Behaving… for now. ;-)

Master was so not amused by yesterday’s post…lol. Needless to say I cleaned out the toybox and found my collar. I swear sometimes His sense of humor takes a vacation. I’m even going to get a whoopin’ for eating cookies! You believe that? Seems like it should be an unspoken truth that if I bake them I get to eat them!

He’s lucky I saved Him some after all that. Meanie.

He should be home in about two hours, just enough time to get in a good fuck before the kids get home. He’s told me to drink plenty of fluids and make sure I have a full bladder, put a spoon beside the bed and don’t bother with doing my hair or make-up.

Sounds evil don’t it? :-)

Here’s a few pics of my hard work and I’m off to finish chores. Have a great Friday everyone!

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Toybox

Look at that. Isn’t that terrible? That’s the awful state that I’ve let Master’s toybox get in to. I’m not going to say that it’s not my fault because it absolutely IS, that’s my job, put the toys away properly, and obviously I have not.

I do have excuses though! We always play until the very last minute possible, with toys scattered from one end of the house to the other and in order to get everything out of kid’s eyesight, I’m always scrambling and throwing things in there.

(I know I know, go back and do it later. I KNOW.)

And then I do think the toybox got flipped over during the move.

(It didn’t but that’s a great excuse isn’t it??)

Needless to say, it’s impossible to find anything in it. I spent about 20 minutes yesterday searching for those stupidmotherfucking white clips (had I known!) and poked myself on the vampire gloves and bra inserts about a billion times. Actually called Master at work because I couldn’t find the tweezer clamps. Flogger tails are wrapped and knotted around canes and paddle handles. Rope is balled up in one large knot.

And my collar is lost somewhere in there.

There should be loads and loads of guilt following that statement. My collar is lost. I haven’t worn it to bed for weeks. I do kinda feel guilty, but it’s not *lost* exactly. It’s in there somewhere. I think.

Of course I haven’t exactly seen it in there.

Last weekend when Master was home, after searching for an insane amount of time for the leather cuffs, I casually remarked that I should clean this out. I figured if I pointed out that I intend to do it, He wouldn’t get all irritated about it and rub my nose in it.

Oh I’m a sneaky one. :P

But He’s sneakier.

He looked at it, shook His head and said “Nope. Leave it.”

Blink. Blink. Gulp.

“Leave it?” I croaked.

“Sure.” He said, as if we were talking about the weather. “I’m going to clean it out myself next weekend.”

Picture a happy little scene where Mrs. Cleaver(me) is in the kitchen baking a pie and Mr. Cleaver(Master) is in the den, busily doing manly things like pounding nails.

Mrs. Cleaver(me) walks in the den, flowered skirt rustling, carrying a tray of ice cold lemonade. “Would you like a drink, darling?”

Mr. Cleaver(Master) straightens up, wipes sweat from his brow and puffs proudly on his pipe. “Thank you, dear! Come and admire my manly nail placement!”

Now forget all that.

Instead, picture me standing naked in the bedroom, nervous and sweating. Master stands fully clothed next to the toybox and begins to clean it out. As He takes out each item, He places it on me. Every clamp and clothespin. Or in me. Every needle, plug, vibrator. Or whips, cracks, smacks, beats me with it. Every crop, cane, paddle, flogger. Until the toybox is completely empty.

Then He reverses that and puts everything back in. Yanking it off of me, or out of me, and once again, whips, cracks, smacks, and beats me with it. Until everything is neatly coiled, stacked, clipped and organized to His anal retentive standards.

You’d think I’d learn huh?

NOW, you can picture the first scene but replace the lemonade with a Samuel Adams and lose the pipe.

Believe me, I was sweating this little promise. You can’t see all that much inside the toybox but there are ALOT of nasty things in there!

Last night, Master mentioned that it was high time He started chaining me to the bed again at night and that I had better find my collar. I *jumped* on pointing out how much better it would be for me to clean out the toybox and find the collar and chain before He came home. Our time together is so limited you know! Wouldn’t it be nice to have all of that on the bed and ready before He got here?

Well wouldn’t it??

:-)

It would. He agreed. Thank-fucking-God. So I am going right NOW and cleaning out that toybox.

Unless of course, I just dig out the collar and chain.

*wink*

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Cut them off!

Somebody come and amputate my boobies and put me out of my misery! ~sob~

My task for today was to do my household chores with my breasts bound, tweezer clamps on the nipples and the white plastic clips here and there on my breasts.

It was those clamps and those clips because *supposedly* I can wear those longer than some of the others.

I don’t even know what those white things ARE. Master snagged them at Wal-mart for a buck or two. Fuck. They were placed there by Satan himself if you ask me. Whatever they are meant for, I feel sorry for it. Hell I feel sorry for me!

Everything started out pretty good. I put the clips on first, they stung a bit but nothing unbearable. Then I tied (or tried to) my breasts up, slipped on the tweezers and got busy.

The first 45 minutes or so was pretty uncomfortable in that sharp, stingy kind of way. I had a tendency to hold on to the chain when I would bend over to keep it from swinging but I knew if Master was here and saw that He’d deliver a pretty hard crack to my hands for it. So I made a conscious effort not to grab it. The bending over wasn’t quite as painful as the swaying (like when I was scouring the sink) back and forth. That stung!

I was all gung-ho though! I love tasks like this. I love eroticizing chores, turning the mundane into something perverted and fun. And I kept telling myself to hurry up and finish so I could go masturbate.

Read more, with pics!

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Schtuff

I got into a really melancholy mood tonight, which was odd as I’d been pretty upbeat most of the day. I can’t shake the feeling that everything is going to slip away.

Master made a comment to me; said that this last weekend had been very draining for Him. He was quick in reassuring me that it was well worth it, that He enjoyed everything, wants to do it again, blah blah blah. I know He didn’t mean it the way that it hit me but nonetheless, there it is.

So now I’m feeling all kinds of guilt for sucking the life out of a poor guy who just wants to go fishing on the weekends.

If you had a magic wand and could un-kink yourself, would you do it?

Anyway, I found some more older pictures. I might have posted these before, I can’t remember.

Pictures here

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Confusing Read. :)

So I never did get around to doing Master’s taxes yesterday. (I did them today though, done, finished.) I could claim subdrop yesterday but it wasn’t really. I just felt like a slug. So I did nothing.

Master was less than pleased, naturally. It’s not that the taxes HAD to be done yesterday, just that He told me to do them and I didn’t. I wasn’t all that concerned about telling Him that though. He did tell me that there will be a punishment for it and I shrugged, said “oh well.”

Wow, that sure sounds terrible to re-read it. It’s not as bad as you think. Or maybe it is. I’m not so disrespectful that I shrug off the facts of punishment. I think it’s just that I know where the line is and not finishing the taxes yesterday didn’t cross it. In my opinion.

It seems the lines might be getting redrawn though.

I know which rules are flexible and then I know which aren’t. I also know how to sway (I was going to say manipulate but that sounds bad) Master on a broken rule.

I would hesitate to spill all this here because Master will read it and then I’ll be giving away a little secret I have. Except that I don’t have any secrets. I *think* I do.. and then He very casually tells me that He was well aware of it in the first place but that He likes to let me think I’ve got something. Having heard that more times than I like, I believe that I am not giving Him any secrets here so I have no reason to censor myself. So, let’s carry on shall we? :)

There are the rules that fall in the deal-breaker category. The ones that are written in stone, unbendable, inflexible. The ones that, for whatever reason, Master is exceptionally strict on. Those rules I wouldn’t break for nothing. I do not test, or push, or toe the line. I call them deal-breakers because, in my mind, if I willfully break these rules, it’s a direct conflict with my submission. A direct challenge of US and a callous disregard for His dominance. I’d most likely be permanently damaging our relationship if I broke them.

They would include all of the basic rules of any relationship, ones that we both abide by for each other. Trust, honesty, commitment. But other ones more specific to us are in there too. For instance, I would never go cut my hair without His explicit permission and very clear direction on how much. I will never smoke another cigarette, no matter how BADLY I crave one now and then. I would never leave His bed after He’s tucked me in for the night without permission (which I would never get except to go pee anyway). There are other things too but that’s just an example of rules that I simply do not challenge.

Then there are the strict rules. Ones that He’s pretty consistent with but that I have this uncontrollable urge to walk the line on once in awhile. Most of those involve things that I have to ask permission for, bathroom, eating, computer, etc. 90% of the time I ask like I’m supposed to. The other 10% of the time, my stubborn streak kicks in and I’d rather go without than have to humbly beg. The funny thing about that is I know I’m not going to win. It doesn’t get me punished really, Master just doesn’t let me have/do it until I break and ask properly. I set myself up to suffer -not eating, holding my urine, etc.- and Master just sits back and waits. He’s more than generous with giving me permission when I ask too, so the why’s of me being a stubborn shit are lost even to me.

And then there are all the rest of the little rules. And it’s those rules that I tend to blow off, break, ignore. So I was just trying to figure out why I separate the rules in the first place, why I feel it’s okay to blow off that He told me to get the taxes done but would never go get a hair cut. He’s not made mention of any rule or chore being more or less acceptable to break. They are all equal in His eyes. He says His word is law. And I keep making amendments…lol.

The conclusion that I keep coming to is this. It’s all about the severity of the expected punishment. (I think.) At first I thought I was maybe categorizing by how easy the rule is. Obviously an easy rule to follow is one that I wouldn’t challenge (much). But quitting smoking was NOT easy and dealing with cravings, even still, is not easy. And lying in bed when I’m not the least bit tired and staring at the ceiling for hours sucks donkey balls. So I’ve rejected the “easy theory”.

Then I thought that perhaps I was more inclined to follow the rules that I like. Or the ones that were a part of my fantasies coming in to this. And while I think that’s somewhat applicable, that only holds true in the moment of fantasy, or when I’m eroticizing something. And that’s just not possible all the time. It might have been pretty hot the first time that I was forced to stay in His bed and not go read or watch TV or hop online but now, hell He isn’t even awake to be fueling that fantasy you know? I just lay there. Alone. And bored…lol. That’s not hot. Yet I do it. It was also some bit of a fantasy to have my computer time controlled. Now though, it can downright piss me off when I want to do something and He just says no because He can. But I don’t get online when He says no. So strike that theory.

Back to the anticipated punishment then. The deal-breaker rules? IF He bothered with a punishment and didn’t just simply strip me of my collar and declare me unfit for slavery the severity of it, I imagine, would be… deplorable. Catastrophic. He can be pretty….ummm… evil (to be simple) and I don’t even want to guess at the consequences.

The other rules that I mostly follow but test now and then, I already know what the punishment is going to be. Essentially nothing except for what I’m inflicting on myself. And perhaps that’s why I continue to push those now and then. No real consequences to deal with, more a reaffirmation of His strictness.

And the other ones… well, to be honest, the punishment that I will get is easily shrugged off. I never know what it will be, sometimes it’s nothing at all. Maybe a disappointed look, but even that is quick and painless. I might get lectured -no big deal there, I might even get a little spanking but it won’t be severe. My point is, whatever punishment He hands out is likely to be easily, or quickly, waded through and the issue forgotten.

What I’m not sure of now is what that says about me when my obedience centers so strongly on the consequences. Master’s made comments now and then, and did in fact say something last night, about how it doesn’t matter *what* He’s told me to do, I need to just do it. Period. Yet I consistently weigh the consequences.

I don’t want this to be centering around punishment though. I want to break out of this pattern of obedience vs. punishment. So it should be that simple right? Just stop doing it, cunt.

Never works that way though, does it?

I was just sitting here thinking of times that I have been severely punished (and there have been a few) and how on those specific occasions I learned, and have since been able to hold on to, the fact that I will never ever ever do it again.

Once, a long time ago when we were at the store Master made me angry. Livid, furious, seeing red kind of mad. I can’t for the life of me remember what He did or said, I only remember that I was going to walk home. I refused to get in the truck, we argued for awhile, He finally just left and I started walking. A few blocks from home He pulled up beside me and ordered me again into the truck. Having had a nice bit of time to realize just how deep I’d dug myself, I obeyed (too late), got in and apologized (too late again) and He took me home.

He took me home and paddled my ass fucking raw. I was bruised from tail bone to knees. But you can bet I have never again, nor will I, refuse to get in the truck or argue with Him in a store. In fact, there was one other severe caning that I got after arguing with Him in a restaurant and you can bank on the fact that I will NOT argue with Him in public.

I will never lie to Him again. Not even a little white lie. You all remember THAT one, dontcha?

There are other examples too, but the point is, I can learn. Maybe the lessons, and the punishments, need to be shifted from each specific transgression to disobedience period. If He would stop categorizing the punishments, I could probably stop categorizing the crimes.

If I got my ass beat the way I did that day I refused to get in the truck every time I shrugged off a rule or chore, I know I would absolutely stop being disobedient.

I think He knows that too. Maybe He likes my disobedience then. Doesn’t that seem to be the logical message from that?

I know He likes my “spark” and doesn’t want to extinguish that. But spark and disobedience are two very different things.

Anyway, I’ve babbled long enough. :-)

I don’t have any new pictures for you, but I found this old series that I love. Enjoy.

Blow Job

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Floored

Master had said that we would scene again on Sunday night, but company came by late and the kid had some homework that she just wasn’t understanding, so by the time we headed for the bedroom it was almost 11pm. Knowing that He had to leave the house by 5:30am this morning, I expected we’d just hit the sack. I was oh so pleasantly wrong.

He came across some pictures, some bondage pictures that I had found and saved. They inspired Him. See? There is justification for porn surfing the net.

Our bedroom is divided into two rooms, and it’s that doorway between the two that holds two very heavy-duty hooks in the door frame. Meat hooks really, large and ugly things. And completely unexplainable if anyone were to ask about them. So far nobody has. Maybe it’s too obvious. I don’t know. And I don’t care. I only know that when we moved from this house last year, it was those hooks that I missed. And now that we are back, it’s those hooks that I love to hate.

I was cuffed, ankles and wrists. The spreader bar went between my feet and my hands were bound behind my back. He positioned me in the doorway and began tying a rope around my neck.

(Now, I’m rapidly developing a strangulation fetish, I’ve read accounts of hanging, choking and while Master plays quite heavily with breath restriction, there’s something different about it being a rope tied around your neck. He can cover my mouth and nose, or wrap His hands around my throat and those are hot too… but the rope… it’s just *better* somehow. He’s said that someday He’ll take me to the point of passing out, or close to it, or just push that limit. It’s scary as hell to think about but damn if it doesn’t make me almost cum just thinking about it. There was one time, not too awful long ago, that He hung me from those very hooks with the chain collar around my neck, I want so badly to do that again, for a much longer amount of time. There was another time, just two weeks or so ago, that He came up behind me and covered my mouth and nose with His hand, for a longer time than He ever had before. I panicked, I fought… He’s so much stronger than I am though you know? I couldn’t budge Him an inch and I was trying! Bucking and trying to pry His fingers open. He’d crack a finger just a bit, just keeping me on this side of consciousness, then close it again. I remember the pain, or.. pressure really.. that filled my chest and stomach, needing to draw air so badly. I remember that my eyes felt like they were bugging out of my skull. I ended up pissing myself before finally submitting to His whispers in my ear to “shhhh”… “calm down”… “stop fighting”.. all in a crooning, low whisper. When I finally sagged, He followed me down to the floor, still holding me tightly, and hugged me while I spent forever heaving great gasping gulps of air, half sobbing. Frightening at the time, yes.. but awesome orgasm material later. God, I love that He’s a sadist.)

Okay, so that was a long-ass tangent. Where was I? Ahh, the rope around my neck. *twitch*

This time though, the rope didn’t go up, it went down. Bending me over, the other end of the rope was tied to the spreader bar. He then lifted my arms behind me and tied them off to the hooks above me.

Pictures

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More fun

He strung me up in the doorway, one leg held up securely by a soft, thick length of rope. With my arms tethered up tight, my legs spread, I was a helpless victim to His roving and roaming hands. Remember that old phrase, Roman hands and Russian fingers? That accurately describes Master while I was there.

After a short time of slap and tickle, pinch and poke, He ran a finger up my thigh, dipped into my cunt and held His glistening finger up to the light. Declaring me “ready” He stepped in front of me and entered me that way. I was able to wrap my elevated leg around His waist, leaning back into the security of the locked leather cuffs, I was taken and fucked like a rag doll.

He had easy access to my breasts and nipples and used them wisely as He pumped into me, until my juices ran freely down my leg, until my arms ached and my leg cramped, until the hooks in the ceiling groaned, until I begged, gasped “enough, oh God enough!”

Then He pulled out and came across my stomach and I strained towards it, wanting to taste it, wanting it to cover my entire body, wanting to bathe in the essence of Him. He spoiled me with one swiped fingerful, allowing me to suckle it from Him, which only left me hungry for more. He swiped up another fingerful and I opened my mouth, obedient little bird that I am, whimpering in anticipation but He stopped at my breast and smeared it across the “owned”, gathered another fingerful and rubbed it into the “slave”, then wiped the rest across my abdomen, down my pubic bone. He stood back and smiled.

“No shower for you today, c.”

Showered in semen. How lovely is that?

Pictures behind the cut

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Used

“Owned slave.” He read, tracing His finger over the fresh cuts on my breasts. He cupped the right breast and delivered a sharp slap over the cuts, then gave the same treatment to the left.

“Don’t you ever forget it either, cunt.” He growled in my ear as the sting that had remained a low constant since I carved the words rose to a sharp, angry buzz.

“Yes Sir.” I said, unable to keep the satisfied smile off my face. His hands slid down my breasts (a short slide) and stopped at my nipples. He imprisoned them between His rough, powerful fingers and squeezed, flattening them completely and then twisting, grinding, pulling, smashing. I’m immediately captured, mind and body absorbed completely by the intense waves of pain radiating from those two small nubs of flesh.

I find that my breathing tries to match the ebb and flow of pain, inhaling as it crests when He twists and squeezes the hardest, holding my breath as the agony persists, exhaling with a tight moan when He loosens. Loosens just long enough to regrip and go again and in a short time, I’m beginning to feel a bit lightheaded.

He notices that my hips have begun to move. As I lie there naked on the bed, with His hands inflicting such sweet torture over my breasts, I’m unconsciously humping air. Humping the blankets, my cunt begging shamelessly to be touched, hurt, fondled, penetrated. As if jealous of the attentions being paid to it’s northern neighbors, it rises up and down, forcing it’s needy scent into the air of the room.

He drops my nipples then. They hold on to the soreness, throbbing in memory, matching the steady beat pounding in my clit and then His hand is there, circling and probing the wetness. I sigh, spreading my legs and lifting my hips to meet His fingers, pain being replaced with pleasure. He hones in on my clit, traps it between two fingers and begins circling. He watches me as I writhe and moan, I can’t see Him, I don’t need to, He’s watching always. He knows my breathing, my moaning, my everything and when I’m close, when I’m standing on the edge He grabs ahold of my breast with His free hand, digging His fingers in like a vise, the cuts stretched and stingy, feeling as if His fingers might puncture flesh.

“Cum NOW.” Demanded. Ordered. Now. And it’s the words, the voice, the absolute certainty that I would obey that brings the orgasm flooding through my cunt, my juices coating His fingers and hand. I cry out and grab ahold of His wrist, needing the clit stimulation to stop. He flips me around quickly, kneeling between my open legs, He wraps each of my fists around a bedpost and sternly orders that I not let go.

I grip hard enough to cramp my fingers, every nerve in my body tingling. I feel the head of His cock at my hole and I tensed knowing He’s going to take me hard and fast, knowing that my over-sensitive cunt is going to scream in protest, knowing that it is going to hurt as much as it will probably drive me into another excruciating orgasm. And I wasn’t disappointed. He leaned back a bit, gathering His strength, like a cat getting ready to launch, and drove into me in one long thrust. Pulling back as fast as He went in He impaled me again, and by the third thrust I was coming around His cock. I struggled to hold my grip on the posts, my fingers twitching and He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “don’t you dare let go, bitch” as He sped up His thrusts. He wound His hands deep in my hair, pinning my head to the mattress and pounded me. The slapping sounds of skin against skin as He took what is His filled the room, drowning out my moans and His grunts until tears pricked at the backs of my eyes.

My clit was on fire, my cunt felt like it was being fucked with sandpaper, I was sore, spent, used. He slowed down then and began working the magic of words. His mouth attached itself to my ear, His ragged breathing sending goosebumps across my skin.

“What are you?”

“Nothing. I’m not nothing. I’m whatever You want me to be.”

With every answer I slid deeper into myself, closing my eyes and spreading my legs wider, my hands settled securely around the posts and I was once again there for His pleasure. His cunt. His fucktoy.

I’m c now you know. Just c.

c

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Yay for tasks! Yay for clits!

Jan. 17 was the last time I was told to refresh the words. I was out of practice and I knew it would hurt. Hell, I’m out of practice for everything. When I do tasks daily, or almost daily, I keep myself ready. I have a clear memory of just about how much it will hurt, what I need to do to get myself psyched up for it (whatever the task may be). Each task had a different pre-show that I did.

I knew about how long things would take. I planned my day accordingly. I have so lost all of that.

When Master called me last night, these were His instructions.

“I want you to wear the double pocket rocket while you carve. Insert one in your cunt, place the other on your clit and do NOT take them off or shut them off until you have finished all the letters. The only thing you may stop for is to change the batteries. Nothing else.”

Sounds simple enough. Honestly, I was so happy to hear that tone of voice, to have a task again and getting that rush of adrenaline that the implications of what He was saying wasn’t really registering. The thing is, it takes me a long time to get through that cutting. Like, two hours about.

It’s not easy to be your own sadist, I go at it pretty slowly. I make very tiny cuts, wait awhile, look at some porn, keep myself horny, make a few more tiny cuts. I finish one word and busy myself doing something else while waiting for the sting on that one to die down a bit so I can do the other one.

That’s why I’m exceptionally grateful when Master lets me do this cutting. When He does it, He just does it. Like writing in cursive with a scalpel, it’s one long painful line of fire. And I can’t squirm or nothing! He needs to redo the CUNT on my ass and I am not looking forward to it at all.

I cannot explain how *badly* that stings. Holy crap. Hurts.

Anyway. So I started at about 11:30am-ish and I’m just getting done now. 2:30pm. 3 HOURS I’ve been carving (and vibing) and man.. I’m exhausted! It’s naptime.

It was the vibe that slowed me down. I was trying to remember when I orgasmed last, we’ve been so busy and then Master’s been gone. I think it was sometime last week. As soon as I inserted the one and turned it on, I was puddling. You know when someone comes up and starts massaging Just The Right Spot and all your muscles go weak and your eyes roll in the back of your head? All you can manage to say is “aaaaaahhhooohh yessssss”? That was me before I even touched the scalpel.

I had the first full-body orgasm as soon as the second rocket touched my erect little clit. It was amazingly strong, like, I had to look to see if my toes were still attached. That’s when the fun started. The other rocket was still happily buzzing away inside my spasming cunt and my clit was zinging, screaming at me. I rolled the rocket just off my clit, not really cheating but close, just enough so I could stop twitching long enough to breathe. The one inside was torture enough, my cunt was trying to expel it.

Well after that, who the heck wants to get down to business? The alcohol bottle, cotton balls, and scalpel lay untouched and I was *done*.

Course you know I screwed myself with yesterday’s post about the Master being at fault if something goes unpunished, right? Hell NO was I going to press that button just yet.

I pulled up my favorite hard-core bdsm porn clip. An hour and 16 minutes of this woman getting whipped and waxed and paddled and needled until she’s a welted purple screaming pile of masochist. It’s perfect for getting me in the mood.

It was a hard three hours. A great three hours. A painful three hours. Orgasms? More than I can count. Enough that I don’t need to have another one for a year or two. You ever vibe so much that your skin crawls and itches and burns? My clit is numb. I’m not even sure it’s still there. And…. I don’t really care right now if it’s not.

I had to change the batteries twice.

When I finally pulled the one out of my sopping and over-stimulated cunt, it was covered with pussy juice. Of course I had to lick it off, as I’m sure Master would have wanted me to. (Brownie points!)

If you look real close at the ‘v’ you can see where one orgasm came up with no warning. The other little mess up on the ‘s’ is when the rocket rolled and landed on that one open nerve that runs through your clit. The one that makes every muscle in your body spasm at once.

I read all over the place how some slaves are on orgasm restriction or how they have to ask permission first. For a long time I was sure there was something wrong with Master. He doesn’t do that. It’s like He wasn’t playing by the rules, you know? And I’d read accounts of it by other slaves and be all jealous and shit…lol. I wanted orgasm denial!

Can you believe that? I *wanted* orgasm denial. That’s so fucked up.

I had decided that He went this way because of a “if you can’t beat ‘em, you might as well join ‘em” type of thinking. I’m multi-orgasmic and super easy to get to orgasm, especially with sex. Masturbation, I usually just have one giant one. So I figured He was maybe unable to keep me from orgasming so He just didn’t bother with that rule.

He proved me wrong on that several times. He can fuck me and make sure I don’t orgasm. But holy christ does that suck! I don’t want that! I just needed to know that He could..lol.

Anyway, Master’s taken this a different route. He just keeps insisting on doing things His way…lol. He makes me orgasm until I beg Him not to. He’s reversed it. I don’t beg to cum, I beg to stop. He assigns me orgasms, or used to, for tasks. “Three (or four or five) BIG ones today, cunt.” And add on to that the several I’d have when He fucked me. After a good three or four day run of orgasms, I’d literally have a hundred or so -give or take- and my clit would be constantly twitching in my pants. Sore enough that the seam of my jeans was excruciating.

I’d be a sated and satisfied and sore little cunt. I miss that. But today I’m pretty close to that place again. It’s nice.

Thank You, Master.

cunt

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Endless Rambling

I think this just might be a rambly-type post. I’m in a rambly-type mood.

These boxes are multiplying on me. Honest. I put one box down, leave the room, come back and there sits three. I get one room completely unpacked and clean and *done*, walk into another previously finished room and it’s a disaster. I think I have The Cat in the Hat and his Thing One and Thing Two running behind my back. On crack no less. But the basement, oh my.

The basement is Master’s Place. It’s His cave. It’s sacred. Manly. Full of tools and power cords. And Master’s a bit anal (that’s being nice) about His “stuff”. He has a million little crates and bins and tool boxes, all neatly stacked and labeled, filled with all different types of screws and nuts and bolts and things of that nature. Who knew there were *types*?? He can spend hours down there happily organizing and moving and re-stacking, call me down and say “look what I did baby!” and I stare for awhile trying to see something different.

I’m not an organized person. I like junk drawers. I like baskets to put “stuff” in. All manners of stuff. All mixed up.

If I ask Master where something is in the basement, He will give me very precise directions; “In the black tool box sitting on the red metal shelf, third drawer from the bottom on the left hand side, right next to the yellow handled screwdriver.”

If He asks me where something in the house is, I hem and haw and wander around poking in baskets, saying things like “I JUST saw that the other day.”

Most of the time we balance each other out pretty well I think. He’s taught me the value of being organized and I am better at it and I’ve shown Him how to relax, that the world will not end if something is out of place. Other times we can get on each others nerves about it. When He’s ranting and raving because something has been misplaced and I’m rolling my eyes and affectionately calling Him Mr. Anus.

It’s a term of endearment. And that’s my story.

Sunday afternoon/evening, while the entire house was overflowing with boxes, while I was stressing because I couldn’t find the box that had the tampons in it, while I was frantically trying to clear enough floor space to set up a bed so we could sleep somewhere comfortable, Master was in the basement. Happy as a clam, stacking and sorting, clearing pathways to His tools. And when He called me down there a short time later, it really was shocking. He’d effectively cleared the majority of the floor. I’d barely managed to make a path and He’d all but finished the basement.

So all this week I’ve been finishing up the house and taking stuff into the basement. Lots of stuff. Stuff that seems to have no other place to go. Lots and lots… and lots… of stuff. The basement looks as bad, if not worse, than it did Sunday morning. Now I could spend the day down there tomorrow trying to minimize the damage.

OR… I could leave it and maybe He’ll tie me to a rafter and whoop on me while He re-organizes.

God knows I am needing a whooping. Bad!

The other day, the day after the Big Blow Up, Master made a comment to me, I can’t recall the exact words but it was something the effect of accepting responsibility for letting things slide. I’ve kind of been going over that in my head. Being a Master, agreeing to take ownership of a slave is not something to be entered into lightly. It’s work. And when things aren’t right, if a Master claims to be in charge, who else can be blamed?

Obviously a slave can be doing her part in being wrong, but even at that a slave is only as wrong as her Master lets her be.

A parent is ultimately responsible for how a child is raised, a teacher is responsible for how a student is taught, and a Master is responsible for His slave.

Does that let me off the hook of responsibility? Can I smugly say that what goes wrong from here on out is out of my hands? Am I magically absolved of guilt?

I could actually, if and only if, I do MY part to perfection. And nobody is perfect. Not me, not Master. Nobody. But it does in fact lighten my load a bit.

If a slave breaks a rule then she is responsible for that. That’s her failure. But then let’s say the Master overlooks it. Then I think that turns it into His failure.

Bear with me here, I’m laying it out as I think. It’s bound to not make any sense. :-)

I know that I do that, I think that. I accept the guilt that comes along with having broken a rule, I accept that I failed, I accept that I have earned myself a punishment. UNLESS Master lets it slide. Then I no longer see where I failed, I can only see where He failed. And once I begin to suspect this bit of weakness (because failure is indicative of a weakness), things begin to unravel.

It’s not that I *want* to be punished. I want to know that I’m worth correcting.

If I’m not worth correcting, then I’m also not worth rewarding.

If I’m not worth rewarding, I begin to lose motivation to be pleasing.

If I’m not pleasing Him, I’m a worthless slave.

If I’m a worthless slave and I’m miserable in a vanilla setting, then I fit in nowhere.

Worthless, nothing, nowhere. All from one bit of leniency on Master’s part.

Now before everyone thinks I’m running around breaking rules on purpose, I’m not. But as I said, I’m *not* perfect, I do mess up. And before you think it’s a ploy to get my masochistic ass spanked, Master’s punishments tend to run the lines of internet banning, extra chores, etc. Things I don’t like. Yet, I still need to suffer the consequences, you know?

I have no idea what that has to do with anything.

I keep coming back to the high-maintenance comment. I am. I think I am. Master’s says I’m not but then He also tells me I’m beautiful soooooooo…:P

Years and years ago I was involved in a lesbian relationship. I loved this girl. This was before I even knew what bdsm was and while there was some power shift between us (she was the stronger willed of the two of us and naturally took charge) it wasn’t a power exchange relationship. I was young, 16 when we met, 18 when we split. We were very close friends as well as lovers.

When we broke up it wasn’t because I didn’t love her anymore. Nor was it because I didn’t want to be her friend anymore. Not because I wasn’t attracted to her (I was, very much so. She was gorgeous and soft, curvy, large-breasted. Her skin was so smooth. She had the sweetest pussy, like licking sugar) but because she was comfortable with her sexuality and I wasn’t. She had no qualms about holding hands in public, kissing, telling family and friends about us. And I was not.

This was 18 years ago. Discrimination against homosexuals is bad now.. and was much worse then. I recognized that I could not give her what she needed. I couldn’t be open. I loved her though.

Love doesn’t solve everything. Love doesn’t fix everything. Sometimes, love is the reason things have to end.

That’s where I was last week. I love Master but I didn’t feel like I could give Him what He needed. If what He needs is a vanilla “break”, I can’t do that. I’d be a miserable, horrible person and who wants to live with that? Why would I want to do that to Him?

If He doesn’t want what I have to offer, why would He keep me around anyway?

I know I’m high-maintenance but I guess I’m not seeing how that particular incident is evidence of it. There are certain things that I *need* in order to live happily. Being a slave is one of them. And I wasted too many years of this short life denying that already.. I won’t go there again. And I refuse to make anyone else unhappy in the process.

Boy, what a ramble this is turning into.

Maybe people who read this think Master and I have a traditional relationship with a little D/s thrown in on the side. I don’t know if I’ve ever given that impression, certainly didn’t mean to… but that’s NOT what we are. We started as Master and slave, we met as Master and slave, our relationship revolves around Master and slave.

He has to do His part and I have to do mine and that is that. This weekend He’s said that He’ll be giving me a new task list, that the rules will be adjusted for this new situation. Tomorrow I have to carve the “owned slave” into my tits again. It’s faded, not completely gone, I don’t think it ever will be, but faded is just not good.

It’s a bad omen.

Time to refresh. :)

cunt

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