Better to remain silent and be thought to be disrespectful…

…than to speak out and get your ass in trouble.

Amirite or amirite?

Such was my thought when he’d hollered the 8 millionth request from the other room and I chose not to respond since I probably wasn’t going to do it with very much grace but to just quietly set about obeying it, and when he repeated the request before I’d finished, I said “Yes Sir, I heard you.”

…and then he said “Well I didn’t hear YOU, cunt” and I said “Because I didn’t say anything” and he said “Why is that?” and I said “Because what else would my answer be, Sir? ‘No’? ‘Get it your damn self’? Or probably the predictable bit of me just doing what you instructed, hmm?”

You see? I should have remained silent.

I told ya so.

So this one time, at Master’s house

He peed in my ear and up my nose and my ear tickled all day and the essence of urine randomly exploded in my mouth all day too, and when I said maybe I would get an ear infection he shrugged and said that’s what antibiotics are for.

and then this other time he stood behind me while I was on the treadmill and whipped/smacked/hit/paddled me for about an hour, but he was super nice and kept the speed low because I was having trouble keeping my balance and he didn’t want me to fall and get hurt (o.O).

No, so really it’s been pretty eventful here at Master’s house. There’s been bondage and pain and sex and service and objectification, all intermingled with periods of just sitting around, relaxing and watching movies, or with him off doing his own thing while I do chores or fuck off online. We go out a few times a week, shopping or to a restaurant or just to explore.

It’s been amazing, honestly.

I have to try and temper my lust for more. I’m all faster/harder/deeper/do it again, just a common junkie seeking a better high. The more I get the more I want and I very very easily and very quickly fall into thinking he’s just not doing enough, not using me enough, not performing to my fantasies…

…and then I have to look back over the last few days and tell myself to shut the fuck up already. He’s doing, ffs. He’s on me like flies on shit, micromanaging, correcting, demanding. He gets served and serviced. I’ve cooked and presented, cleaned and pampered. He’s gotten pedicures, been bathed, I’ve washed his hair, sucked his dick, dressed him and undressed him. I’m sore in all my holes, sore all over my body, I have bruises and welts in various stages of healing, I’ve been pissed on, smacked around, bloodied, ass-raped. I’ve cried, I’ve orgasmed, I’ve cried WHILE I orgasmed….

And somehow my brain tells me to beg for more? WHO DOES THAT? lol

I’m naked most of the time, collared and cuffed 24 hours a day. He found the njoy (boo) so that goes in today and will probably stay in for… forever. Or who knows. Until he wants his dick in there instead. He bought chain and padlocks and he’s going to start chaining me to the bed again, and shackling me when he’s here. Because he likes the looks and the sound and the limited movement and the control.

He wrote out a white board and planted it right where he can see it when he walks in the door after work. It’s my exercise schedule and my chore schedule. I’m to check them off in green marker when I finish, or mark it with a red x if I didn’t get to it. Then we’ll “discuss why there is any red on there, cunt”. I’m BFF’s with my fitbit again, and I have to write down what my number is before he gets home and if I’ve done all the exercises he’s assigned me I’ll “easily be at 10,000 steps before noon”, and then at the end of the night write the total for the day down again.

Here, I took a picture of it, for funsies. He calls it the cuntrol board (get it? control? cuntrol?):


Check out those motivational magnets, eh? Haha. Weekends are open, as you can see. He decides how the weekends will go on the spur of the moment.

He’s controlling my food more than he ever has. I’m allowed one cup of coffee in the morning (that has to be in my ‘cunt’ cup, I’m not allowed any other cups), and then nothing but water the rest of the day. Absolutely no sweets, no baked goods, no pasta. I get 1/2 cup of berries (whatever kind I want) and 1/2 of a banana in a smoothie if I’m having a smoothie, with one cup of unsweetened almond milk. And I can have an apple a day if I want one, but that’s it for fruit on a regular day. (Subject to change at his discretion, of course. Like tonight I’m cutting up a watermelon and he may or may not allow me some.) I can have eggs, 2 a day- sometimes I’ll have one for breakfast and have a hardboiled one on a salad, other days I don’t have any eggs. I can eat all the vegetables I want to eat, I can have salad and I can have meat in limited quantities. I can snack on seeds or almonds.

Unless, of course, he specifically gives me permission to eat other things. Like the other night we had pizza for supper, (delivery! woot!) and I was allowed some of that. Because he still has a sweet streak, and it pleases him to treat me once in awhile.

It doesn’t please the scale, but whatever. It’s his body, right? He can fatten it up if he wants to. :)

All of that to say he’s living his dream, which means I’m living my dream.

And when he finally has to travel I’m going to turn into a basket case because that stuff ~flaps hands at all of the above~ is addicting and it gets into my head and fucks me up and when it all gets yanked away and I’m left to my own devices all day with no one to answer to it tumbles me around a bit.

Sometimes I wish he’d have a fill-in-dom, lol. Someone to step in when he’s away, but I don’t see that happening. He’s not much of a sharer. But a girl can dream right? ;)

Besides, I already know I can function perfectly well when he’s away. Been there, done that. I just wish I didn’t have to. -whine-

So, speaking of him being a hardass, I better git to gittin’. Or else. O.O


I shot something witty (it was witty, I’m sure of it) at his back as he was heading out the door. Whipping around, he took one giant stride and was suddenly standing right in front of me, like a fucking ninja.

“Stick out your tongue,” he said, holding up his thumb and finger like a vise grip.

I did, little obedient me, poked it out and sucked it right back in.

And giggled.

I saw his lips twitch and he shifted a little closer, rising to the challenge. “Again.”

I did, quick as a flash, his fingers touched but didn’t catch and I giggled again. “You’re too slo–OW OW OW!”

Those two fingers he’d had poised at the ready had jammed themselves up my nose and he now had that delicate bit of between-the-nostrils flesh trapped in his vise-grippy fingers and was trying to lift me off my feet. “Oh yeah?” he said, chuckling. “What were you saying, cunt?”

“Okay okay! Here!” I frantically shoved my tongue out at him, my eyes watering as he continued to pinch and lift. “Owwww! Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow.”

With his other hand, he repeated the vise-grip on my tongue (which is really only slightly less painful than the nose btw) and for a moment delighted in having both, making me prance in place and think I was dying before letting go of my nose.

“Now. Did you have something you wanted to say, hmm?” he said, giving my tongue a vicious yank/twist/pinch.

I blinked teary eyes at him. “I hoe oo got oogers on oor ingers!”

He glanced down at the fingers he’d just extracted from my nose, looked back at me and grinned. “Oh, I hope so, too.” and then slowly and carefully wiped his boogery fingers all over my tongue.

“Gahhhhhhh!! Oo uck! Ow! Ew!”

He chortled. “I know! It’s so awful to be you.”

When he’d thoroughly washed his fingers with my tongue, he finally let go. I scrubbed my tongue on my shirt and flashed him a look. He reached out and thunked me on the forehead. “Pwned again, cunt.” and then he sauntered off, smiling.

Ugh. I make it too easy for him, right?

I need to up my game.

~narrows mah eyes and plots~


He came home for lunch

ate some soup

pissed in my mouth

and left.

Run, fatty, run!


3 1/2 miles of rope wedgie enjoyment.

Yeah I don’t know what the other day was about. O.O

Saved by the Snort

He lunged at me and I jumped so hard I snorted.

He started laughing so hard that he couldn’t do whatever painful thing he’d been going to do.

Laughter really IS the best medicine!

~skips away~

Asked and Answered

It was nothing a little rough ass fucking couldn’t fix.

Maybe rough ass sex is the cure for pms? Or maybe it’s the cure for disgruntled masochist since I’m not sure what it was anyway.

Or maybe he just got horny.

I vote for the latter because he hasn’t even read that earlier entry yet, lol.

Maybe I’ll get something worse when he does? Ouch. I really need to learn when to shut up. (haha! yeah, that’s funny to me, too.)

He took pictures after. I cried a little bit during.

We found out that tossing me over a bean bag and shoving it and me under the desk renders me practically immobile. But also oddly comfortable.

Well, until he shoved himself up my ass. That was not comfortable.

And I bled (and cried) and it never quite reached that place of not hurting like ass sex can sometimes reach, but the whole immobile bit while he was hurting me so much was so fucking erotic that I was ready to come almost before he got a good, colon-pounding rhythm going.

That’s my ticket right there. My currency, if you will. Render me unable to resist and then hurt the holes you own and I am yours forever and ever, amen. I’m so fucking easy.

But he wouldn’t let me come. “No” and “Wait” and “Don’t you fucking dare” and “I’ll tell you when you can, cunt” and I edged for-fucking-ever.

Then he got all ramped up for the finale wherein he was trying to get the head of his dick to pop out my throat, and THEN he said I could come..

…and then I couldn’t come. Uggggggggggh!

Then he was done and he was all “Sucks to be you, cunt” and I whined until he let me masturbate with my bullet.

See? He loves me.

In summary, “cunt! Get the fuck in here and wash your bloody shit off my cock.” could be the hottest thing I’ve heard all week.

Pics behind the cut. I’m suddenly shy and he didn’t say they had to be on the front page. Loophole!

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Is it live, or is it memorex?

I’m trying to decide if I just have pms or if I have a legitimate reason for feeling…. gah, what do I feel. Ignored, neglected, forgotten, unused, misunderstood, rejected, fat, ugly, ashamed…

I’ll let you know when I know.

Dear M,

Using the Dom Card to make me to hold still so you can peel my sunburn (~herk~) is a SERIOUS abuse of your power.

If you ask me.

Which you didn’t.

But I’m just sayin’.

No Love,
Your cunt.

Covergirl is behind the times.

Petechiae. It’s all the rage in slave eye makeup.

It matches my ass anyway. That’s kind of like the belts and shoes rule, right?