You make me smile like the sun…

Master’s birthday was Friday. Jack and Jill helped me plan a surprise formal D/s birthday dinner.

The table was set for two. Two place settings. Two chairs.

And two cushions on the floor.

“I’m lucky just to linger in your light…”

Jill and I served. We knelt on the cushions. We ate whatever they wanted to feed us.

It took awhile for my nerves to settle.

It helped that he was so touched and so pleased that he had to wipe his eyes a few times.

See. He’s not completely heartless.

Just mostly.

“You make me dance like a fool…”

There were cupcakes.

One day, after some harmless ribbing between doms, he got the nickname Master Cupcake. It stuck.

Everyone calls him Master Cupcake.

He told me, with a grin, that I’d pay for the cupcakes. I rather thought the plastic boobies made up for it.

“Forget how to breathe…”

There were presents.

That would be the toy I bought him that I’m already trying to figure out how to get rid of. One light swat with that to my inner thigh and I had a loop-shaped bruise forming.

Do. Not. Want.

I got him two new misery sticks too. Because I am THAT dedicated to my own demise.

Jack and Jil got him this-

(Why didn’t I think of things like that?!)

“Dizzy in my head…”

There were outfits.

The clothes made me more nervous than anything.

I need to get a close up of those shoes. They have handcuffs on them.

“Nothing can compare to where you send me…”

On the table, there was a sprinkling of rose petals. They dripped off the table and trailed their way over to the cross.

Do you think that was too subtle of a hint?

Me, too.

He’s a smart cupcake though. I ended up on the cross.

“You steal away the rain and just like that…”

He never stopped touching me. He never stepped away from me. His mouth seemed to stay in contact with my body, my skin, my ear. He whispered wicked things. He bit. He licked. He touched.

He squeezed and he pinched, he groped and he hurt. He absorbed every groan, every whimper.

And then he pulled me away.

“Just the thought of you can drive me wild…”

Away and down. To my knees.

For his birthday blow job.

I tried not to let the gerking noises interrupt Jack and Jill’s activities, but what’s a girl with a cock down her throat to do??

“Ohh, you make me smile…”

I made him smile.

Happy Birthday, to the one who will always be older than me.

~cunt

(lyrics courtesy of Uncle Krackers “Smile”)

“Power tends to corrupt; absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

I’ve had this entry rolling around in my head for weeks- if not months. It’s been stuck, and I kept wavering back and forth on thinking that it’s such a simple concept that the most I would be able to come up with was the title quote and a big ol “D’uh” in the body of the post, sign my name and be done with it.

Or, it’s too complicated to put into words. Because all I’ve done is mentally stutter over it.

So how’s about I stutter over it here and at the end you can tell me if I should have just went with the “D’uh”, ok?

If the title quote (Courtesy of Lord Acton) doesn’t give it away, what I’ve been contemplating is the tendency of some dominants to become heady with power. I’m not at all going to say that it afflicts all doms because I certainly don’t know all doms.

What I can say is that within the circle of submissives and slaves that I know, that I have talked with either in person or through email, those who have left behind some of the more commonly used safeguards such as safewords, contracts, limits, SSC, etc., there has been a common thread. Common enough that I’ve noticed it, talked about, other people have noticed it and talked about it- the fact seems to be that, at some point, these doms become drunk on power.

One rather strange but very enjoyable girl ( ) used the analogy of playing a game without a referee.

Let’s say there is a lengthy, wicked game of football going on. This isn’t a play-to-win game of football, it’s just a play-for-sport game of football.

Two teams. We’ll call them Team M and Team S.

There is no referee. Nobody to throw flags (red ones, tee hee) or blow whistles. The rules of the game still exist. There is just no unbiased enforcer of the game rules.

Both teams can commit penalties and fouls. But only Team M can penalize Team S. Team S cannot assign penalties back.

So you take one competetitive, commanding, dominant team who holds all the power to play the game in whatever manner they see fit and face them off against a weaker, compliant, amenable team that has zero power to penalize the other team on their fouls.

And then you start the clock and sit back to watch.

What do you THINK is going to happen?

Probably the game starts out decently enough. It’s likely that Team M maintains their sense of fair play, their inherent rightness, their honor and integrity and plays a decent game.

For awhile.

Maybe the first foul Team M commits is truly accidental. Maybe he didn’t mean to stampede over Team S’s player on his way to the goal, so caught up in the energy of the game. Maybe he knew he should have been called for unnecessary roughness, maybe he expected it, waited for it and when it didn’t come, when Team S simply got up, brushed off the uniform, smiled and got back in the game- maybe Team M had a moment of guilt.

Or maybe Team M went- huh. well that was neat. I wonder…

Maybe the next foul was less accidental and a lot more experimental. Testing the compliance of Team S, fouls being committed perhaps with one eye out for the absent referee, not quite convinced this game is playing out, seemingly, this easily.

“Unlimited power is apt to corrupt the minds of those who possess it.” ~Lord Acton

I would imagine that power becomes consuming. The fouls become more frequent, less hesitant, more purposeful. With each incident of Team S quietly taking it, I can see it all playing out in a variety of ways.

Maybe Team M stops noticing that they are fouling in the first place. Maybe they never get reminded of it either. Maybe they keep playing, and keep committing penalties, until Team S is so far down that Team S simply… stops playing. Going through the motions, but the spirit is gone.

Or maybe Team M’s arrogance just grows and grows. As arrogance grows, the game starts to leave the field.

With no referee to keep the game played between the white lines, the game becomes larger. With such constant meek compliance from Team S, the players on Team M forget what their power was limited to.

Maybe they forget how to play fair outside of the game. Maybe they start recruiting players and assigning them a spot on Team S. Players who never wanted to play the game in the first place but had the misfortune of somehow being affiliated with Team S.

Team M’s britches get too fucking big. Team M can’t separate consensual players from non-consensual players. Maybe Team M has a big ol’ reality check coming when the non-consensual players on Team S rise up and shove a penalty flag up Team M’s ass.

Or.. maybe Team M does keep it on the field. Maybe Team M is content with hammering on Team S.

And maybe , if Team M hasn’t completely lost their heads, they start to notice how beaten down Team S is getting. Maybe they see the downtrodden faces, the heavy shoulders, the absent smiles. Maybe it starts to niggle at them, their inherent sense of fair play triggered back into rememberance. Maybe they look at the scoreboard with its 1,734 to 0 and ask themselves if this is really winning.

So maybe guilt floods in. Maybe they take their ball and go home. Maybe they quit.

But maybe that reaction is just as cowardly.

“Great men are almost always bad men.” ~Lord Acton

I don’t believe that. I don’t believe that they are bad men. I don’t believe they started out as bad men, and I don’t believe they have to finish as bad men.

Perhaps they got a little rotten in the middle of the game. A little drunk with power, a little blind to the rules.

Having to be your own referee in a game where you make the rules is not easy. A little swing one way or the other seems like a normal and natural expectation as they find their place. What would be, for me, the deciding factor in the good-man/bad-man scale, would be where they ended up after experimenting with the swing.

Can they hold the power with all its glory and privilege and still maintain a level of fair play? Or.. can they not. If they cannot, it’s doubtful they were deserving of the power in the first place.

“The strong man with the dagger is followed by the weak man with the sponge.” ~Lord Acton

One would think that they’d figure out how to play the game so that Team M uses Team S’s strong points to their advantage– rather than taking advantage of them.

Power is a heady thing, though. And absolute power corrupts absolutely.

But does it have to?

Amazing Story

In 1986, Peter Davies was on holiday in Kenya after graduating from University .

On a hike through the bush, he came across a young bull elephant standing with one leg raised in the air.

The elephant seemed distressed, so Peter approached it very carefully.

He got down on one knee, inspected the elephants foot, and found a large piece of wood deeply embedded in it.

As carefully and as gently as he could, Peter worked the wood out with his knife, after which the elephant gingerly put down its foot.

The elephant turned to face the man, and with a rather curious look on its face, stared at him for several tense moments.

Peter stood frozen, thinking of nothing else but being trampled.

Eventually the elephant trumpeted loudly, turned, and walked away.

Peter never forgot that elephant or the events of that day.

Twenty years later, Peter was walking through the Chicago Zoo with his teenage son.

As they approached the elephant enclosure, one of the creatures turned and walked over to near where Peter and his son Cameron were standing.

The large bull elephant stared at Peter, lifted its front foot off the ground, then put it down.

The elephant did that several times then trumpeted loudly, all the while staring at the man.

Remembering the encounter in 1986, Peter could not help wondering if this was the same elephant.

Peter summoned up his courage, climbed over the railing, and made his way into the enclosure.

He walked right up to the elephant and stared back in wonder.

The elephant trumpeted again, wrapped its trunk around one of Peter legs and slammed him against the railing, killing him instantly.

Probably wasn’t the same elephant.

This is for everyone who sends me those heart-warming bullshit stories.

~author unknown

Invisible Title

The Background: Jes slipped on the ice the other day and wrenched a muscle in her thigh. She was sitting on the couch rubbing Icy Hot on it. I was doing dishes, lost in my own head.

Jes: Hey Mom?

Me: Hmm?

Jes: Remember when I was in softball and I pulled my groin muscle and I was putting Icy Hot on it and I rubbed some up a little too high? That burned so bad! Have you ever gotten Icy Hot up on your crotch?

Me: *laughing* Yeah, I have. Great big globs of it. It hurts!

Jes: *awkward silence*

Me: *Humming* *Still lost in my own world*

Jes: HOW did you get great big globs on there?

Me: *deer in headlights* Um… I…erm.. it… maybe…

Jes: *wrinkles her nose* You guys are weird.

So, like, she totally knows what we do. Not all of it, not (I don’t think) the M/s power exchange stuff. But she knows all about the s&m.

She’s really fine with it. She had a couple of questions, just some basic curiousity stuff. I’m okay with her knowing. I thought I would be all weirded out but I’m really not.

I have no particular reason for not posting much lately. I’ve been busy, I’m preoccupied with things, and blogging is usually the first thing I push back in favor of other things. The only problem with that is that I then have a hard time recapturing the mojo.

So while I’m recapturing, let’s do a meme! What fun!

The 7 Weird Facts Meme:

1. I have RLS. It’s hereditary. My mom had it, her mom had it, Am has it. I don’t think Jes has it. I remember the first time I saw the commercial for RLS, when it first was recognized as a syndrome, I jumped off the couch and screamed. I was stoked.

I don’t use any treatment for it, and I think I have a pretty mild case of it from what I hear. It only acts up when I’m tired, and almost always in my right leg. So I simply go to bed when it’s bugging me.

2. I can’t whistle. At all. I’ve had numerous people try and teach me, but all I do is blow hot air (haha!)

3. I used to vomit if a guy came in my mouth. I could not get over the idea that that stuff MOVES. It’s ALIVE.

Now, I’m a damn sperm guzzler. The only thing that changed was mind over matter. I just decided one day that I was going to swallow and that’s that. I did, and I’ve been swallowing ever since. (Though I still think about it moving.)

4. Though my feet are typically so cold they hurt, I cannot stand to have them covered when I’m in bed. No socks, and I have to be able to poke them out from under the blankets at random times or else they feel like they are on fire.

I also cannot go barefoot, ever. That hurts. But I also can’t just wear socks because once I can feel things on the bottom of my socks, I’ll have to change them into a clean pair. But I can’t wear socks and shoes in the house because I have to be able to poke my feet out into the air or they start burning. So I have to wear slippers. Simple, ugly, non-sexy, slip-on slippers.

5. I’m addicted to chapstick. I have tubes all over the house and in my pockets, my purse, my car. I refuse to go to the Lip Balm Addicts Anonymous website though. They’ll make me quit and I’ll die!

6. Watching those videos where people fall off skateboards/flip their bikes/anything of the painful sort of falling makes me queasy. Non-consensual pain or something. I generally turn my head or cover my eyes.

7. I can’t smash a bug. I can’t step on it or swat it or squish it in any way. The very idea of it exploding under my foot/hand gives me the willies. I picture, in graphic detail, the process of its skin/shell/whatever squeezing and then rupturing and the guts bursting out and it just makes me wanna puke. I can pick them up with a tissue, but only if I don’t have to hold it tight enough that it’ll pop, and flush it down the toilet. And I can spray a bug with Raid, but I can’t watch it as it convulses from the poision because I feel bad.

I’m supposed to tag peeps so if you’ve read this far, consider yourself tagged. Tell me the weird things about you so I can snicker behind your back get to know you better!

Tidbit Tuesday

• Last night we had WDS, as opposed to WMS. WDS stands for Wild Doggie Sex (don’t call PETA, no real animals are ever involved in our sex life). The difference between Wild Doggie Sex and Wild Monkey Sex is 1) postioning. The obvious WDS position is, well, doggie style. Monkey Sex position involves alternating gymnastic-type positions that leave you with tangled limbs. And 2) WDS is mostly silent, with low, throaty growls. WMS involves hooting and hollering.

  /animal sex lessons

  I’d put on this short silky number before we got into bed because Master really has a thing for satin and silk fabrics. I planned on seducing him by rubbing my silky self up and down his body, with lots of licking and kissing and suckling. So, trying to keep that seductive tigeress look on my face I swung myself on top of him.

  And prompty bonked my head on the metal bars of the headboard. Not just a little bonk, but a big one that reverberated throughout the hollow metal tubes. I *was* going to pretend it didn’t happen because that totally doesn’t lend itself to the seductive tigress look I was going for- but it really hurt. It was one of those kind of bonks that makes your eyes water and requires rubbing to soothe the sting.

  Naturally, Master cracked the fuck up. “Your middle name isn’t Grace, is it?! Bwahahahahaha!”

  Fucker.

  When he could breathe again, he rubbed the sting away and kissed my owie.

  And that was kind of sexy. So I was all inspired again to be the seductive tigress and I went ahead with my plan to rub my silky self all over him.

  I really really REALLY enjoy making his eyes roll up into his head. It’s powerful.

  He happily returned the favor. By the end of the WDS, I was on another planet. The Planet of Ecstasy. Lovely place, that.

  And then we spooned, with our legs all entangled and his arm thrown heavily across my body. Before drifting off to sleep, he breathed into my ear, one word: “Mine.”

  I smiled into the darkness and settled deeper under the binding feel of his embrace. I replied with one word: “Yours.”

• And speaking of being his, I had an… “episode”… about two weeks ago where I decided that I most definitely was not going to be his and I snuck off to erase the scarred words that label my body.

  I scratched and scratched and scratched. There was a lot of blood, zero pain, zero tears, zero hysteria. I was numb, lost down some rabbit hole of despair and desperation.

  Desperate to reclaim my self.

  There was a lot more going on than just that, but the details of it are not necessary and I want to focus on this one thing.

  Afterward, instead of making me feel better, I felt worse. Lost. Adrift. Panicked. Unidentified.

  When it was all done and said and he observed the damage; ‘It’s still there’ was all he said, confident that his “work” could not so easily be removed.

  As the tissue has healed-and as I have healed- the words are reappearing. Each letter standing out, raised and perfectly legible, amidst the dull pink of healing skin.

  Seeing that permanence soothes me to my soul. I can’t erase what he’s scarred into my skin anymore than I can erase what he’s scarred into my very being.

  Someday, I’ll stop trying. I know it, he knows it. Last ditch efforts to claw my way out. I don’t know why. I don’t know that it matters why. Maybe all that matters is that even when I claw my way to the top, I turn around and jump right back in.

On Being a Bum, or, How Not to be His Slave

His parting shot before walking out the door this morning was “maybe stepping up the domestic violence around here will step up the domestic help”.

I gave him the appropriate eye roll and “OooOoooOooh. I’m so scared!” reply.

Kidding! I didn’t. Actually, I might have humped his leg and said “Promise? Do you really promise??”

He told me I was incorrigible.

Like, I know that’s supposed to be a warning, time to step up my game, yada yada yada- but threats like that just make me moist in my bad place.

Totally ineffective.

I’ll step up my game because that’s what I’m supposed to do. But the quickest way to get me to spend another day sitting on the couch with my laptop stuck on Fet- is to tease me with talk of domestic violence.

Silly man. He doesn’t know me at ALL, do he?

(and don’t I just know that someone is going to holler about me making light of domestic violence and the true victims of DV and blah blah blah, yawn yawn yawn.)

Anyway, that is why we’ve (mostly) dropped the punishment aspect of our relationship. I will find a way to eroticize it and I will fall victim to my lust and find a way to earn more and more and more.

That’s a talent, I’m sure of it.

I was being a bum because yesterday, I was having a Fetlife frenzy. I did that on Friday, too. Sometimes the quick snippets of conversation appeal to me. From picture to picture, topic to topic, nothing too deep, nothing serious- I like it.

Even those who try and get under my skin can be amusing.

But, one does not spend an entire day on Fet while also performing her other duties. One cannot be in two places doing two things at the same time. So, one’s Master, while a very giving and lenient soul, has to make vague threats of violence now and again.

S’okay. I got the hint. We’re cool.

What I think it was, is that Jes had a couple of days off of work so she packed up Babygirl and took off to visit with baby-daddy. She left on Friday, and it’s like the house itself breathes a big sigh of relief as soon as she pulls out of the driveway. Tension eases, from all of us; Master, me, Am, the boy. The noise and chaos level drops significantly. And it was just relaxing, quiet. I enjoyed it.

Plus, yesterday the weather screwed up my plans to go to the gym. Jill and I (and our Men) are going to join a gym and we were going to check it out yesterday, but Master said I wasn’t driving anywhere on the icy roads. My fear is that we’ll join the gym and it’ll be things like this that’ll make it be a complete waste of money. Not that any of us have any control over the weather, I’m not pointing fingers or anything, I’m just trying to be practical. We live a good distance from the place and the weather here tends to be yucky. I just need to make sure we’re making the right financial decision.

And along with that is knowing that if I don’t join a gym and if I don’t do something drastic, I’m only going to keep gaining. I HAVE to make changes. I have to exercise. Just changing what I eat isn’t going to be enough.

Speaking of losing weight! The dilemma of Master’s b-day present is solved. Thank you all for your suggestions, though! Given that nothing of the toy/hurty/vibrating variety was appealing to me–because let’s face it. All of the toys are variations of what we already have. And I have enough insertables to last a lifetime– I started poking around the lingerie, heels, shiny stuff stores.

And Mah Man got kinda twitchy. Like, pitching a tent kind of twitchy.

I can take a hint. I’m brilliant like that.

I can’t say exactly what I ordered because then he’ll know. I can say that I’m probably going to look like a marshmallow stuffed into a smore. Know what I mean?

Hence my NEED to exercise. I don’t want to look like the Michelin Man in leather.

I did get a couple of ouchie things though. Master broke his misery stick (again!) so he had me order him a couple more (because apparently he is planning on breaking more of them. This simultaneously amuses me and scares me witless), and seeings as how I hadn’t yet gotten kitten and her Man a wedding present and seeings as how she gifted me with a gorgeous spatula and I live for revenge, I ordered a COUPLE for them, too.

*beams*

And since I was on that site (prysm creations, btw, should anyone else want to order one) I got one ouchie toy that I’m sure I’ll wish I hadn’t gotten.

I mean, what kind of moron goes to the one website that sells the one toy that she just cannot conquer the pain from – and orders other products?? Me. That’s what kind of moron. My species of moron.

Anyway, I spent a lot of money and I get kind of twitchy when I spend a lot of money on things like this. Even though he gave me the parameters of which to spend, and even though when I was hemming and hawing over it, he slapped his hand down on the ottoman and snapped out “order the goddamn shit and shut up!” (which I did, at that point. Cuz.. yeah.. not even my kind of moron pushes THAT button), I’m still twitchy.

I don’t know if I will ever get over not being a financial contributor. It’s been years. YEARS. Time to let it go already.

Anyway, I suppose I’d better get to tackling some chores before he follows through with some of that hot, yummy violence.

Or….

Gah. Seriously! What was he thinking saying that to ME of all people!

What d’ya mean I’m not priceless?!

He just came out of his mancave room and launched into telling me about some story that he’s reading.

Some fictional something or other about mind control (he always reads mind control stuff. I’m living proof that it doesn’t work. ~beams~) and slaves and bdsm and he’s going on about how well controlled the slaves were and…

I kinda don’t listen, you know? I hate erotica fiction.

But then he’s like, flapping his arms and getting excited and he finishes with “and the guy wrote a check for 2 million dollars!”

~blink blink blink~

“He sold his woman, his sex toy, for 2 mil,” he repeated, slowly, reverently.

He just looks at me. Silently. Appraisingly.

I guffawed. “That’s st00pid. Yer a dork.”

He narrowed his eyes and did some vulcan-hand movement in front of my face that, I think, was supposed to shut me up. I busted out laughing.

“Pffft.” He said. “You still need work.” and he stalked back into his mancave.

Srsly. He’d be lucky to get 2 bucks for me.

If I cannot attain being priceless, I can easily manage worthless.

My stupid slip is showing.

M’s birthday is right around the corner. I can buy him anything I want from Extreme Restraints (except for the $1200.00 gold plated vibrator. Penny pincher!) or from any other bdsm toy provider.

I’ve been browsing and browsing… can’t come up with anything. We’re so stocked up on the “usual” stuff that it all seems old and tired.

Though it scares the pee-waddins outta me to ask you lot, here I am, asking anyway.

Ideas? Hints? Anything new or exciting you’ve done lately (besides wire brushes, kitts, you sick puppy!)?

~cunt

ps. (I have an entry that my brain is stuttering around. I’m trying to work it out.)

Nosy Pokers.

Show us what was in the box, kaya, you said.

Let us see what else was in the box, kaya, you said.

Post pictures of it, kaya! you said.

You know I had Master convinced there was nothing else in that box, right? I mean, whose side are all y’all on anyway??

I feel so betrayed.

It’s cute, though, isn’t it?

Like, it should totally be hanging on the wall in my kitchen, looking all pretty and winter-festive. It absolutely should NOT be delegated to the toybox.

That’s my take on it anyway.

There’s a play party coming up, in about 2 weeks. The day after Master’s birthday actually.

He’s going to be 43.

Of course, my birthday was just a bit ago. I turned 39.

43+39=82

82 because I always get his and I haven’t gotten mine yet.

It seems somewhat of an unfair practice amongst the fuckers we hang with a tradition to let whoever wants to join in give birthday spankings to the birthday girl/boy.

So 82 multiplied by x amount of fucker… erm, x amount of people equals more spankings than I’ve had in probably a year.

I’m understandably reluctant to allow this to happen.

And by “reluctant” I mean “how can I fake my death in the next two weeks”.

And by “allow this to happen” I mean “I’m going to give Master the stink eye when he orders me to bend over”. (Because really, that’s all I have in my arsenal of resistance).

I am in a major pain-avoidance funk lately. It’s weird because when I see him playing with someone else I get all “aww! I wanna be up there doing that!” and then when I get up there to do that I’m all “This shit hurts. I can be done nao plz?”

So since some of you folks that will be at the party are reading this right now, just let me warn you of this- if you get in the birthday spanking conga line:

1. I kick. I’m just sayin’

2. I know where you live. Well, some of you.

3. One whack? One. Single. Whack. and you can consider yourselves stricken from my christmas card list.

And that’s all I’ve got to say about THAT.

(Am I sufficiently scary?)

Hey! Anyone wanna volunteer to be my sister in submission and be the painslut/anal-sex-receiver of the operation? Srsly! You do that shit, I’ll cook and clean and it’ll be FUN!

Anyone?

Buehler?

Call me!

A Box Of Love

I got a box full o’ love in the mail. It’s from kitten.

In it is:

A wooden squirrel puzzle thing. I don’t know if she’s telling me I’m childish or squirrely or both, but.. I am childish and squirrely so YAY! I’m gonna put it in my garden. *nods*

There’s a journal with a big K on it.

There’s some nifty soap and a bath poofer and warm PINK fuzzy socks. Between kitten’s bath stuff and the yummy bath stuff that danae sent me, I’m going to have to convince Master that part of my daily slave duties must include lounging in the tub. Preferably with candles, wine, and good music. And a pillow. Maybe a waterproof “friend”, too. (Hey. A slave can dream, right?)

And that is all that was in the box.

Yep.

Nothing else in there.

Definitely not.

~tra la la la la la~

Btw, is lying a spankable offense?