Dumb or Dependent?

I was reading through my friend’s page today and I came across loki_n_nephtys. This quote;

“a good friend of O/ours told Daddy that the difference between a sub and a slave was that if a sub was told to go and make a 3 egg omelet, the sub would go to the kitchen and bring back a 3 egg omelet…but a slave would go to the kitchen and bring back the eggs and ask ‘which 3?’”

And I shot water out my nose. Not just because it’s funny, though it is, but because I can easily see myself doing exactly that.

Now the author of that post sees that quote as a dig, an insinuation that a slave is not intelligent enough to pick out 3 eggs. I can certainly see where she’d come to that conclusion. In fact, I probably would have been on the same page if I haven’t done something extremely similar.

A few months ago, Master and I had several days alone. (I did make an attempt to go back and find it in the archives but I can’t. It may have been longer ago than I recall.) I just remember it being days and days of hard beatings, of humiliation, of many many hours in the closet. That type of continuous intensity wears you down. The *only* thing that I was doing without asking was breathing. And the only things I was asking for were basic needs.

During times like that Master gets super strict. He’s demanding(more so than usual). He’s harsh, critical. Every movement I make is met with questions. Interrogation type questions. His body towering over me, intimidating me with His size. “What are you doing? Did I say you could move? Did you ASK ME if you could move! Get back NOW.” He’s quick to snap out a crop if I don’t obey fast enough, or respond appropriately.

The result of that type of interaction is that I become extremely afraid to do *anything* that might be met with any sort of disapproval. I don’t move. He poses me where He wants me and I stay there, I don’t twitch. I don’t talk unless He’s talked to me first and even at that, He’s not asking me anything that requires more than a “yes Sir” response. I don’t dawdle, I don’t argue, I don’t hesitate. I don’t do anything.

I’m His toy. I’m there to fuck and suck, to be played with if He wants to and otherwise, to sit where He placed me, exactly as He placed me and shut the fuck up. That’s the purpose of being so harsh, getting me into that mindset. The mindspace where I cease to exist.

At one point, He’d told me to go make Him some chicken noodle soup for lunch. Making soup is typically a simple service. I’m not making it from scratch, it’s Campbell’s canned soup. I remember going into the kitchen, opening the cupboard and taking the can out. And then… freezing.

Just standing there, holding the can of chicken noodle soup and not knowing what my next step should be. I was so worried about somehow doing this wrong, of displeasing Him that I seized. I was stuck on the decisions I needed to make about this soup. What pan do I use? Maybe He didn’t want it in a pan, maybe He wanted it cooked in the microwave. But the microwave seemed the “lazy” way to do it and I had to put all of my effort into pleasing Him. But the stove would take longer and maybe He wanted speed over effort. If I put it on the stove, I’ll have time to make a sandwich for Him while it cooks. But He didn’t ask for a sandwich, maybe He doesn’t want a sandwich. He always has a sandwich with soup, I should know that He wants a sandwich. What kind of sandwich? But if He doesn’t want a sandwich and I’m in here wasting time making one, He’s going to be pissed because He didn’t tell me to make one. All He asked for was the soup. But how do I cook the soup?

I finally went back out to Him. And asked. And He didn’t seem at all surprised that I was asking for directions, down to what bowl He wanted the soup served in. When I ask, even about the tiniest details, I’m safe. I’m not in trouble for ‘free thinking’ and He knows it will get done exactly how He wants it done.

Some Masters pick their slave’s clothing for them. I can easily imagine that becoming so ingrained in a slave’s thinking that if the Master forgot to get her clothes out and left for work, the slave would stand at the closet door, butt naked, and not know what to do. It’s not a testament to her intelligence, but to her obedience, to her dependency on His decisions.

The majority of the time, I maintain enough decision making capabilities to get through a day. I have to hold on to that for now. But I won’t always and I can easily see myself needing explicit directions, even down to what 3 eggs to use for His omelet.

Perhaps it’s a trade off He’s making. If He wants to have me objectified enough, or obedient enough, that I quietly and patiently sit in a box until He wants me for something, then micro-managing me is going to be a necessity. It is a lot of work on His part and it takes a lot of effort, but the pay off He’ll get in creating His dream fucktoy will be worthwhile.

I don’t know if it can be so simple as to pick and choose what I can be decisive on. I’m pretty sure it’s going to have to be across the board. We’re to the point now where I cannot, on my own, decide what to cook. If He just tells me He’s hungry and to go find Him something, I can’t just go pick whatever. I have to list what we have so He can pick Himself. Then I have to know how much of it He wants. And He can’t just say soup or a sandwich. He has to tell me what kind of soup, what kind of sandwich and how many. I can, mostly, manage to fix it on my own though.

That’s my take on that. Thank you loki_n_nephtys for the inspiration. :-)

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You must read this.

I’m plugging this blog post, High-maintenance. This man amazes me with His understanding of a submissive’s mind.

From Confessions of an English Gentleman.

Color me impressed. :-)

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Glorious Thursday.

Thursday is, by far, my most favorite-est day of the week. It never used to be. It was just Thursday. Nothing special about Thursdays.

Until, that is, Master decided Thursday was breast torture day. I *love* breast torture day. I think that I’m beginning to wake up horny on Thursdays now. You know when you wake up and you have this little bloom of excitement in your belly and you lie still with your eyes closed and smile into the early morning light and think think think “now why am I excited this morning?” and then your eyes pop open and your pussy squirts and you remember! It’s Thursday!!

You all do that, right? You know what I mean? :-D

Of course it helped that I went to bed horny and slept the night (or early morning since I went to bed at 4am!) with my ass plugged. I suffered no ill effects from wearing the plug for so many hours, other than a slightly achy bumhole, which feels deliciously like I was buggered last night.. (and who the hell is this person so fascinated with my asshole and how it feels??? It still boggles my mind. He’s *recreated* me into an anal-obsessed-whore!). I’m guessing I had it in for about 12 hours straight. I wonder if it could become a permanent thing? Can someone be plugged all the time? (excusing the obvious reason for needing a plug out.)

A few weeks ago, I casually mentioned to Master that I needed a bigger plug. He’d agreed rather distractedly (He’s always distracted at work) and then He stopped, silent for a minute.

“What did you say?”

“I said I need a bigger plug.” I answered, giggling.

A longer silence. I could hear the shuffling of papers, then He cleared His throat. “Um, who the hell ARE you?”

~snicker~

Now yesterday *He* told me I needed a bigger plug so now that it’s become His idea, I’ll get one. (Men and their fragile egos. Honestly.) :-) I don’t care. I just want a bigger plug! Anyone want to mail me one? I’ll send you a picture!

Oh. Shameful. Blatant begging for sex toys.

Speaking of that.. how DOES one become a sex toy tester? I have always wanted to be one. There must be a way to apply. I *know* Master would let me have that job.

Anyway! I started off talking about breast torture which is my favorite. Or is that “was” my favorite? My ass is sneaking up on that position. In fact! Just the other day I was practically begging Master for an enema kit! Wtf! I wonder if-

Oh my God. Stop. Boobs. I’m talking about boobs.

Oh feck it. Here’s the pictures. It was great and fun and I had one of those incredibly long drawn out orgasms.. the one you can keep around a while by tugging the clamp *just so*… the one that now, some hour or so later I can still feel tingling in my toes and if I touch my clit right now it… yep.. it’s still happily sighing at me.

I love my nipples

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What He wants, He gets.

What He wanted tonight.

“I want you to go in the shower, lie down, put your feet over your head and piss on yourself for me. All over the place. Chest, face, hair… and mouth..inside and out.

Don’t worry about trying to get pictures of the pee task. You can do it for me again when I get home.”

Nothing is as good as having Him here, but at least He keeps me busy. :-D

It’s not as easy as you might think to lay in the bathtub and hike your feet over your head. Generally, any task that requires my feet over my head gets done on the bed so I can hook my toes on the bars of the headboard. No such bars in the bathtub.

I did it, with a lot of very unattractive grunting (and ain’t I looking forward to doing that in front of Him when He comes home) and then found that I couldn’t go. That is not the most natural urinating position you know. I wasn’t sure if it was gravity keeping the pee from going UP my urethra or if I was just nervous about pissing on myself and nerves had clamped my bladder shut.

I’m *barely* okay with Master’s urine all over my body and in my mouth. I get off on the humiliation of Him standing over me and choking/bathing me with His piss. Getting off on my own pee? Not so much! Had He been there, watching me and telling me what a stinky, nasty whore I was…. that’s a whole ‘nother story.

But He wasn’t! And I felt like a damn fool all rolled up in the bathtub with a clothespin hanging off my tongue and my bladder seizing up. So I gave a hearty push to see if I could combat gravity and a hot stream of urine spurted into the air and landed right the fuck on my face and in my mouth. And why did I have that god damned clothespin on my tongue??? Because my mouth would be open!

Grrr.

Honestly, my own urine tastes better than His…lol. (Apparently *I* drink more water than SOME people.) But.. it’s just different and I don’t like it.

I’d broken the seal or opened the pathway with that first hard squirt and it began flowing in a surprisingly hot stream down my torso. Nothing more came near my mouth after that first bit and I was fascinated watching it trickle down. From the tiny fountain of my pussy, it forked into three rivers over my pubic mound, weaving their way down my belly. From there it branched off even more, some of it running and tickling down my sides, but most of it splitting around my breasts, down my shoulders and pooling in my hair and under my neck.

I could smell it, not at all an unpleasant odor. So close to my face, and still lingering on my lips, I was breathing it in. I began slapping as He’d instructed and was showered with tiny splashed droplets. The clothespins went on, and I slapped the wet skin around them until it glowed bright red. I smacked at my pussy, rubbing my finger over my wet clit in between slaps. I wanted more. More urine coursing down my body, I wanted Him, His stream aimed at my cunt, splashing off my clit, spraying my face, in my mouth. I swished my hair around in the puddle under my head and as I did, I moved enough that what was trapped there suddenly ran underneath me, sliding down my back and I was soaked, head to toe in my own piss, smelly and wet, clamped, and masturbating.

Masturbating as I marinated in my own waste, masturbating as I imagined Him watching me, with that slight sneer on His face. “You nasty whore. Look at you.” Masturbating with urine as my lube, humping my own hand, until I explode… and lie breathless on the floor of the tub. Wet and cold and stinking… and glad no one could see me.

I masturbated again in the corner. Plugged, nipples clamped again, sitting on 20 grit sandpaper on a hard wooden stool… wouldn’t you??

And then finally, finally, the candles. Master didn’t make me climb to the back of the Christmas stuff to find the other box of candles, mainly because we already know that the ones in there are ones that we both like. He likes the smell and I like the feel..lol. I gathered one each of the rest of the candles that we have.

I’m not sure Master’s going to like my results.

Pictures

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Head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes!

That’s the song that’s been repeating through my brain since yesterday afternoon. Don’t you just *HATE* that??

It’s getting increasingly difficult to get any pervy tasks done with the kids at home. Schools been out for a few weeks, they’re bored with their friends, bored with the pool, bored with all day TV and internet. So who’s the next logical person to look to for entertainment? Mom. And two more months of this yet. Oh yippee.

The only time I have enough privacy to do anything would be early in the a.m. but please, the very idea of hopping out of bed and beginning the process of hurting/fucking/slicing/dicing/burning/etc yourself is ridiculous! I barely make it through the morning nipple clamp session. That’s enough for me, thankyouverymuch.

I do apologize for the lack of vulgar-kaya-pictures lately. Write your letters of complaint to the Wisconsin school board and request year round schooling. :-)

My task for today is *supposed* to be a candle sorting process. We have various candles all OVER the place, and boxes of them stored in the basement. Master wants me to wax myself silly and sort them into categories. The Lava Category. The Ouch Fucker Category. The oh-oh-oh Category. The Wax Dance Category. The mmmm-warm Category. And the stop-flicking-water-on-me-Oh!-that’s-a-candle?? Category.

That sounds fun actually and I want to do it right now! But, it’s something that will take way more than 5 minutes, which is the maximum uninterrupted time I have these days. Nor can I “hide” it so I can open the door and see what catastrophe they need fixed now. So perhaps tonight I can call an early bedtime and hide myself away and get it done.

I will be gone for a good bit of next week. Master’s taking me and the kids to Six Flags Great America and I can’t freakin’ wait! Woohoo! I’m a thrill ride junkie, we’re just bouncing off the walls with excitement. Master’s quite a bit less enthused as He tends to get motion sickness on the rides, so He’s looking at a day of standing in the sun watching the rest of us wait in line. Well…. sucks to be Him! We’re going on COASTERS! Wheeeeeeeeeeee!

After Great America though, we’ll hit the RenFair thingie sometime soon and that’s His thing. So it all evens out.

It’s a crap day here today. Rain and rain and rain. Master did give me permission to do the dog walking without the accessories and I’ve really been enjoying the walks. But not in the rain. Of course the problem (which I anticipated but don’t seem to have the gumption to fix) is that I’m now neglecting the accessories. Master didn’t detail any other time of the day to wear them sooooooooo….. exactly. We’ll see if He’s really reading my journal these days or just skimming it. Because this shall be the only mention of *that* little issue.

Naughty much? Why yes! Yes I am! :-D

Let’s see, what else.

I’m having some trouble with my only real life friend. She’s angry, upset… not liking or understanding how things are now. I hate that it’s going this way, though I guess it’s to be expected. I miss her. I understand that not everyone will like, or even want to be around to watch, this process. I don’t fault her for that. I just wish it didn’t have to end on a sour note. :(

I can’t, at this time, detail the motivation for that story. And though I’ve made a few stabs at a second part, so far I’ve trashed every one. Maybe I will leave it as it is. Or maybe you’d all like to write your own next part? I would really be interested in what you think should happen next. If I can make a coherent second chapter out of what happened next, I will. Promise.

I can’t think of anything else to babble on about. It seems I’m in a constant holding pattern, waiting for Master to either call, or email, or come home. That’s all.

~cunt

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A story.

Inspired in a way that you probably don’t want to know.

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Master, may I?

I had a really hard time making myself post today. Waiting right until the last minute almost, hoping for a burst of inspiration. I’m still thinking about the anger thing. I’ve read all of the comments, agreed with most.

I’m not angry anymore. I did send Him an email detailing everything I was thinking because I have to. I wasn’t disrespectful or rude, but I was honest. And I don’t know any way to express feelings of anger without sounding angry.

Whether I have the right to feel that way or not, I did. And I guess that’s the bottom line. My obligation ends at communicating to Him how I feel. He either validates or invalidates it.

I do think that the anger I feel and whether or not it’s an appropriate response is circumstantial. In the instance I described yesterday of Him not calling and coming home late, that would not be justifiable. That would be me thinking I’m a house wife. And He would dismiss it.

I also experience instances of anger during a session or heavy spanking. Sometimes extreme fury. It seems to be, with me, a consistent response to the pain, and by association, the giver of the pain. It’s an expected response these days, and is entirely ignored by Him. He dismisses it as a valid emotion as it’s simply part of the process I go through.

But I can think of other things where I would be angry and it would be a warranted reaction. And in those times, though He possesses the right to dismiss it, He usually doesn’t.

I guess what I’m getting at is I feel what I feel and I give it to Him. And it’s at that point that I will find out if I can continue to feel it. That’s not just true of angry emotions. It’s everything.

I think I’m pretty okay with that.

How is that I don’t see these things? How do I not notice something that has been going on, that I actively participate in, that directly affects me, until it’s already been firmly established? How does He not walk away thinking I’m retarded?

I *used* to be very smart. Honest. Anymore, it’s a wonder I can still tie my shoes. And I’d probably stop doing that if He suggested I was doing it wrong.

Some days, this whole process creeps me the fuck out. He’s…. He’s like a body snatcher..lol.

Anyway, I sent the email and I waited. How odd does that sound now? I’m literally asking for permission to feel. He called when He got it, the first thing He says is “No.” and I start crying. Instant tears. It doesn’t matter if my angry response would otherwise be warranted, it’s been denied.

He then proceeded to tell me what I *should* be feeling and of course He was completely right. (As was my girlie girl when I talked to her.) I was hurt and scared and I cover that up with anger.

So anger dismissed, I’m left with fear and hurt feelings on the surface and blubbering into the phone. So not the haughty exterior I had planned on showing. He metaphorically pets me as He’s telling me how it’s going to be, which is precisely what got me riled up in the first place and the only thing I can say about it at that point is a sniffled out, pathetic and humble “Yes Sir. I’m sorry, Master.”

And He forgives me. And I’m grateful to be forgiven.

Not only am I grateful to be forgiven, I’m graciously accepting my punishment for being too distracted to adhere to my list today AND I’ll have one coming for a bit of free thinking I did in the email. The clothespins and icy hot I can do myself, it’s standard discipline, the other punishment… only He knows what that will be.

Now I have to sit and worry about it for a week. That should be punishment enough if you ask me. (and yeah yeah, who asked me?)

~cunt

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Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame. –Benjamin Franklin

I’m angry at Master. But instead of dwelling on the whys of being angry, I’m going to explore something else.

Do I have the right to be angry at Him? Is that response acceptable anymore? I’d like to know what you all think too.

I cannot deny the emotions, I can’t pretend I don’t feel it. It’s a question of should I be feeling it though.

“The behavior that manifests and the physiological state that occurs when (1) An individual attributes to another person/organization/object a source of pain/deprivation (present or anticipated), and (2) Chooses behaviors (physical or cognitive) to stop or oppose it.”

Chooses behaviors to stop or oppose a source of pain/deprivation.

So many things are tripping me up but that one sentence contains a lot of red flags.

Chooses behaviors to stop or oppose a source of pain/deprivation.

Initially, what I thought was that I can’t make that choice. I can’t choose to make Him stop anything that He’s doing, right? Right. I cannot ask/tell Him to stop.

But that sentence implies a personal choice of my own behaviors. My response to the stimuli. Can I choose that? I would have said yes, of course I can. But then I stop and think, a filmstrip of situations and interactions between us where He’s eliciting the exact response He wants out of me. Poking and prodding, adjusting, backing off or coming harder until I am in precisely the mood/mind frame/headspace He desires. And not just physical interactions either. He’s a master at mind manipulation too. Am I allowed to create and set my mood for the day, to react freely to a word, a touch, a sound? No.

Stopping or opposing. Imagine, if you will, a Master delivering a lecture to His slave. Does anyone ever think “why that girl should stand up and tell Him to hush!” Imagine that He’s administering a spanking, anything… and the slave is crying, clearly upset, in pain… would anyone applaud her efforts to move away? Would anyone encourage her to stop the punishment?

I’m going to go out on a short limb here and say that Masters prefer Their “target” to NOT be moving all over the place. I know mine does. A wiggle, a squirm, that’s fine. But moving is out of the question. Walking out on a lecture so I “don’t have to hear it” is unacceptable. Blocking Him from touching me in whatever way He wants is forbidden.

Not being able to stop or oppose Him includes mental and psychological aspects as well. The reason He demands prompt answers to questions is so I don’t have time to censor my answer. The reason He requires this journal is because I open myself up tremendously here. I cannot lock myself in the bedroom for a good private cry. I can’t refuse His phone calls, tell Him “I don’t want to talk about it” or leave the house for a drive or a walk until I’m composed. I’m open, emotionally, at every turn, every moment.

So I cannot choose my behaviors and I cannot stop or oppose anything.

Pain/deprivation. The source.

I don’t always want to be in the closet for hours on end. I don’t always want to be standing with my nose in a corner. Nor am I always desiring to be whipped/spanked until I sob and can’t hold myself up any longer. I do not always feel like sucking His cock, massaging His feet, or being denied something I want. In the beginning, that was a struggle. A big struggle. I wanted those things when I wanted them and not any other time. Of course, He broke me of that line of thinking.

I am put in the closet/cage and left there for hours and hours. I am beat until I cry, I will suck and fuck on demand, or perform any other service He wants. Nothing I do or say affects what His plan of action is. I can want it or not want it, it will happen regardless. I am not in control, nor can I change, the pain/deprivation.

Chooses behaviors(No.) to stop or oppose(No.) a source of pain/deprivation.(No.)

And then there is this angle to look at it as well. I’m no longer allowed to expect certain behaviors from Master. He’s not obligated to please me. I’m obligated to please HIM.

*IF* He treats me like any other house wife in any other marriage, I have to remember to see it as a gift and not as my right. I don’t have a *right* way to be treated anymore. My right way to be treated is whatever the fuck He feels like doing.

If He calls me from the office and tells me “Honey, I’m going out with the guys, don’t hold dinner.” then He’s gifted me with knowledge and I’m thankful. If He doesn’t call and leaves me to worry/wonder where He is, He’s still not in the wrong. He doesn’t *have* to call. Would I be justified in being angry? No. I could lament a wasted dinner. I could express that I was worried about Him. I can even say that I much prefer to have my mind eased with a phone call. But anger? Typical housewife sleep on the couch you insensitive bastard type anger? HELL no.

This is, perhaps, just another example of the extreme imbalance of power exchange. The freedoms of movement and expression and reaction are all on His side now. He’s as heavily weighted with freedom as I am tightly bound by rules.

And if it’s established, and agreed upon, that I cannot expect a response or behavior from Him, how can I possibly justify getting angry when I don’t get that response or behavior?

I can’t. Housecunts do not have the luxury of being offended. Objects don’t have the capability of being angered.

He doesn’t belong to me.

I belong to Him.

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The product of my own company.

Weekends without Master suck. I’m bored. So very bored. I even mowed the lawn and it didn’t even need it. And y’all just don’t update enough on the weekends. :P

I’m posting something that I originally wrote way back in October because it was fun back then to hear about other people’s lessons to share. And since I’m pretty sure there are some new folk hanging around here, maybe they’ll chime in too.

After yesterday’s hard lessons post, this seemed the logical follow up. :-)

“As anyone who reads my journal could tell you, I am far from the “perfect” slave. I slip and fumble, make mistakes, make the same one again… and again… routinely. But, tirelessly, my Master, saint that He is, never gives up on me. And over the course of time I have learned a thing or two. I thought I would share them with you… :)

1.”Stop It Motherfucker!” is not a safe word. (Yes, I know it should be)

2. Scraping your teeth won’t get you out of a blow job. (I was just as shocked as you!)

3. “Get it yourself” doesn’t earn you any brownie points. (hey, it was worth a try)

4. “That didn’t hurt”, “I dare You”, “You can’t!” (Do I need to explain those?)

5. “Your aim sucks” will get you target practice. (with YOU as the target.)

6. Encouraging the dog to attack! when Master starts whapping you is just generally not a good idea.

7. Purposely skipping numbers during the spanking count “16, Sir”…. “17, Sir”… “22, Sir” only gets you back to number one… (funny as fucking hell when they dont catch it though)

8. Which brings up… try to avoid getting the giggles when He’s lecturing/spanking you.. they HATE that.

9. You really shouldn’t laugh when they trip over the very rope they are trying to tie you up with either.

10. If Master says He doesn’t want your finger up His ass while you suck Him… dont try to slip it in anyway.. He *really* doesn’t want it in there! (I know! Go figure!)

11. You really can’t scoot away from the pain of clover clamps. (or alligator clamps! Yowsers!)

12. Proving that you can pick open the cage door when you are tied up is not as impressive as you think it should be. (even when it’s with your toes!)

13. Humming the “Jeopardy” theme, tapping your toes, sighing, or checking your watch while Master fiddles with a knot doesn’t please Him so much.

14. Never.. ever.. under any circumstances… bend over at the waist to pick something up off the floor in front of Him. Never. (always crouch girls… bend at the KNEES)

15. Ditto that for walking up the stairs in front of Him. (its a little like dangling a pork chop bone in front of a starving dog)

16. And when He does pinch or slap your ass when you walk by or bend over… dont slap at His hand, give Him a dirty look or mumble “that hurt asshole”… or any variation similar to those. (They can be so touchy!)

17. Trying to claim that you were telling Him He was ‘number one in your eyes’ when you just got caught flipping Him the bird usually doesn’t fly. (get it? bird? fly? hahaha)

18. Don’t keep blowing out the candle. They see no humor in that.

19. When He is down on His knees adjusting your ankle cuffs, don’t mention that He looks mighty fine like that and would make a sexy little bitch boy. (It’s really almost worth the expression on His face though.)

20. When He asks “did that hurt, slut?” after a particularly hard swing do NOT say “DUH..here’s yer sign!”

Now please.. share your lessons learned! On your blog or in the comments here… we all need support!”

And I’m going to post pictures of the bruises again, mostly to tease this adorable chicka. I think she has a bigger bruise fetish than I do!

Oh pretty colorsss

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Poking the Beast.

I was talking to Master today, making some vague reference to things being hard, and there being a reason why it’s hard. That there’s a lesson to be learned in it somewhere.

Master decided I should do a post about a hard lesson I learned. And while that wasn’t exactly what I was getting at, I can’t make sense out of what I was getting at anyway. So I’ll be good and do my assigned post. I’ll just keep thinking on whatever it is that’s trying to bubble out of my brain.

What’s really interesting to me, is whenever the topic of hard lessons comes up between Master and I, He immediately brings up “The Saturday”, and I immediately think of “The Mother’s Day”. Two completely different days, two completely different lessons, yet we’ve individually picked those two as defining moments for us.

He’ll very often say, when I’m getting rebellious, “do you need another ‘Saturday’, cunt?” because that’s what He sees as our pivotal moment. To me, it was indeed a hard lesson, but the one that stands out in my mind as a crucial moment for us was Mother’s Day.

So. I’ll tell both. (Jeez. Take the long way around to saying I’m gonna tell two memories, eh?) I’ve told both of these before so if I bore you, I apologize. And it’s Master’s fault. :P Also, I’m going by memory of events that happened a year ago, so forgive my forgetfulness. I promise I do remember, vividly, the PAIN. And the lesson.

Mother’s Day

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