No I’m not dead!
By kaya | May 9, 2008
Yet.
Ask me tomorrow morning. 
The thing about being swamped with work and chores and kids is that while there is no time for kinky fun, there is also no time for not-so-fun things. Things like punishment.
However. I don’t have to work tomorrow. Neither does He. He’s scheduled me in for tonight to “deal with this business”.
At some point last night, after I’d crashed into bed at the ridiculous hour of 8pm (seriously - Am I 37 or 73??), He woke me up whispering things into my ear. Something about “It’s 40 now, cunt” and “Tomorrow night. Get your head on straight.” which, come morning time, I’d decided was a horrible, horrible nightmare. All morning at work I went over it and over it. Did I dream it? Was it real? It couldn’t be real, ffs. What had I done now??!
We met for lunch today. He confirmed it. I wasn’t dreaming. It is 40 because I went to bed last night and forgot His stupid glass of water.
So. I’m really struggling with this right now. I’m not being very gracefully accepting of this trend He’s beginning of adding to an already harsh punishment for every little forgetful mistake I’m making. (So why not stop making mistakes, cunt?)
See how I answer myself in His voice. Bastard.
Anyway, as I was saying - I’m struggling. It’s hard not to feel defeated, it’s hard not to get frustrated and just say ‘fuck it’ because I’m oh-so-mature like that. I almost - ALMOST - dug myself into a hole over lunch when I was trying to explain that it just felt like things were piling up and that He hasn’t ever before just added it like that, one on top of another and He proclaimed that He can do whatever He wants and I declared that He could just make it 50 or a 100 if His atttitude is that He can just do whatever He wants. I mean, what’s the purpose here?
But I hushed at the “Oh really?” and eyebrow cock and the gleam in His eye, cuz, yeah, I tried that logic once before and ended up in a really bad spot.
I’m really not trying to be difficult or forgetful or to test His patience… I’m not. And I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s tonight, He’s done decided, and He’s even going to tie me down and gag me and not have me count the strokes like I normally have to do during a punishment, and if THAT’S not scary, I dunno what is.
On one hand I’ll be glad to have it over with. It’s been a week today that this has been tearing my guts up and I’m sick to death of it hanging over my head. For two days now, since He’s been home, He’s picked random moments to remind me that it’s coming, catching my eye and mouthing the number or miming the stance He holds when He’s ready to swing. Each time my heart lurches into my throat and my bladder spasms - I’m a nervous wreck. Quite honestly, I’m sick of thinking about it, sick of talking about it, and I’m sure y’all are sick of hearing about it!
On the other hand, if some world-wide catastrophe comes along between now and tonight, I’d be okay with that. If Master suddenly developed arm paralysis or if I was inexplicably inflicted with CIPA or… or… the toy closet caught fire -
My plan for the moment is to not talk. Nor move. And check and double-check, and triple-check, that I have not forgotten anything or neglected anything or skipped anything or missed anything or touched anything. And not breathe.
And wait.
And cry. Crying is a given.
~cunt
Anyone have any spare time I can borrow?
By kaya | May 7, 2008
I tell ya, overnight things went from me having nothing to do to having too much to do. The weekend here, with Master gone, just seemed to drag on endlessly. Then, come Monday morning, one of the girls at work just up and quit, no notice or anything (how rude is that, huh? Srsly.) and with the other girl on vacation, there are only two of us trying to cover all of the hours.
So much for a freakin’ part-time job. This week at least, I’m pretty close to 40 hours. Which isn’t a lot compared to what most people usually work, it just wasn’t expected. 8pm last night I was outside mowing the lawn, trying to get everything done before Master comes home.
Speaking of which, I figure this thing with the lawnmower should earn me some brownie points. Last year this mower was a beast to work with, and with neither Master or myself being motorheads, He’d decided that He was just going to trash it and buy a new one. But! One of the customers at work just happens to own a lawncare business so I was asking her about this stupid mower. She not only came over and fixed it (fixed it! For the pricely sum of $11.00!) but she gave me a crash course in lawnmower maintenance and repair. I just saved Master the price of brand new mower, plus I’m now able to keep this one running for years! Go me!
So Master is due home this afternoon, I have a dentist appt., both kids have dr. appts, I just got home from work and I still need to pick up the house. I know I’m behind on answering some emails and I’ve been ignoring FetLife and the message board, but it’s just been busy. I’m pretty sure He’s planning on getting that punishment taken care of right away so my stomach is all in knots… as for whether or not He’ll film it - I really can’t say. I would have said probably not, but given that someone’s shown an interest, He might. That just adds to the tummy knots, you know! I don’t want that up there! Bah.
I don’t want to think about it. ~finding my happy place~
Anyway, hopefully I’ll have the time to make a better entry soon. In the meantime, I have dishes calling my name. 
~cunt
Tags: general | 14 Comments »
By Request
By kaya | May 6, 2008
The blue stick (so named because I have no idea what it is). It’s heavy, yet flexible rubber. It’s square with sharp-ish, rigid edges. I think it’s the flexibilty and the weight that makes it so bloody painful. He gets a good swing and the far end snaps right down to the bone, I swear.
This was just a couple of swats for some bit of mouthiness about 6 or 7 months ago. It might have been 5? Looks like 5 welts anyway.
I’m up to 35 lashes now.
~cunt
Tags: pictures | 27 Comments »
“Protest long enough that you are right, and you will be wrong”
By kaya | May 5, 2008
So there is a punishment awaiting me over the missed phone call the other night. 30 lashes from that hateful blue stick.
30 - one for every minute He waited.
Except… it wasn’t 30 minutes. It was 20.
I bit my tongue at the initial handing down of the verdict, squashing the urge to scream “Nuh-uh! It wasn’t 30 minutes Master! Master! Master! It was only 20 minutes! Nuh-uh! I remember!” I didn’t say that. I *thought* it, the self-righteous argumentative bitch that lives my head really really wanted to say it.
But prudence won out.
However.
That blue stick is wicked. I don’t mean wicked in that ‘oh-that-hurts-do-it-again-you-beast’ way. I mean.. like, really, I cry before it even starts kind of wicked. And there is a big damn difference between 20 and 30 when each lash feels like it’s penetrating your bone.
So that protest has been rolling around in my noggin. I talk myself into it, telling myself that Master is a reasonable man, and surely he’ll listen with rapt attentiveness to my very correct assessment of his mistake. And then I immediately follow that up with a mental slap upside the head, and tell myself to shut the fuck up before 30 becomes 60 for being petty.
Perhaps He feels that the injustice He felt while waiting for 20 minutes will be evened out by the injustice of doling out 10 extra lashes.
But then I even scrolled back on the caller ID to check the exact time He called that night. Called to reprimand me for forgetting to call Him. At precisely 10:51.
NOT 30 minutes. 20. 21, in fact
And it’s just not fair!
By the time He reads this, it’ll probably be done and over. He’s not due home now until Wednesday (boo) and He doesn’t access the site from the company comp so He won’t read this until I dunno when. Which gives me incredible amounts of time to stew and decide to argue only to decide to shut up only to stew on it some more. So what do you do when the Boss is wrong? Do you correct Him or does that just tend to make it worse? (which is what I’m afraid of!) Do you suck it up, buttercup and take it like a good lil soldier?
Stupid blue stick. I’d like to chop it up into teeny tiny blue pieces and melt it into a gooey blue puddle and wash it down the stupid sewer drain. Hmmph.
~cunt
Edit: 5/06/08
You’re right. You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s not the answer I *wanted* mind you, but it’s what I expected.
You know what this is called? Deflection. Yep. Deflecting attention or blame away from my own fuck up.
“It is an easy to apply response to compensate for defeat and disappointment, that negates the taking of personal responsibility”
“Recent research has shown that people can enhance their own reputations by accusing others of faults they possess”
“If you do bad, finding a way to hide or deflect that truth is the backup position to avoid disdain and consequences, whence come such behaviors as lying, blaming, deflecting, and attacking back (the best defense is a good offense), strategies to preserve the image or power.”
Good little soldier. Ayup.
Tags: opinions | 27 Comments »
“Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in getting up every time we do.”
By kaya | May 3, 2008
I’d forgotten what a stickler Master is about the clock when He’s away. Things like telling me to call at a certain time or be online at a certain time. To be told to return a phone call in one hour means His phone had better be ringing in precisely one hour. If He’s feeling incredibly generous, it could be one minute past one hour and He might merely point out that I’m late without being too angry.
To forget entirely? Is bad. Bad bad bad.
Last night I spaced.
I just got involved in something stupid. I was supposed to call Him at 10:30 and I’d been watching the clock as it ticked past 9:30, 9:45, 10:05… as I was waiting I was messing with the website, changing things around, moving links. I’m not very good at webstuff and I was on a roll with it, completely spacing out the world - when I heard the phone ring. And my heart dropped to my toes like a fucking brick.
It was 10:50… and I KNEW it was Him. I knew He would not be pleased. I was not wrong.
The immediate consequence was that I did not get any time with Him. Though I’d waited all day to talk to Him, my thoughtlessness ruined that. The conversation on His end was pretty short and not-so-sweet. A mere 30 seconds, at most. Other consequences await a more personal approach I’m sure.
“I see where I rate.” was His response to my answer of what I had been doing that was so important that I’d forgotten a direct order. That stung. I’m not sure what else would cut to the bone so deeply than to have it pointed out that a slave has placed her Master on the bottom of the priority list, even for one minute, even unintentionally.
The last couple of days I’ve been engaging in some lively conversations on a message board I’d joined and on Fetlife. Conversations surrounding the intricate aspects of slavery and service, submission, obedience…
Only to be cut down so tersely by Him over a forgotten phone call.
Consider my ego thoroughly checked.
~cunt
Tags: M/s rambles, mistakes | 17 Comments »
Major suckage
By kaya | May 2, 2008
And that’s not a blow job description.
Master is most likely not going to be home until sometime next week.
Normally I try to swallow the disappointment but not this time. It sucks and I’m sad.
I’m going to go clean the hell out of something and wallow in self-pity while I scrub.
Tags: sad | 12 Comments »
Leading? Or being led?
By kaya | May 1, 2008
(I’m really blah without Master here and I can’t think of anything to post about. But I’m probably already in hot water by not posting yesterday, no way am I pushing for two days in a row. So I’m going to steal an idea from a message board I’ve been contributing to the last couple of days.)
It’s about exaggeration.
There are times when I “play up” the difficulty of a task or a chore, or sob more than is warranted during a pain session. Which isn’t to say that I cry because I have to do dishes or sob hysterically when he swats me on the ass. I at least keep it somewhat appropriate to the current activity.
But I know, deep down inside, that it’s not as bad as I’m making it out to be. I know I’m overreacting. (not always, though. Sometimes he really is a mean old bastard and my hysterics are entirely warranted!)
I’m beginning to think that it started out (and maybe still is, to some extent) as a bit of self-preservation. I’ve learned what it is that Master wants from me when he’s pushing me. One of those things is that he likes to watch me struggle through a hated task or chore, he likes to watch me fight it, grit my way through the pain, and have to do it anyway. To keep my mouth open while he pisses in it, to hold a position even though it hurts like hell, to keep my legs spread while he tears into me, to get up and fetch stuff .. well, the list goes on.
Point is, he’s not after graceful acceptance during those times. It bores him. And I know - I KNOW - that if I do reach some happy place, some graceful state of acceptance, he’s only going to make it worse. He’ll hit harder, he’ll ask for more, he’ll add extra tasks, he’ll keep the bra on longer, make me wear the scrunchy more often, he’ll just.. be meaner.
Until he gets the sobbing, screaming slavegirl he’s after.
So what am I doing here? Am I just being so wonderfully pleasing that I’m rushing to give him what he wants with minimal effort? (*snicker* anyone fall for that line?)
Is it dishonesty? It’s not like I’m “acting” and winning an Academy Award here. I’m just.. exaggerating perhaps. But why? Fear? Afraid of how bad it really could get? Trying to steer? Am I doing it when I’m just not in the mood for extreme so I pretend I’m already at extreme so he doesn’t take me there?
There are definitely times when my reaction makes zero difference one way or the other, though. So maybe this most recent introspective epiphany about myself is old news to him and he’s going to pat me on the head in that “oh you are just too cute” patronizing way of his and tell me he does what he wants and if him easing up happens to coincide with my exaggerated scream, it was mere coincidence and to stop giving myself so much credit by thinking I’m outwitting him.
Yeah. I like that answer best. I pick that one.
*nod*
Crisis averted.
~cunt
Almost forgot the smut picture!
Tags: M/s rambles | 13 Comments »
Planting the Seed.
By kaya | April 29, 2008
Master is gone and I have FAR too much time on my hands so my apologies if I make no sense whatsoever.
I suspect I’m being manipulated, but Master is very good at it, and it’s very subtle and it’s just subtle enough that I’m not sure.
It all started with my favorite color. Master tells me all the time my favorite color is blue. Very matter of factly. I think I used to correct him.
Master: I bought you a new dress. It’s a blue one because I know blue is your favorite color.
me: Well I like blue but it’s not my *favorite* color. But thank you for the dress!
~~
Master: I was thinking I’d get a new area rug for the living room. What do you think about a blue one? I know blue is your favorite color.
me: Blue is nice. That would be pretty. I do like blue.
~~
me: what is my favorite color?
Master: Blue.
me: Oh. Okay.
~~
Now that’s not word for word of course. So last night, Am and I were at the store browsing through clothes. I held up a shirt, a blue one, and Am wrinkled her nose at it. “Don’t buy that one,” she said. “It’s ugly.”
“No it’s not. It’s my favorite color.”
But… my favorite color didn’t use to be blue. However, as I mentally sift through the rainbow, I cannot pinpoint what color it was. I focus on hunter green which used to be the color theme of my living room, pre-Master, so it must have been one I liked but if I were to say hunter green was my favorite color, it feels incorrect.
Red or maroon colors dominated my wardrobe once upon a time, but they don’t anymore. Blue does.
Periwinkle is a gorgeous color. I do like it, but I think I just like the word itself.
But I KNOW it was not blue. It was not. Everyone likes blue and I never do what everyone else does. It was mint green or burgundy or lilac purple or misty rose. It was not blue.
I KNOW blue is not my favorite, but I’ll be damned if I don’t gravitate toward blue-colored purchases. I’ll be damned if I’m not proclaiming that blue is my favorite color simply because he keeps telling me it is. I’m starting to believe it.
Sneaky bastard.
I think he does this all the time.
manipulate - verb
1. influence or control shrewdly or deviously
I can remember way back as a teenager going through therapy after the abuse came out. I was in the room with my doctor and my mother. The doctor had just finished giving my mom some details of the very early abuse that I had talked about. My mother was denying some of the details as being possible. The doctor finally got exasperated and said “Look lady. It doesn’t matter if YOU believe it. SHE believes it. So to her it’s very real, and she still has to deal with it as if it were real.” And I remember right then doubting my own memory for the first time. What I remembered as happening in my very early childhood remained, for me, doubtful, all the way until my own memories were confirmed by the admission of the abusers.
So I think I’m very easily led by planting seeds of doubt and replacing them with other “truths”. The more he continues to reiterate what he says happened, the more I “remember” it as he explained it. The more he leads my thoughts, confirming them as I go, the more I accept it as fact, as the way it’s always been. I find myself asking HIM things about ME all the time.
Do I like french dressing on salads, Master?
No, baby, you don’t.
Okay. What do I like?
You like ranch.
Oh.
You love these black clamps, don’t you, cunt?
Actually I think they hu-
You love them. You told me so.
I did?
Last time we used them you said they felt great. They feel good, don’t they?
Yes Sir.
(and I shit you not, anytime he tells me to go get the clamps I love I grab those black fuckers. And they really do hurt! Those are the ones that caused the bloody nipples the other day. But I grab those clamps and I think to myself “these are my favorite clamps in the whole wide world, yes indeed! they really are!”)
I used to hate fishing. I used to hate camping. I used to hate the feeling of being held down, snug against another body, suffocating in their body heat, invading my personal space.
He takes me fishing over and over again. Each time he says “you love to go fishing with me, don’t you, cunt?” until my responses switch from “Meh. It’s okay I guess” to where I am now the one to suggest that we go fishing/camping/snuggle on the couch until I can’t breathe.
I used to love romantic comedies. I used to love tear-jerking dramas like Beaches. I wouldn’t sit through a Rambo movie if you paid me. Now what do I pick out when Master suggests I go get a movie? Die Hard. Alien vs. Predator.
I dunno. Maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t there. Maybe I’ve stumbled upon the Great Master Secret of Manipulation and now that I know it won’t work anymore. I’ll be cast out as a traitor, untrainable, unusable.
Maybe I should go clean the house…lol
Because I love to clean. Master said so. 
~cunt
Tags: general, M/s rambles, weird | 27 Comments »
Here, there be smut.
By kaya | April 28, 2008
Master kept the breast theme going this weekend. My ta-tas have had an extreme workout! Stick a fork in them, they are DONE.
I shouldn’t ought to say that, huh? He probably would stick a fork in them, mean old bastard. (Have you seen the pictures/video clips of women with those long skewers going straight through the tits??? Holy FUCK I want none of that shit. Hellooo.. crybaby-kaya over here! *waving* None of that boob-kabob (kaboob? *snicker*) stuff for me, thanks!)
I adore him. Does it show?
And then shit got serious. Seriously painful, that is.
I was trying to zen. Become one with the pain. ~Ohm~ ~Ohm~
And then he did this. Totally ruined my zen.
My nipples will never be the same! I think they’ve grown an inch this week.
Then he got *really* mean.
And I developed a ’tude… (I really wanted to zen!)
But he has badder gear.. So he wins.
“arms out…”
“I said - arms fucking OUT.”
Following the mean was a blow job… and that was fun.
*nom nom nom*
Following the blow job was a doggy style fuck with more swinging nipple clamps. Again fun. But, nipples? So much of the ow.
And following THAT was some raunchy-ass, down-and-dirty fucking. Not sex, certainly not “making love”. We fucked. And it was nasty and messy and I squirted and he did too and I came so hard I thought I peed on him. But I didn’t. I don’t think. Honestly, neither of us much cared.
Then later, we fucked again with more swinging nipple clamps, under the desk, and it was just as good. And just as ouch. Which made it better.
So.. I’m bruised. I’m sore. My holes hurt.
I’d be up for more.. but Master flew out the this morning. *sniffle* A week (hopefully no longer than that) in Oregon. Any Oregonian (Oregonite?) readers? I told him he should go to the Wet Spot. I hear that’s the happening place in those parts.
I think my poor boobs need a week off to heal anyway.
~cunt
Tags: breast torture, pictures | 26 Comments »
“Who’s to say that love needs to be soft and gentle?”
By kaya | April 27, 2008
"No woman truly knows what she is, until she has worn a collar."
Tags: pictures | 25 Comments »
