She’s coming home!!!

She’s going to finish the school year there and then she’s coming home.

Oh my God I am so excited!!

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My name is kaya, and I’m a masturbaholic.

I masturbate alot. To be fair though, I *am* in my sexual prime. Though I masturbated alot before I was in my sexual prime too.

Maybe I’ve always been in my sexual prime…lol

I don’t always watch or read porn when I masturbate. Mostly I find that it distracts me too much. I prefer my own thoughts. I used to have what I thought were really far out there fantasies when I masturbated, but now I find that I almost always masturbate to some scene that I’ve had with Master. My previous “far out there” fantasies are ones that leave my clit dead in the water in comparison to my real life.

I am a lucky lil cunt.

I don’t have a dildo. Not one. I used to have some but, damn, it’s too much work you know? I can never pound myself the way I like it, not the way Master fucks me, not the way I’ve been spoiled with it. And it’s so hard to arrange yourself in the right position AND pound the dildo AND hold the vibrator AND tweak your nipples AND keep a fantasy running. Bah. Too much hassle.

Nope, I’m happy with my bullet vibe and my mind. Naturally I’d much rather have Master here but He’s gone a lot. So I make do. He more than makes up for me not being dildo pounded when He gets home anyway. :)

I don’t do finger masturbation too much anymore. My clit is a spoiled rotten hussy. Fingers are great for getting the juices flowing, getting my spoiled lil clit to stand up and pay attention but when it comes to orgasm, forget it. My arm and fingers will cramp up and fall off before that spoiled whore will cum.

That’s okay though. Master buys me lots and lots of batteries. And I’ve always got Hitachi. That thing rattles my teeth through my clit.

Every once in awhile, orgasm eludes me, even with my pocket rockets, the hitchi and my imagination. I’ll be deep into a fantasy, humming along industriously and all of sudden, 10 or 20 minutes have passed and I’ll realize I’m contemplating the next American Idol cut. Or planning next week’s menu. So I mentally shake myself, refocus my head back to cages and whips and cocks….. and “wake up” some 10 or 20 minutes later designing my dream house.

Now, I don’t give up on an orgasm. That’s a road of despair that I am not willing to travel just yet. Seriously, it starts with just one. One time, you lay the vibe down and decide you just can’t cum tonight. Then it’s twice. Pretty soon, cobwebs and moths have taken up roost in your cootchie. No. Nuh uh. Not me. If I start it, I will finish it. And trust me when I say I’ve battled it a time or two. Stinky, sweating, cramped legs and arms and fingers and a sore, battered clit. But I won. My clit waved the white flag and spit out a pathetic little orgasm because I.will.not.be.defeated.

That’s bothered me a time or two. That seems an unhealthy obsession in the light of day. But let’s not go there, ok? :P

My most favored way of grasping a wayward orgasm is nipple torture. It amazes me how quickly I can cum once I start seriously hurting my nips. Because it’s so easy, I don’t do it every night. I don’t want to ruin that. I love it too much. (The marathon battles mentioned above would not take as long if I’d get my lazy ass out of bed and get the clamps out the toy box.)

I like when I get into a place where I just can’t hurt them enough. A clamp doesn’t cut it. Several clamps might. And then only if they are pulled off numerous times and reapplied. Twisted and yanked and pulled. When it’s really good, I don’t even need the vibe. Once the pain gets high enough, sharp enough, all I’ve got to do is touch my finger to my clit and I pop.

One of those mind-blowing orgasms that stretch out forever… and leave your mouth gaping open and your eyes crossed for awhile. Until all the goodness fades and what your left with is bloody, abraded, shredded nipples that are *screaming* at you.

I can’t say I’m too fond of the after effects.

I don’t let myself go that far very often. For one thing, I don’t have enough self-restraint to leave my clit alone. I’ll cum long before it gets really good. And who wants nipple pain *after* you cum? Also, I don’t always know, oh hell I *never* know, what Master has planned for my nipples and He’s not too sympathetic toward them just because *I* fucked them up, so it’s not always a good idea to make them hurt too much before He gets His paws on them and makes it worse.

But sometimes, I get into nipple moods. I’m in a nipple mood right now. I want them to hurt, bad, and then I want to cum. Repeatedly. So I shall. I’m spoiled that way.

Three Clamps and a Nipple

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Childhood memory. No smut. :P

When I was about 11 or 12, my dad went to help some friends of his tear down an old barn. Us kids were dragged along because at the very least we could haul the smaller boards and crap over to the junk pile. Things went along pretty uneventfully when my dad brought over something he had found. A robin’s nest, that he held down for the kids to see. Nature up close.

Found perched on one of the barn rafters, it held four tiny birds, just beginning to feather. The ugliest things ever seen. The birds, not caring or understand the disruption in their lives, only sensed movement above their heads and were all up, beaks wide open, chirping loudly. My dad let us look for a bit and then he started off, nest in hand, toward the junk pile.

I hurried along. My dad is not a PETA member by a long shot and I was worried.

“Where are you going to put the nest?” I asked, hurrying to keep up.

“In the junk pile.” A man of few words, my dad.

“Will the mom find it there?”

“Most likely not.”

“They’ll starve!”

“I’m going to step on them,” He said. “Go back to your mother.”

It was my heart-wrenching scream that brought my mother at a run and an argument ensued between them. My mother scolded him for saying that at all, even if he was going to do that and my dad tried to explain to me that the birds would die a much more horrible death, left to slowly starve to death or carried off and eaten by an animal. The parent’s wouldn’t come back to the nest now, the barn was gone. He was being humane, he said.

And the birds, even as my dad held them and calmly explained how he was being kind in stomping them to death, continued to beg in blind trust for food. I don’t know now why wildlife rescuers weren’t brought up. Maybe they weren’t as readily available as they are now, maybe my parents just weren’t that concerned about it. It was too long ago to remember.

I refused to be placated with being stamped to death as humane and painless and I continued to cry until finally he thrust the nest into my hands with exasperation and stomped back to work. I cradled the nest for the rest of the day while everyone else worked.

At home, I dug an old rusty birdcage out of the shed, and placed the nest in the bottom. And then put the birdcage in my room, far away from my dad’s feet. With no internet and nothing but some out of date encyclopedias (remember those?) I set about learning how to become a Mother Robin. I can’t remember all of the details now. I remember digging for worms, plucking bugs out of the pool and puddles, catching spiders.. and then smashing them all up and spoon-feeding the mixture into the babies open mouths. I remember getting up two or more times a night because the constant chirping for more food was incessant and if it woke my dad up, well.. you can imagine the consequence of that.

I fed them all sorts of things. Bread soaked in sugar water, leftover veggies all mashed up. I held them, I talked to them. And against the odds, with a child as a mother, they grew. They survived. My dad, impressed with my dedication to “my babies” fashioned me a bigger cage out of old fencing that I fancied up with stick-perches. Soon they were grown, fully feathered, plump robins. The time had come to let them go.

I was ready to let them go. I hated that they were confined to a cage and maybe I was a bit tired of the constant responsibility. Catching bugs and worms was a never ending job, they pooped *constantly*, they weren’t the freshest smelling things in the world and my bedroom was pretty ripe. Everybody was out in the yard when I carried the cage out to the porch. I propped it up on the railing and whispered my goodbyes to my babies. My parents watched me, maybe expecting sobbing. I lifted the lid and gave the cage a shake, expecting them to fly UP.

Birds are supposed to fly up. But nobody had taught these birds to fly up. Nobody had taught them how to do much more than flit from one side of the cage to the other as the cage sat on the floor. The birds had never been outside period.

None of that had occurred to me. Not if or how well they could fly, not how they would gather their own food and not how they would avoid predators.

The four fat birds flitted straight to the ground, chirping excitedly. And from all directions, as if a dinner bell had been rung, came the farm cats. Before I’d even taken a step toward the porch steps, all four birds had been carried off in four cat’s mouths.

I’d spent weeks gathering and smashing slimy bugs, getting up in the night, messing with heating pads, scraping up gobs of bird poop, to fatten up a snack for an old mangy farm cat.

I don’t have a point here at all. There are four robin’s nests in the rafters of our carport and I was outside, watching the bird’s fly in and out. Busy creatures they are. It just sparked a random memory that I wanted to share. :)

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For Master

Master won’t be home until next weekend. It’s a long, long time until next weekend. So I made Him a little present.

Master loves watching me bathe and primp and (try) to look nice for Him. I hope this will tide Him over until He comes home.

Tease

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I knew it!

Katharine McPhee’s American Idol Wardrobe Malfunction

I knew I saw her panties!

**Edited to show more kitty love. :-)

Pictures behind cut

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On the lighter, yet freakier, side of things.

Every once in a very great while Master allows me to be somewhat in control of a scene. I’m allowed to choose the toys that are used, to decide when I want to switch toys, to point to where I want the next impact to be and even to decide how hard or soft, how fast or slow. 99% of the time, my requests are for harder but slower.

It’s a really unique situation for me to be in. I find that during those times I can usually take more pain, and still giggle after a stroke, than other times. I’m also free to give any and all feedback that enters my mind. Things like “that was too high” or “I really don’t like it there”, and other more in depth and emotional things that remain coherent for me to express.

I think Master learns a lot during these times, or at least, that’s what I always thought the goal to be. Because of that, and because it’s a rare opportunity to explore my masochist side on mostly my own terms, I fully enjoy it.

I get quite giddy. Excited. And He responds to that, laughing and joking with me. It’s really quite the scene. Imagine Him cracking the cane, quite hard across my ass and me rolling away, holding the spot and laughing out a stream of “ow ow ow ow ow! That was a good one! Holy shit that hurt!” and then rolling back, pointing to a new spot “Here! Right here next!” while He chuckles and takes aim.

I flip flop back and forth, run to the toy box to swap out implements of torture… It’s fun. Light-hearted silliness.

It doesn’t fulfill me in the way that I crave though. I’m glad it’s a rare thing, because at the end of it, while I’m still sore and aching and stinging in spots, on the inside I’m still just… empty.

It had always seemed to me that I needed the pain. The pain, the pain. Tools and toys and clamps, hurt me, whip me… but, I don’t think it’s about the pain much at all.

During those fun times, I’m getting the pain. Generally more pain and yet I’m always left aching for the rest of it.

I ache for the emotion. I long for the helplessness, the vulnerability. I need to hear the cold whisper of Him reminding me that I’ll stand still and I’ll take whatever He dishes out. And I always, always break and cry with much less pain then.

The humiliation, the degradation, the cruelty. Oh God yes, hurt me but make me cry with Your words, Your tone of voice. Let me breathe in how exposed and powerless I am. Let me hear Your intentions before You even touch me.

I crave the fear. Naked and bent over, knowing it’s coming, knowing the pain is going to come hot and heavy and hard. I want to taste the fear before I scream, I want to scream before I feel it, I want to feel it in the brush of Your fingertips before the whip strikes.

And then, why even the lightest stroke lights a line of fire in my mind that explodes with intensity and the fear rises another notch. And when You do deliver the pain then, it’s spirals me to another world, a place where I am me. Raw. And I love it there.

Pain without all that other stuff is like sex without an orgasm.

But I digress. ;)

So it was though, that on this night I was enjoying myself. I was on a quest for purple cane welts. I don’t know what we are doing wrong but when we do get purple, it fades really fast. Mostly we get red and white that fades into a bruise but dammit I want purple! Other people get purple!(I swear if someone says that He’s not hitting me hard enough, I will scream. He is *cracking* me.)

Read more…

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I’m a Bitch…

Master had to leave this morning which, sad to say, is probably a good thing as I can feel myself being firmly embedded in the PMS deathtrap. Last night, “get it your damn self” ceased to be a giggling smart ass remark that I make while playfully dancing out of arms reach and instead was a serious, gut wrenching thought that I had to bite back so hard it left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I mean, He was standing Right Next To It.
Grrrr.

But yay for self-restraint! I got it and I kept my eyes down and my mouth shut and He wisely didn’t comment on my foot stomping and heavy sighing. See how we work together?…lol

Before that though, we were sitting on the couch watching American Idol and He says, “I’d like some ice cream.”

Cue me getting up and getting it right? Normally, yes. I swear to God I did not plan what came out of my mouth. I opened my mouth to say I’d get it and what poured forth was;

“Me too. Why don’t you get me some?”

I think I looked at Him with more shock on my face than He had. I immediately crossed my arms protectively over my boobs and started some serious backtracking. Pointing out that I *was* watching American Idol which happens to be the *only* tv show that I watch and of course I didn’t *mean* that, I was joking! Haha, isn’t that funny and remember how You said You *like* it that I’m feisty? Remember that? (insert desperate and uncomfortable giggle here in an attempt to prove it was a joke)

I don’t even remember what He said as it was drowned out by the dull roar that was coursing through my head. But He stood up (I hadn’t dared to stand yet. And leave my ass as an open target?? Hell no!), walked to the kitchen and started making bowls of ice cream.

Of course I protested. “No no, let me get it. I’ll do it. I was just kidding! Sit down! I’ll GET IT.” The last few words coming out more and more desperate with each scoop that He threw in the bowl. And He just kept on, with the oddest expression on His face. Sort of shocked confusion.

And with my heart hammering away in my throat and my stomach making acquaintance with my feet, I stuttered, “ummm, so, erm, how, I mean what, *ahem*.” Deep breath, hard gulp, long blink, gather courage and squeak out, “what’s this going to cost me?”

He came back, handed me a bowl of ice cream, and smiled. Smiled! “We’ll see.” He said, in a perfectly normal, pleasant tone. Then He sat down and ate. While I fretted.

I stirred my ice cream into a melted puddle of goo, and then, well, I ate it. And it was good….lol

Not too long after finishing the treat, He announced that He had to pee, and then motioned me toward the bathroom. Immediately my stomach, swollen with ice cream, clenched. He smiled that devil’s smile of His and whispered, “remember that “cost” you asked about?”

I knew if He made me drink His urine from His cock right then, the whole mixture of ice cream and piss would end up down my shirt, in my lap and on the floor. So I did the only thing I could do.

I begged like a shameless, thoroughly chastised, gutless whore. What would you do??

I was contrite. I was humble. I watched the play of emotions on His face as I spewed forth a litany of apologies and promises.

The entire begging process is a unique humiliation for me. Begging is not, has never been, and never will be, a fetish of mine. My first attempts at begging consisted of saying ‘please’. And when that was met with an arched eyebrow, I added ‘please Sir?’.

That was the best I had in the beginning of “us”. I suppose from years of being fiercely independent, of refusing to ask for help, let alone *beg* for it. I saw/see it as a sign of weakness and while I may be a submissive, I do not see ‘submissive’ and ‘weak’ as synonymous. It takes alot out of me to beg, to really sincerely beg with honest humiliation and remorse.

I’ve often failed to beg, and suffered the price of not begging out of whatever it is He’s doing, or about to do. Usually a painful price.

This time though, not only did I really, really NOT want to go vomit, I also knew I had been in the wrong, that I deserved this episode of degradation and that even if He listened to my pleas and still led me into the bathroom, I’d be getting off easy.

For a moment He just watched me as I trailed off into silence. Cold, calculating observation making me feel much like a bug under a microscope.

In the end, He relented. And I almost vomited anyway with relief. Lessons can be taught without harsh consequences, I certainly learned mine.

It was *that* lesson that got me up to quietly retrieve the thing that He was standing Right Next To. (Grrr) And it’s that lesson I’m going to hold on to during the next few days of hell week.

Fortunately for me (and unfortunately for them) the kids have nowhere to go so I can unleash myself upon them… shoes in front of the door, the bike that Master tripped over this morning, book bags on the stairs… oh yes. Great fun is about to be had.

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The name should be Butterball.

More kitty love

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MSN

I’ve done a few entries on isolation. Master’s interest in keeping me as isolated as possible isn’t purely for selfish reasons. It’s not only because He’s a control freak. Though those two reasons might factor into it in some ways, they aren’t the main reasons.

He controls my environment and my interactions with people (as much as He can) so that I’m not influenced in a way that’s not conducive to my training. That’s one of the reasons that I’m trying to conquer this tendency I have to be caught up in discontent when I read someone’s blog or receive a negative comment. The consequences for that will be that I’m not allowed to read other blogs and that comments will be shut off. Neither of which I want to happen.

The internet is my main source of interaction. It’s mostly a positive thing. And in order to keep it for as long as He allows it (someday I’ll be totally isolated, or at least much more strictly controlled online) I’m obligated to keep it positive. There are ways that I can do that.

I do my chores and tasks and don’t spend all day online. I don’t choose the internet over spending time with Him or the kids (or at least not often ;). I drop whatever I’m doing online the second He says to. If He gives me a time limit, a time to be off, I do it. I don’t allow online to become an obsession. I ask before I touch the computer. My email account is open to Him. I don’t delete anything. I don’t hide anything. I don’t empty my email trash or the recycle bin.

(Those are the generals. I’m not perfect with those guidelines but I do try.)

Provided that I do my part, He’s fairly lenient with the computer. I can read anything I want. Blogs, websites, stories. The history and logs are there if He wants to check them, but He doesn’t do that often. I share things of interest with Him. Though He doesn’t typically read blogs, if I find something that makes me think or makes my pussy twitch, I’ll show Him.

But here’s something that I cannot do. I cannot randomly add people to my MSN. So please, stop trying to add me. The more often that someone pops up when He signs on to my account, the closer He gets to banning everyone from my MSN list, or knocking me offline period.

The few people that I have on my account are people that He, and they, made the effort to get to know before I was allowed to interact with them. He read their journal to get an idea of what their life is like. He read their comments to me to get an idea of how they communicate to me (and what about), He chatted to them on His own to get a feel for them. And only then were they approved.

I hate being rude. I hate being perceived as rude or impolite. I hope I’m not coming across as rude now but I want to retain my internet privileges for awhile yet. Help me out with that, huh? Please?

:-)

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April Showers.

Want to see the clip surrounding these pictures?

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