I have a teensy weensy bruise left on my boob.
It’s all that is left from this beautiful mess.
When Master returns in THREE FUCKING DAYS that tiny bruise will be gone and I’ll be a clean slate again.
Ready for Round Two. Ding! Ding! Ding!
I have a teensy weensy bruise left on my boob.
It’s all that is left from this beautiful mess.
When Master returns in THREE FUCKING DAYS that tiny bruise will be gone and I’ll be a clean slate again.
Ready for Round Two. Ding! Ding! Ding!
Is it too early to be thinking about Valentine’s Day? Maybe I’m having a hormonal surge or maybe I just really really miss my man but I’m feeling very romantic lately. I want to make heart shaped cakes and glittery construction paper cards and buy him gifts like this:
What? You don’t think he’d appreciate my thoughtfulness? ;-)
If he’s looking to buy me something in the romance department, I’d like one of these, please:
Is it odd that after all this time and with all of our smarts (cough) we don’t have any “easy” restraint system on our bed? Do you know why we end up not using restraints 90% of the time? Because they aren’t easily accessible! There is little I love more than some hot bondage sex so I want THAT.
In case you’re also looking for some Valentine’s Day romance in your bedroom, Extreme Restraints has got you covered.
Mona Wales is a tough cookie. She loves choking, spitting, face fucking and anal. She is the ultimate attention whore and loves to be degraded and humiliated in public. Will this be her most challenging shoot yet? Will this slut finally get enough disgrace to satisfy her whorish desires? First she gets a basic fucking over in a filthy bathroom- takes nasty cocks in the ass, a crowd of perverts and a face full of cum. But Ariel X is not through with her yet! Mona gets dragged outside and paraded through folsom street fair with painful electricity coursing through her body. Ariel prods her onward with a cane and a flogger and she ends up on the kink.com stage performing the ultimate act of humiliation.watch and find out! Pissing, face fucking, anal, electricity, bondage, extreme emotional humiliation.
Do you all remember the Delia Day thing from years ago? I have no idea why I thought of it or even why I still remembered her name, but I did a quick google search because the last time I’d heard anything about it, I don’t think she’d even been to trial yet.
For anyone who doesn’t remember or hasn’t heard of it, Delia Day was a slave who ran a site called “My illustrated life as a sex slave” where she detailed her life in a Master/slave, full time, tpe relationship. Much as many of us do in our blogs, sharing intimate details of s&m, sharing photos, and talking about our Owners and how much we like (or dislike) the things they do to us.
Then on December 2, 2003, she shot and killed him.
So.. 2003 was before I’d started blogging and I’m not sure if I had ever seen her site in particular, but I had been online exploring BDSM before 2003 and her name was familiar. I do recall that once the crime hit the news and the bdsm angle came into focus, there was a whole lot of talk on blogs and sites and chat rooms about Delia and the crime, just as there is today whenever bdsm gets thrown into the news via a nasty crime.
I also recall getting some flack here, even though my blog came around some time after her crime, with certain unpleasant commenters telling me that I would eventually do the same to my Master because… well because, don’t you see that we all snap and kill our Owners?? ~eyeroll~
Anyway! So why I started thinking about her again I don’t know (and no, not because I’m planning to shoot him) but I did and I googled to see if there had been any new news and I found this.
If you don’t want to read it, I’ll sum it up. Basically, a grand jury failed to indict her due to their S&M lifestyle, calling the event self-defense. She claimed that she didn’t author a single entry in her blog, that her husband (Master) had written them all, she was abused, blah blah blah….
I knew she was going to claim self defense and abuse. I didn’t know she was going to deny writing her blog, where -it would seem- evidence of consent was.
It’s just left a bad taste in my mouth all day. You know? I don’t have a single doubt that she consented to the relationship she was in, and I can’t even swallow the idea of him “orchestrating” the entire collection of blog entries written from her point of view.
It’s like consent has been sullied.
The article then goes on to say that of course there is nothing *wrong* with a bdsm relationship, provided of course, that you do it like they think you should with safe words and such. Otherwise, someone’s gonna shot.
It’s hard to believe that there are only 8 days left before Master comes home. It’s hard to believe that 3 weeks have passed already. It honestly has not been nearly as bad as I thought it would be and I’m feeling like this could actually work. The pay off is that when he does get home, he’s home-home. At home, no going into the office, no traveling- for the next entire 30 days. Unless he wants to go back out, that is. But I hope he won’t want to.
Of course for this next month, about a week after he gets home, we will be going to pick up the babygirls and will have them for the rest of his month home. I’m looking forward to having them, though (don’t I always?), because the next time I get to see them after this visit will be who-knows-when. They leave for Germany in early March.
I still keep waiting for a change in his orders, though. The Army does that, right? Changes its mind all willy nilly? I just can’t wrap my head around them all being on another continent for 3 years. I’m in denial. I’ve managed to see them on average of every 3 months or so and I don’t see that happening in Germany. It’s going to be rough. I’m quite attached to my babygirls, in case you haven’t picked up on that.
I haven’t gotten nearly as much done in the house as I’d planned in his absence. In part because I need his input, or his help at least, on some if it. One of the changes he had decided to make was to eliminate the man cave. His need of a man cave, or a place to seclude himself in, disappeared when we became emptynesters. It just wasn’t something we’d remembered or realized when we moved, so he’d made his little nest and promptly disappeared into it. That alone contributed a lot to our earlier issues, wherein I felt isolated and ignored. The man cave was on another floor and it became easier for him to sort of ‘serve himself’ rather than wait on me to climb the stairs to him. Which sounds minor but ended up being a big sticking point.
There’s a lot of talk around about how a Master isn’t obligated to “let” his slave service him if he chooses not to, and while I agree with that to an extent, I think everything has to be in balance. For me, not being “allowed” to service him (or expected to, perhaps) began to affect me quite negatively. I really began to question my purpose, whether or not I was needed in that capacity, and if not, then what *else* should I be doing? Languishing away in a separate room all by myself was surely not satisfying on any level. Becoming more and more sullen by the moment was surely not helping.
So, once we’d managed to find a place in our emotions to communicate and to really hear what the other was saying, he wondered why he’d even set up his man cave in this house in the first place. If he’s truly not trying to escape ME, that is.
Long story short, we’d been in the process of incorporating his man cave ‘stuff’ into the main living area of the house when he’d gotten the call that his flight had been moved ahead by 3 days and we didn’t have the time to finish that. I am not comfortable with, nor would he want me to and neither am I physically capable of, moving his items by myself.
It’s more than just being nearby when he wants a fresh glass of water or a beer or a snack. It’s about being forgotten. I’d been forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind. He can get tunnel vision, and I don’t know that I’ve ever been all that important enough to stay in the forefront of his mind. Or… I don’t know. That sounds harsh and unfair, but I know that I am never not acutely aware of where he is or what he’s doing, and that is not requited from him to me.
I’m pretty hopeful this will help with a whole lot of that. If he still chooses not to need me or use me, that’s his prerogative and I get that. I can accept that. At least it won’t be because he’s forgotten I exist if I’m sitting right there next to him.
Does that make sense or am I still being all me-me-me?
In other news, I’ve been doing fairly well on the diet and exercise front. Depending on how the stars align, I’ve lost anywhere from 6 to 10 pounds in the three weeks he’s been gone. Some days I step on the scale and it’s down by 10, other days I want to throw it out the window because it’s creeping back up. I know, I know, your weight fluctuates but it can fluctuate down, tyvm. My measurements are consistently going down, though.
It’s actually much easier to diet and exercise when he isn’t here, I’m finding. Which worries me for when he gets back. I don’t want to start a yo-yo of losing when he’s away only to gain it all back the month he’s home. But it’s just easier to fix myself something small and light and I’m not tempted by the bigger, heavier meals he prefers. It’s also easier to exercise when the mood strikes me, whether that’s at 6am or at 10pm, and I won’t have that luxury either. I know it’ll be about my own self discipline-or lack of-and him holding me to it to help. I just know from past attempts to do this, it’s been a pretty miserable failure. I’m not blaming him, btw, just stating fact and trying to come up with a plan to not repeat past mistakes.
I’ve been holding myself to the rules and expectations, mostly in an attempt to create habit, but also to help lose this weird thing I have about it not mattering if he isn’t here to see it/doesn’t notice it. The last thing I want is to have to spend a portion of the 30 days he’s home reacquainting myself with “how to be His slave” and having him get upset over me forgetting the basic things, like the water glass at bedtime. I’ve spent far too much time and energy waiting on him to prompt my service rather than my service being the prompting he might need to stand tall in his dominance again.
And, last but not least, in a comment a few days ago something was mentioned about bringing back the playful side of me and I hadn’t realized until just that moment how grim everything had become. I used to find all of this, from blogging to serving him to accepting his sadism a joyful, playful, fun adventure, full of silliness and laughter with just the right amount of wicked seriousness to keep it real. But that’s been gone a long time and I’d like it back. Maybe I needed to mourn the changes, but maybe… maybe that’s just enough of that now.
She stood still in front of the full length mirror gazing up and down her form with a critical eye. Turning to see her rear, she reached to straighten the slightly misaligned seam on her stocking. He liked them perfectly straight. Perfectly.
“He” was Mister. That was the title he’d given her on their first date. No name, no other personal information. Just Mister. She’d shrugged off the secretive nature at the time, as it wasn’t uncommon in her line of work. Husbands hiding from wives, politicians hiding from voters, employees hiding from bosses, celebrities hiding from fans. It didn’t matter to her who they were hiding from. She was paid to perform, sure, but she was mostly paid to keep secrets.
Faces and names didn’t matter. Usually. She’d been employed as a call girl with London Escort Girls 4 U long enough that the faces blurred, the names tangled. But somewhere along the way, this one had begun to intrigue her. She’d had lots of repeat clients, lots who requested her by name. This was the first one who, when she’d been told she’d been hired to see Mister again, had caused a shiver to crawl along her spine and nerves to flutter in her tummy.
That had been many dates ago now. She’d learned him well by now. Knew his preference for perfume scents. Knew he disliked her fake flirty giggle. Knew he could tell when she was faking an orgasm. Come to think of it, she thought, she didn’t actually know anything about HIM at all, only what he wanted from HER.
She leaned in close and gave her make up one more scan. Sultry, smokey eyes under perfectly plucked brows, heavily mascaraed lashes, bright red lips. Lightly blushed cheekbones highlighted her peaches and cream complexion. Enjoy it, she thought to herself. It won’t look like this when he’s finished with me. She slid her feet into high heels, gave her dress one last smooth over her hips, and then click-clacked her way out the door.
The car met her outside. Sleek, black and shiny under the streetlights. She slid into the passenger seat and immediately turned to him. His eyes crawled over her face, her hair, down to her cleavage. Politely, she inquired “Where are we going, Mist-?”
He held up a finger to silence her and thrust his hand at her crotch. She promptly spread her thighs, lifting her ass slightly from the seat; the cool night air tickled the warm moist folds of her cunt and she shivered. His fingers roughlly groped at the folds, seeking entrance. She spread farther. Accommodating.
The fingers entered her unkindly, pinching at the delicate skin. Her brow creased before she remembered to smooth it. She stayed spread, silent, waiting. He thrust in and out for a minute or more, his eyes never leaving her face. Boring in, watching, testing. She kept the mask carefully, expertly, in place. Lips slightly parted, eyes half-lidded, breathing slow. Just as he liked it.
He yanked out of her and sat back, putting his slick fingers to his nose and inhaling deeply. The silence that settled after the crude wet sucking sound of his rough finger fucking was palpable. She waited, a blush rising from her chest to her cheeks.
“It smells good.” he said, finally.
“Thank you, Mister.” she replied, her voice small.
He put the car in drive then and they rode in silence. He didn’t welcome small talk. He didn’t answer questions, he asked the questions. Arriving at the hotel, she followed him quietly down the carpeted hall and into the room.
“Sit.” he commanded, pointing to the edge of the bed.
She sat, primly.
He poured himself a drink and loosened his tie, leaning against the table across from her. She straightened her posture and he quirked a brow, giving a small nod of approval. Then:
“Are you sore? Have you been fucking lots of men?”
She looked down at her lap, suddenly not able to look him in the eye. “A little, yes. I mean a little sore, not a little bit of men….there have been some. Not a lot. Not… so many.” she stammered to a stop, flustered.
He liked to fluster her.
“How many? How many since I last fucked your pussy?”
“I..I’m not sure. I didn’t keep count.”
“Estimate.” he said softly.
She swallowed, her throat clicking. She shifted slightly on the bed, her recently violated cunt clenched, begging to be filled again. “I think, maybe, six or seven, Mister.”
“Was it six or was it seven?”
“I.. si… seven. It was seven.”
“Seven!” he gave a low, exaggerated whistle. “Did all seven of them fuck your pussy?”
“All seven of them fucked my pussy.” Her voice had begun to tremble and she plucked at her dress in discomfort.
“Stop fidgeting,” he admonished, slapping her lightly on the back of her hands. “Tell me more.” She stilled her fingers in her lap. “Look at me,” he said quietly and she lifted her eyes to his and was trapped. “Tell me. Did they fuck your ass?”
Her face flushed deeper. “Yes, Mister. Some of them did.”
“Fou..five of them.” she stammered.
“I had five cocks in my ass, Mister.”
“Did you suck their cocks?”
“Yes.” she whispered.
“All of them?”
“I sucked seven cocks.”
He was quiet for a moment, the only sound seemed to be her heart hammering in her chest and the rapid pace of her breathing.
“Seven.” he repeated. “Seven cocks in your pussy. Seven cocks in your mouth. Five cocks in your ass.”
She whimpered, soft and low. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. It took all of her willpower to keep her hot cunt on the bed and not climb across to straddle his lap, to not grab his hand and shove his fingers back inside.
He shook his head and sighed almost regretfully. He began to unbuckle his belt.
Her cunt convulsed and she moaned.
“That’s a lot of spankings. That’s an awful lot of spankings.”
“Oh, yes, Mister,” she breathed.
He reached over and plucked at a loose thread on the hem of her dress. “And that’ll add one more.”
… that with Master gone and no kids here, I would have loads of free time. I’ve been really busy, though. When he’s not here, my productivity skyrockets. It should be the opposite, right?
Something I’ve noticed many many times before is that when he’s here, I sort of pause. I just wait- for him to need me or to need something. I don’t start anything else, I don’t commit to anything else, I just wait. I do the very very basic chores but only quick stuff, or the necessary stuff that he won’t let me get away with not doing. I fuck around online but I don’t get involved in conversations, except with people who know I’m likely to disappear without a word.
Otherwise, I’m just sitting on stand-by. Or maybe more accurately I’m ‘on alert’.
Even when we were going through our “issues”, or when I was going through MY issue, whatever, I was still attentive to his needs and whims.
He’s commented on it before, too. He’s said when he’s here he messes up my routine. Which is absolutely true though difficult for me to think of that in terms of a negative. Neither does he, or at least he’s said as much, that he likes it.
I’ve been thinking though, since this is my 30 days of improvement (which is still on, btw)- or perhaps more accurately titled my 30 Days of It’s Not All About Me, Stupid- that that is a lot of pressure to put on one person.
I put a lot of pressure on him. I need a lot from him. More than the average bear, and especially since we’ve moved.
When I can’t seem to tear myself away from his side long enough to invest in the time it takes to clean a bathroom, perhaps the dependency has gone a little awry.
I’m conflicted, though, because he tells me he doesn’t want that to change, and yet… clearly I’ve become something of an emotional burden. Dead weight even, perhaps.
Anyway, in the week he’s been gone, I’ve tackled some of the things that needed to be done around the house since we moved. You know how there’s always those odds and ends of stuff that haven’t been unpacked because they don’t really fit anywhere so they get shoved in a closet and forgotten about- or the finer details of hanging up pictures and curtains and making a house a home. Well, I hadn’t done that. So I am.
I think I probably hadn’t in subconscious protest of this not being my home. But it is. Time to move in, right? It’s only been 6 months.
I’ve also increased my participation in the rescue group I’ve been fostering for. They do most of their events on the weekends only so it’s not a lot of time but I was there Friday, Saturday and Sunday and for someone like me, that’s an increase in socialization by like a million percent.
It felt really really good though. For ME. Not only in feeling like I was doing something meaningful, something that mattered, but in realizing that I was okay without him. When you normally do everything together, as a pair, especially with someone who has as strong of a personality as he does, I’ve gotten so accustomed to sitting comfortably in his shadow that I’d internalized that I needed him to be there or I wouldn’t be able to… I don’t know what. To make conversation? To make decisions? To be social and engaging and useful? I didn’t need him there. I was fine. I was more than fine, actually.
There’s a part of me that feels badly about that, too. More like I’m usurping his authority than actually making self improvements. But maybe with this new job and this sort of traveling schedule, there’s going to have to be some amount of loosening the reins. Something we need to talk about, I suppose.
I had gotten a spam comment on an old entry a few days ago, one of the really old ones where I rambled on a lot about the future without kids, the cunt in a cupboard stuff… and I got really sad, really wistful, and maybe a little bit angry. Then I took stock of what I have instead and I think, yes, this is the better path.
I actually started this entry 3 days ago and then it sat in the draft folder because…. well partly because I’m busy but mostly because I’ve simply lost interest in writing, I think. Temporary, maybe. Maybe not. But coming here feels like a chore, and finding words feels like a chore, and I don’t like that. So, I’m not going to force it. It’ll come back if and when it does, and then, so will I.
For those concerned about my leg falling off, I’m here to assure you that that beautiful bruise is almost entirely gone. Already! I guess next time he better punch me harder. :)
It’s my tits that are still bruised, lol.
…is what he said before his fist made contact with my thigh. It was odd, the sort of pain that exploded. Nothing at all like I’m used to- it wasn’t sharp or stingy, or even thuddy like the toys we use. It simply stole my breath as it traveled the length of my leg, everything going numb and heavy from my groin to my toes.
I rolled to the side, unable to stop the low lengthy groan emitting from my throat– and then the pain hit. A deep dark buzz zinging up and down my leg. I immediately began to leak tears– but I wasn’t crying. Almost like my brain was sure I should be sobbing but the rest of me hadn’t caught up yet. Heat radiated around my thigh, throbbing and hot.
“Symmetry!” he quipped brightly, tugging me back the other way and spreading my legs. He couldn’t see the tears, couldn’t see the pain on my face hidden behind the hood he’d laced around my head but he could hear me and I begged like a shameless motherfucker. My pleas matched the intensity of the pain.
He spread my leg out anyway and I could feel his knuckles grazing over my inner thigh as he lined up the blow. I steeled myself for it, clenching my hands while trying to relax my leg and … breathe…
There was a pause and then a slap. Just a slap. A hard one, to be sure, but compared to the punch I’d taken on the other side, it was like a butterfly’s kiss. I barked out a yelp anyway as I needed to do something with the adrenaline that had shot through me.
He leaned down, talking softly through the leather that encased my head. “I can punch a whole lot harder than what you just felt, cunt.” I whimpered. “Yes, Sir.” He reached down, grabbing my thigh and digging his thumb into the epicenter of the punch. I cried out, my hands fluttering over his arms- it seems I didn’t lose the training to never ever ever touch his hands when he’s hurting me- so they fluttered, not quite touching. “If you ever. Ever. pull this shit on me again,” his thumb ground in and I squealed “I’ll show you how much harder.”
Later, there was blood and a fucking so hard and so (amazing) rough that the njoy shot out of my ass like a torpedo, bouncing and skipping across the tile floor.
After that, an ass fucking so brutal that for the next 2 days I couldn’t hold the njoy in at all.
Now he’s gone, and it’s such a shame all the time that was wasted, but he certainly made the most of what we had left before take-off. I have things to say about it (of course I do) but for right now I’m busy poking my bruise and remembering.
The Christmas Gimp?
Our gift to each other. A bondage/sex swing frame.
Seems like my boobs have taken the brunt of the… retribution. Though my inner thighs are bruised and my holes are SORE and my jaw hurts, too.
Servicing Master’s feet before I got to his cock.
Empty beer bottles gotta go somewhere, I guess. I said the trash but he said that’s where he was putting it. :-/
I was hungry for it.
Master’s facebook find. Fitting.
More later. Lots to process.
Just know I am alive and well, if sore and plundered. And humbled. And humiliated lol.
But um… Merry Christmas! :)