

Anyway. Yeah. Observing, my ASS.

Haha, literally.

He wasn’t exactly going easy on me, but he didn’t make me cry so it that respect he was nicer than he could have been. I’m grateful for that because I hate to cry in front of strangers.

The cuffs work! I struggled so hard that my wrists are sore and swollen, and my right thumb is numb from the tip to the base (still, 3 days later!) but I wasn’t going anywhere. I sure tried, though. I have to admit it’s pretty easy to be restrained with these things on all the time.

That’s the point, derp. You mean they aren’t just for decoration?? ~wide eyed blink~

My ankles hurt. Still. Stairs are a killer because of the bouncing, and sometimes so is just walking because of the flexing. Where that tendon flexes at the front of the ankle? Ouchies. That’s the worst of it, right there. And on the ankle bone itself, too.

The wrists aren’t too bad, other than what I just did to myself over the weekend, making them all sore and swollen so they hurt just to be touched anyway, but the cuffs doing their everyday slipping around haven’t made them sore. I’m already starting to forget they are there, up until I bang it against something because it’s loud.

To say that he (and me, too!) is enjoying it here doesn’t even begin to convey the truth of the matter. He hasn’t called me anything but cunt since I got here. He hasn’t stopped smiling since I got here. He’s going back to the snap and point blow job/service technique–

(sidenote: it’s really amazing to me how quickly and easily some of this old stuff came back. I realized it the other day when he snapped his fingers and my head whipped around and my heart flipped and my limbs jerked- and he wasn’t even snapping them at me. He was after the cat or the dog or something. Apparently, he instilled that bit pretty well all those years ago.)

He’s gone over a whole list of expectations. Some new, some just reinstated, some easy, some hard. He’s stricter. More rigid.

And dude. I’m in fucking heaven. Seriously. He could dial it up about 10 more notches and I’d still be flying high.

Love love LOVE being a slave. Love being HIS slave. Love the structure, the rules, the consequences, the rigidity.

More, harder, meaner…

That’s gonna be my byline from now.

More. Just that.

Well. Except for this:

Please, Master.


I’ve seen a few writings on the typical days in the life of a slave. I haven’t seen one on the typical day in the life of an Owner. So I’ve been mentally tracking M’s last few days.

Here’s a general run-down of his schedule:

Day One
Coffee and breakfast prepared and served.
Watching me clean naked.
Blow jobs on demand.
Watching me clean naked,
Lunch prepared and served.
Play games.
Beat the cunt for funsies.
Dinner prepared and served.
Mess around online.
Go to bed, leaving the dog-walking, water-serving, light-shutting-offing to the cunt.

Day Two
Coffee and breakfast prepared and served.
Play games.
Get fucked on command.
Mess around online.
Lunch prepared and served.
Watching me clean naked.
More blow jobs.
More beating for funsies.
More naked cleaning.
More food.
Bedtime again.

Rumor has it it’s good to be the Boss. I’m starting to believe it.

~wondering if it’s too late to switch professions~

The Day My Pussy Almost Ruined Sex

It started out pretty normal enough. I had gone into the bathroom to get ready for bed, had squirted on my toothpaste and just put the brush in my mouth when he appeared behind me (from outta nowhere like some sort of ninja dom), snatched me by the hair and said “Come on. I’m going to use you.” I had time to toss my toothbrush into the sink and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before being unceremoniously shoved under the desk.

Pretty standard fucking ensued.

(How’s that for hot smut writing, huh? Heh.)

The mancave where the desk is has just barely been unpacked. That’s HIS domain, his stuff. So I’ve stayed out. The only thing that is set up is the desk (no surprise there) and his porn computer.

What? Doesn’t every household have a designated porn computer? O.O

Anyway, so there’s boxes stacked here and there, but there’s nothing on the walls, no rugs on the floor, it’s just bare bare bare and rather echo-y.

So I’m down there getting pummeled from behind. Most of you ladies will feel me when I mention how doing it doggy style tends to push some air up there in the ol’ vagina. Ever since the hysterectomy, my vagina sucks in air like a fucking turbo deluxe Hoover when we’re doing it doggy. So much, sometimes, that it fills me up and I cramp and then when he thrusts in anyway, there’s pain.. oh so much pain… as the air is misplaced and I expand like a an overblown balloon and I whimper and moan and rock around a bit trying to create a vent somewhere.

And gee, doesn’t he just hate all that whimpering and moaning and rocking while he’s fucking me. ~eyeroll~

He’s pounding away and I started going dry, which is not a result of the surgery because contrary to other women losing their lubrication as a result of a hysterectomy, I became a gushing puddle of girl-goo from some unknown faucet of femininity that was tapped by my skillful surgeon. I’m usually so wet and gooey that he has to pull out and wipe some off if he wants to feel any friction at all… but not this time– primarily because the a/c vent was blowing right on my ass and drying me right the fuck up.

Now normally he could give two shits about my poor abraded labia as he fucks me dry. Normally he likes it. Normally he does it harder and faster so I can “feel it two days later when you wipe, whore”. (He’s such a romantic.) But this time it was pinching his poor precious penis so he stopped. Because awww.

“Suck me off, cunt.” Alright, fine, fine. I flicked off some dried girl-goo first because yuck and then took his pussy-flavored dick in my mouth and went to town.

I did mention I had been getting ready for bed, right? It was late. I was tired. Let’s wrap this show up, shall we? So I half-knelt, half-squatted there betwixt his legs, my bottom hovering an inch or two above the hardwood floor in the echo-y, empty room, bobbing up and down for all I’m worth.

(I’m giving her all she’s got, Captain!)

He’s getting close to coming, getting firmer in my mouth. There’s saliva running freely down his balls, his fist tangling in my hair, his hips thrusting up to meet my lips–

–and then he thrusts a little harder than I’m prepared for and I gag. A deep, from the bottom-of-my-belly gag and all that air that my vagina had hoovered up came rushing out of me and vibrated… VIBRATED… against the hardwood floor and echoed… ECHOED.. in the empty room.

And I stopped sucking.

I stopped moving.


…and then he giggled.

And then I giggled.

And then I snorted around his cock and queefed again.

And then he laughed.

And then I laughed.

And then he biffed me on the back of the head and told me to get back to sucking.

So, alls well that ends well (at least for him) but somethings gotta be done about my hoovering va-jay-jay.

Cuffs, collars and cars.

Point of reference. Traffic in Houston. And also why I’m never ever driving anywhere ever again. Nope.


The new cuffs.


The cuffs are from Eternity Collars, the collar is from Ring of Steel.


ps. I was right about the ankle cuffs being ouchie.

pps. I was also right about enjoying that I have to wear them even though they are ouchie.

So how is it anyway?

If that isn’t the loaded question of the year.

It’s different. Short answer.

Long answer? Wellll…

It smells different. The air, I mean. It smells… musty. Probably because everything is damp ALL THE TIME. It’s humid here (<-- that would be the understatement of the year). I went for a walk at 8am and that was far too late in the day to be outside. This morning I left for a walk at 6:30am and while infinitely more comfortable, it was still humid enough that I had boob sweat rolling down my stomach and if it hadn't been so overcast, would have been just as miserable as the 8am walk.

The water tastes and smells different. City water is gross. Sometimes it smells sewer-y. And it doesn't get cold no matter how long you let the faucet run. I see bottled water in my future.

It's crowded. There are people every-fucking-where. There are stores everywhere and restaurants everywhere and food carts and people selling things on street corners and homeless/poor people asking for money and the traffic is INSANE. Going a few miles can take 30 or 40 minutes! In the U.P., it takes 30 or 40 minutes to go 30 or 40 miles, lol.

So we live in the 'burbs, in a subdivision, where the houses all look the same and are so close to each other you can practically taste each other's dinners. I got lost taking a walk the other day (well not lost, but you know) because you’d think you could walk in a simple square block and be back where you started, but not so, as it turns out. I ended up having to retrace my steps, and even then I have to read the numbers on the houses to find my own because they are pretty much identical.

And yet… it’s not so bad. We have a little backyard with a privacy fence and when we’re out there, we can’t see anyone and they can’t see us. We can’t really hear anyone unless they are yelling in their own yards. There is nobody behind us as it’s a greenway, so that helps to feel a little more private. There isn’t a whole lot of traffic through here and we’re far enough off the main roads to not have a lot of traffic noise.

The house is nice. Newer. There is central air, nice fixtures and appliances, everything is freshly painted (in buy-me-beige, lol). It’s clean, the floors are nice (ceramic tile and laminate, no carpet), the windows and blinds are nice.

Overall, it’s much smaller than the other house but the living room and kitchen are bigger, as is the master bedroom, and with it just being the two of us, that’s all we need. It doesn’t really feel like we downsized. There are 3 bedrooms, so we still have a spare room and M still gets his mancave/office. There are 3 bathrooms, too, 2 full, 1 half. It’s a 2-story house, all the bedrooms and 2 bathrooms are upstairs, and I think that adds to the feeling of having not lost a lot of space. And there’s a small garage for M’s tools and such as well.

The part that feels the most like we downsized is the yard. Going from over 6 acres to… I don’t know, probably a 30 foot by 20 foot yard (40 x 30? I’m horrible at guessing distance) is a big change. But it’s big enough for the dog to do her business and to play a little bit, and it’s nicely manicured with 2 pretty flowering trees, and we set up a small patio set outside the back door, so all in all, it’s good.

Speaking of the animals, I’ve talked with those who have ours and everyone is doing well. I have to admit that downsizing the pets has its perks. It’s almost… pleasant. And with everyone doing well where they are, I’m much less guilt-ridden over it these days.

And we’ve gone shopping and been out to eat and explored the city. I am having some serious culture shock but it’s also all so fascinating and different and busy and noisy and energetic and amazing.

M’s been pretty busy with the new job. There are a lot of things that have to be done before he’s actually doing what he’s been hired to do, a lot of training and testing and what-have-you, so he’s been preoccupied and a little stressed and I’m just biding my time until he turns his attentions back to me.

I still have some boxes to unpack, including whichever box has the njoy in it. I’m really in nooooo hurry to find it, to be honest. :)

I do have my collar back on and I had a new set of matching cuffs that I wore for a few days, but ultimately it was decided I need a smaller size so they’ve been repackaged and the new ones are on their way. Including ankle cuffs, which honestly just sound painful. Hard steel around ankle bones? Ouch. I mean, my wrists were getting sore those few days I wore the cuffs but I’m hoping that was because they were too big and were flopping around my wrist bones. We’ll see I guess!

And even though it sounds like it’s going to be uncomfortable, the idea of having the cuffs, both ankles and wrists, plus the collar, on and locked makes me squishy in my warm spots.

We’ve had some pretty damn hot sexy times. Under the desk and out from under the desk. I growled and grunted so hard one time that all the next day my throat burned and my chest ached. I suggested he not fuck me into a heart attack but he just grinned and patted himself on the back because ego.

No play, though. At least no formal play, with toys and bondage, not yet anyway. Is it weird that I differentiate between that kind of play and the other, everyday sort of slapping, pinching, ordering about, corrections, etc., etc. that go on all the time? I mean, the other day, I was getting coffee and he held out his cup for a refill but I already had my cup in hand and was just getting ready to pour mine, which I went ahead and did just because I was already moving that way, and he deliberately made me put everything down, took off my glasses and gave me a nice, stingy face-slapping lesson in who gets served first, but that’s not formal play. It’s not play. Maybe that’s the difference. I don’t know.

Anyway. In due time, or so I suspect. Nothing feels settled here, it’s not home. It still feels like a hotel, you know? You can’t play in a hotel. It doesn’t feel comfortable!

That’s my story.

Moving Tips

Turns out his suggestions for unpacking aren’t really “suggestions”. They’re not even simple guidelines. They are more like…oh… direct orders.

Who knew, right?

Retorting with “Hey. Who’s doing the unpacking here, me or you?” isn’t well received, even if he is just sitting in a chair watching me work. Seems I rather prefer my tongue residing pleasantly (and painlessly) in my mouth and not being yanked (painfully) over my head.

See? Always learning, I am. :-)

Bye Yoopers

I think the internet is being turned off today and I’ll be offline, at least until I get to Master. I’m leaving here Monday, stopping at my parents for the night, possibly the next day and night, too, depending. I should be at my new “home” by Thursday.

It’s not HOME, not yet anyway, so it’s “home”. Yes, with all the disdain you can pack into air quotes. Hmmph.

I’m hella nervous about the road trip. We all know how well I travel by myself because I’m such an independent, free spirit. O.O

When I get there I’m going to sleep for a week before he starts all this “extreme servitude” tomfoolery, lol. I am exhausted! Holy shit. Just two days left and my to-do list is still pretty daunting.

But I miss my Master something awful. I miss being ordered around. I miss being touched. I miss making him coffee and serving it. I miss sleeping with him. I miss sex (even the buttsecks!). I miss his cock in my face, his hand in my hair or around my throat or slapping my face/ass/boob/thigh/everywhere. I miss his voice and his humor and his energy and his presence and his everything.

And I miss my collar(!), which somehow got packed and sent with him in all of the hullabaloo of taking it off when we saw my parents last month, going to B-man’s graduation, traveling for a week, and then making the decision to move and having to be packed up and out of here in 3 weeks. My shiny, shiny collar got left in my dumb jewelry box and packed in an ugly box and put on the stupid truck.

I can’t tell you how many times, over the last week and a half, that I’ve reached for it; a self-soothing habit that I’ve developed over time in his absences. I just touch it, wrap a finger around it and appreciate the weight of it, how solid and unyielding, yet so, so warm. Kind of like him. Comforting but with a steel core.

Heh. That’s all very Harlequin romance melodrama, isn’t it? ;)

Anyway. I’m ready to go. Ready to start this new chapter and see where he’s taking us, taking me. I am battling the expectations as we speak, people. I am notorious for building up unrealistic expectations (or even realistic ones but mine and not his, if you get me) so I’m trying not to go there. Which is difficult when he says the things he says to me because, shit. He’s a hot hot talker. Gets my juices flowing, he does. :)

So I’m ready but I’m sad, too. I’ll miss it here (but not the mosquitoes. Fuckers have more of my blood than I do). I’ll miss my house and my yard and my chickens and the privacy and seclusion (we have neighbors in the new house. Ugh! lol) and I just hope this is all worth it.

Mostly I’ll miss the people. I’ve made friends here. There’s a great little kinky community here. There are people I didn’t get the opportunity to know very well and that makes it hard to leave, hard to think about the missed opportunities, and there are others that I did get to know very well and that makes it even harder to go.

To all my locals (to mah peeps!), thank you. For being kind and welcoming, for reaching out, for always being there when we (or I) needed you. I hope we were as good to you as you were to us.

Thank you for never making us feel weird about our kinks or our relationship style. Thank you for not judging. Thank you for the play parties and the opportunities to explore in an accepting atmosphere. Thank you for fighting to keep the munches and parties going, even in the face of apparent disinterest. Thank you for opening us up to new events and new people. For showing us that most of the ‘community’ is fun and welcoming and open to everyone.

So just… thanks. Lots. We’ll miss you. And if you ever want to escape the snow drifts and frigid temps and wind chill, always remember you’ll have a southern getaway just waiting for you. :)


Today, B-man and I started the process of moving him out. It was just me and him. B-man likes to lift weights. He has a set of olympic weights and a few more odd pieces, plus the various bars and barbells and whatever-the-fuck-it-is paraphernalia.

This isn’t really about B-man being a weight lifter, though. This is about me whining about having to carry all those weights up the stairs from his room and then down the porch stairs into the car. I mean he helped, and in fact he did the heaviest ones (because wimp) but I hauled my share. Then we drove it to where we were going and carried it all over again.

And then a little while after all that, I had to get busy cleaning out the chicken coop. We used the deep litter method over this past winter which meant there was 6 or 7 inches of matted, dirty, poopy straw covering the floor in our 12 by 8 foot coop. It was smelly, it was hot, it was extremely dusty. I had to shovel it into a large plastic garbage can, then drag the can the length of, oh, maybe 2 football fields, across bumpy lumpy ground, around fallen logs and trees and bushes, to the place furthest from the house and yard to dump it. I did that about… 70 million times.

*At least!*

…and I still have the last 3 or 4 feet of the coop to finish. I worked until I felt like I was coughing up straight up chicken shit from my lungs because there was so much filth floating around the air inside the coop that I couldn’t not breathe it in.

And then I died. Yep. No joke. Well, first I took a shower because I was covered in dusty poop and I was stiiiiiiiinky! But then I died.

Master was taking a nap.

I mean, he’s not here anyway, so he couldn’t help even if he wanted to. But I still thought it was worth mentioning. He was napping. lol. Because slave.

Anyway. I’m tired. And sore. And still coughing. But I smell better.