Bruises, Whine and Poetry.

The bruises are coming in now. I feel a little bit better about it. Bruises are proof. “yeah it hurt! look at the bruise, man!”

More legs

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Just in the nick of time

Left leg

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Wanna play?

I’m bored. Very very bored. (not bored enough to do the thigh thing yet though..lol)

Isn’t there something we can do? Topics for posts? Questions?

Any ideas?

Play with me! ~whine~

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Standing at the gates of Hell…

… and considering jumping.

This is absolutely not my day.

I started my period this morning. (I know, I know. Too much info. But it’s *pertinent* info.) I *always* start my period when Master’s coming home. He’s gone 5 days out of 7 and I always start the day He’s coming home. Why? Because God hates me. He proves it to me time and time again.

I’m cramping, I have a headache and I feel like I got ran over by a truck. I never get “period symptoms” -except horrid pms, but not this crap usually. It sucks.

Master called and said He can’t come home tonight. He’s swamped with work, maybe tomorrow night but that would only be for a little while, He has to be back on Sunday. That just shatters my world. :(

Why doesn’t that make the period angst go away? Because I don’t feel good and I want my Daddy, that’s why! Stupid job anyway.

He excused me from my chores, doesn’t care about them since He isn’t coming home anyway and I’m a whiney crybaby, but He isn’t letting me off the task (which happens to be whipping my inner thighs until they are bruised. Do I want to do this? No. Not even a little bit. Do I have to anyway? Yes!) So now I’m thinking I’d rather clean and mow the yard than even touch myself anywhere near my crotch area but He doesn’t agree.

And to top it all off, my computer has betrayed me and gotten infected with CRAP. What the hell damn good is Nortons or firewalls if they don’t even SEE IT! Gah!

You ever just want to *bite* someone? Like, really hard?

~ohm~

~OHM~

Okay. Better.

Pictures of &%*#ing inner thigh whipping coming….. soon. Later. Don’t hold your breath.

Technically today ends at midnight. Check about…oh… about ten til..lol.

~whiney cunt

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Goodyear Blimp Sighting

When I got pregnant with my first child I weighed 97 pounds at my first OB appointment. My delivery weight? 166lbs. That’s double (plus) what you are supposed to gain. In my defense though, my doctor very sternly told me that I was underweight and that I needed to gain 25lbs for the baby and another 25lbs for me. I don’t quite think she meant to gain it ALL in nine months, but I did.

Within the first four months after I gave birth, I got back down to about 130lbs. And then I got pregnant again. And gained another 30lbs.

After she was born, I worked my way down to 130lbs again, and then I got pregnant. Again. And gained another 30lbs.

It was much harder to lose it after the third baby. I knew I’d never get back down to 100lbs again but I managed to hover at a about 125-130lbs, which is perfect really for my height of 5’4″.

Well, I didn’t have any more babies. So, where the f-ing hell did this extra 30 pounds come from!? I weigh, right now, what I weighed at my heaviest pregnant about-to-pop moment. And I hate it.

Master doesn’t really care what I weigh. As long as I can still walk and fuck and fit in the cage, He’s fine with it. Besides, the more flab I have on my body the more He can pinch, the evil bastard.

But I don’t like it. I’m self-conscious. My clothes don’t fit. The pictures make me gag (and I’m so sorry it’s forced on you..lol). I hate the way the fat bulges out of the ropes when He ties me up. And this is not an insult to anyone who’s overweight. This is all about my self-perception. I was skinny all my life until the last 3 years so this is hard for me to deal with. I keep seeing my mom, who’s pretty darn heavy and I do NOT want to look like her.

I asked Master to help me with this. Obviously I was failing at it on my own and I figured if the Man can get me to quit smoking, He sure as hell should be able to get me to lose weight. You’d think that quitting smoking would be harder than dieting. Wrong.

He put me on a fairly strict eating and exercise program. If I’m following it, the pounds should be melting off. If anything, I’m gaining. Yet, I *am* following it.

I have slips now and then. Like the ice cream the other day. But I’ve really been pretty good with it. And it’s not working.

I know why. But if I say it, He’ll stop doing it. And that makes me sad. But being fat makes me sadder.

He spoils me all weekend long. Soda pop, ice cream, pizza, chocolate. He can’t look at my face and tell me no. Hell, He can’t tell me no on the phone! I gain more over the weekend than I can lose during the week.

I’m not blaming Him. I love that He spoils me. I love chocolate! And I know He loves doing it. I clap and giggle and squeal when He gives me candy, He thinks it’s adorable. So I’m just all torn in two over this.

If I keep sabotaging the diet on the weekends, I’ll never lose any weight. That’s a fact. I’m just gonna have to ask Him to be mean on the weekends. :(

I’m also going to request that I be allowed to butt plug/tack bra/scrunchy at other times during the day because trying to walk with that stuff on keeps me from getting any real exercise value out of walking. I walk too slow (because it hurts!). Today, I went on the second walk with no accessories (without asking but He wouldn’t answer His damn phone. And *still* hasn’t answered.) and I really got into it. I even jogged for…like… a half a block.

So maybe if He *sniffle* stops feeding me junk food on the weekends *sob* and if He grants me accessory-free walk time, I can slim my fat ass down.

I weigh somewhere around 160lbs. (Master won’t let me have a scale. Grr.) I want to weigh somewhere around 130lbs. Now that it’s out here, and He’s going to read it out here, He’ll tighten up the leash.

Man.. post or don’t post. Wheat thins or chocolate. Water or Mt. Dew. Fuck. Being fat *sucks*!

I got to.

I better go eat some ice cream before He reads it.

~fat ass

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I’m just a hairy guy

“Gimme a head with hair, long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen
Give me down to there, hair!
Shoulder length, longer (hair!)
Here baby, there mama, Everywhere daddy daddy”

That picture was taken last October. Almost a year ago. Needless to say, Master likes my hair long. My hair is also *thick*. It’s something I’ve heard all my life, from my mom when she brushed it, “Jesus, your hair is thick!” to various hairdressers when they’d be tediously rolling it up in tiny perm rollers, “Gawd, you sure have thick hair.”

So I believe them. I have thick hair. And it’s heavy.

I’ve always worn my hair long-ish, all my life. But inevitably, it gets to a length that starts to get on nerves. Like right about now.

It eats my face. It does. Driving in the car with the window open and my hair whips at my face in a way that should satisfy any masochist, except, you know, face whipping isn’t so erotic. No matter how well I pull it back, a few strands will work themselves loose and will lash the bejesus out of my eyeballs, my nose and lips, my cheeks. Grr.

I can’t braid it anymore by myself because it’s too long. I run out of arm. Master did say He’d braid it for me if I show Him how. (isn’t He sweet?)

It’s getting hot and humid now and my hair is starting to feel like a blanket. I’m in a hair tent, you know? So I pull it up, tie it up and then I get a headache. The weight of it tugs at my scalp until it pounds.

I’ve asked a few times…. or… I’ve started to ask. It goes like this;

me: Master, don’t You think it’s time to cu-
Master: No.

Well, alrighty then.

I’ve been in this circle of hair hell since summer got into full swing. Leave it down until I’m too hot, pull it up until I have a headache, take it down until I’m too hot, pul- oh you get the picture.

So I started preparing a convincing case to plead to the Man. A way to word things that wouldn’t traumatize Him with visions of Sinead O’Conner. Soothing things. I had it just about ready, until last weekend, while wandering around Wal-Mart.

He’d stopped in the middle of the aisle, transfixed by something. I’m an impatient shopper, I want in, I want out. He’s a lollygagger. But since I’m bound to His beltloop, I have to lollygag too. (I’m a tugger though, it’s a wonder His pants don’t fall down.) I was tugging -gently- as He stood there, when He sighed out “Oh, she has pretty hair.”

Because I like girls too, when some female catches His eye, I have to look. And way across three aisles and kitty-corner was a woman with hair brushing the tops of the back of her thighs. She made my hair look *short*.

Seeing the dreamy look on His face and reaching up to wipe the drool off His chin, I trashed my oh-so-convincing hair cutting speech. I’ll suffer, or grow longer arms so I can braid it, to make Him look at me that way.

Any hints on hair styles to keep it from eating my face? Really, that’s got to stop.

(Oh..hehe.. on that same trip through wal-mart, He was stopped in an aisle looking at something and I was trying to get the cart around Him and out of people’s way. A group of people turned the corner and started heading down toward us so I bumped into Him with the cart and hollered out, really loud, “Excuse me Sir, you’re blocking the aisle!” He snickered and moved and when the group passed us, the girl goes “jeeez, what a bitch”. *giggle giggle* Life is full of little moments.)

Now, about the camera. In spite of certain people’s suggestions ~glare~ for what to do with the camera, I fixed it. *beams*

Well, it wasn’t broken anyway. It’s just that the batteries that I put in it that I thought were new… weren’t. So I proclaimed it broken. It works fine. Here’s the proof.

Today is Titty Torture Day!

Hooray for tit torture

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Content

He lay next to me, sound asleep. He was snoring softly, a soothing rhythm of sound, every exhale catching a strand of my hair and sending it tickling across my brow, making me smile into the darkness. It was a balmy night and the bed sheet lay puddled at our feet as the ceiling fan cooled our sweaty bodies.

His arm lay heavily across my chest and I stroked it with my fingertips. I find the manly texture of His body to be erotic, His rough and curly body hair in such contrast with my smooth, milky skin. He most often sleeps with an arm or a leg tossed over me, as if pinning me down, perhaps afraid I’ll escape as He slumbers. In truth, I’d never escape and I snuggle down under the protective feeling of being wanted and loved.

We’d had sex just moments before. Though ‘sex’ is not the word I prefer to use. To say we’d ‘made love’ is also wrong somehow, as it’s always more primal than that. ‘Fucked’ is closer but too harsh. It was something of the three of those words. Indescribable perhaps. I like to think it’s unique to us, selfish, egotistical thinking that we have the best sex life in the world.

I could still feel where the days growth of whiskers on His chin had burned my neck and shoulder as He’d nibbled and bit at my neck and ear. My breasts and nipples throbbed from His strong fingers as He’d milked orgasms out of me. I spent several moments marveling over my genetic make-up, what piece of me made the sensation of a nipple being torn from my breast be the catalyst for multiple orgasms. The thought made me squirm and rub a finger over my nipple, sore and battered, yet still it slowly poked upright, willing and waiting for more.

I could still taste His semen, deep in the back of my throat where it seems to catch and hang around a while, like an old friend. Rolling my tongue and capturing the taste in full for a moment. He’s sweet, and what particular part of His diet to attribute that to I can’t say, and maybe it’s just me, I like Him, I like His taste so I project a taste I prefer.

Wetness still flows between my thighs. I can feel the slow path it’s making down my crack, where it will settle on the sheet under me. I don’t mind sleeping in the wet spot, something seems so right about the process of smearing the combined results of our coupling into my ass cheeks and hips, being anointed with the juices we make together. The smell of *us* permeates the room, fills my nostrils and I breathe in deeply.

I shift my thighs apart slightly and He moans in my ear. I hold my breath and remain still, not wanting to wake Him. I have to bite my lip to keep quiet as a sudden rush of air up between my legs meets the moisture, and it feels as if an ice cube is sliding down my cunt lips. I shift my legs apart a little bit farther, forcing my pussy lips to release the clingy hold they have on each other, to open my cunt, exposing my still tingling and hot clit to the open air.

My hips twitch involuntarily as my clit is caressed with the flow of air. Above us the ceiling fan turns lazily, creating the breeze that is making love to me. Later in the night, I’ll get cold and cover myself against the air of the fan but now, now I open myself to it. Lifting my hips, my lips fall completely apart and a current of cool air brushes over my exposed clit and it stiffens.

Plucking repeatedly at my tender nipple, I close my eyes in the darkness and let my mind wander through memories. Snippets of scenes, His voice in my ear, His hands on my body. My tears and the pain, blending together in my mind. My free hand is flitting over my pussy, skimming the lips and my inner thighs, doing it as He does, teasing.

He stirs beside me and I still. I realize I’m panting and trembling and try to calm myself. I wait until His breathing evens out again before I resume this slow, mental masturbation.

I’m not forbidden from masturbating or touching myself, but I don’t want to get caught. I still blush when He watches me. For all we’ve been through and all the compromising situations He’s pushed me through, He still makes me blush. So I freeze like a deer in headlights each time He stirs, breathing shallowly, waiting until I’m sure He’s deeply asleep again.

I fall deeper into the fantasies, and my fingers finally land on my clit. I can’t hold in the tiny moan that escapes me. It’s sore, aching and I have to search for a spot that I can rub that doesn’t hurt. He’d used me well earlier and I wondered if He’d be appalled to wake up and catch me masturbating after such a gratifying encounter. I think He’d know though, how it seems that you are reluctant to let go of the wondrous feeling of orgasm, and would understand why I’d be chasing after another one.

And still I tried to be quiet, tried to be stealthy in my movements and I realized that I wanted this one for myself. Selfish? Maybe. But the closer I got to it, the more careless I got. My legs seem to spread on their own, my thigh pressing hard against His hip. My quick breathing and pounding heart seemed thunderously loud to my ears but still I closed my eyes and fast forwarded through the fantasies, until the only thing left flashing behind my closed lids was the memory of my screams as He hurt me, the smile on His face as I cried, and His cock, twitching with need as I danced under His crop.

For the briefest of moments I considered waking Him, begging for Him to touch me. “Hurt me, Master, please. Make me come.” Orgasm is alluding me, I can’t pinch my own nipple right and I can’t twist my clit right and I whimper in frustration. He’s making me dependent on His interaction to reach climax, I’m getting too conditioned to how He makes it feel, too comfortable giving my body over to Him and letting my mind float away.

And just like that, I fall over the edge. I’m so surprised at the sudden shove into bliss that I almost lose it, my fingers stop their frantic circling over my clit and it starts to slip away. I jump to grab it back, snatch the darkest fantasy I have and… I come. In quiet, long, amazing waves of pleasure. I almost forget to breathe. It fades slowly, and once again, I smile into the darkness. How much longer will I be able to make myself orgasm without His assistance? I can’t say. I suspect not too long. But I did tonight and that’s all that matters.

He sighs next to me. A contented sigh that I echo, snuggling again into the protection of His arm across my chest. Content with the direction He’s taking me, content to be under His control. Content to give Him each piece of me as He takes it.

When we wake the next morning, I mumble sleepily to Him, telling Him that I masturbated last night, right under His nose and He didn’t even know. He smiles and pats my butt, with a casual “enjoy that little freedom while you can, baby” He suggests that I tell Him about it sometime.

So I have.

~cunt

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FYI

I suppose you might be wondering why I haven’t posted any pictures lately. Well it could be because ibrokeMaster’scamera I haven’t had time.

And I didn’t do it on purpose either.

I didn’t.

Stop looking at me that way.

~runs~

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Snap and Point? No way!

When Master and I first met, the first “person” that He introduced me to that was significant in His life was His dog. I didn’t confuse person with animal because as far as Master is concerned, this dog is His baby. The child He never had.

The dog is really a beautiful creature. Black lab, 100 pounds with a personality rarely seen in animals. He’s just now beginning to go gray around his muzzle, at 9 years old, he’s no baby anymore. A touch of arthritis in his knees, yet he can still run and catch a football faster than Master can throw it.

He’s a very well trained dog, exemplary behavior, especially for Master. He listens less well to me, and not at all to the kids, but he always, always obeys Master. The dog knows a few words, specifically he understands ‘potty’, ‘outside’, ‘walk’, ‘treat’, ‘baby’, ‘kitty’, ‘bye bye’, ‘move’. (I think I might be missing some). He knows how to sit, lie down, shake, stay. And when Master holds the leash, the dog stays an inch or two from Master’s right side, with the biggest, goofiest grin on his face, prancing along. I’ve tried to walk on that side before and the dog literally walks on my feet until I move.

You can put a steak bone in front of the dog’s nose and he will not even look at it if Master says “no”. Until Master says “okay”, the bone will sit there, untouched. We don’t have a fence and the dog has never been on a chain. He wouldn’t dream of wandering away.

One other way that the dog is well trained is the “snap and point” hand signal. If Master snaps and points, the dog *moves*. If Master snaps and points at His feet, the dog lays down there. If He snaps and points into the yard, the dog takes off in that direction.

Of course I was impressed with the dog. My own dog at the time (a tiny white yapping ankle-biter) could “dance” if I held a piece of meat in the air and twirled it around but otherwise.. umm.. well, it wasn’t even housebroken. I acknowledged what an obedient animal he was.

“You’ll be that well trained someday.” Master had told me. Well, I thought I might become obedient enough someday but to be trained as the dog was? No way! I reminded Him that I wasn’t an animal and no way in *hell* would I respond to a damn “snap and point”. (The nerve of this man really got my craw sometimes, you know? He was so bloody confident. It irked me. And intrigued me. Gawd.)

I remember that He just smiled at me. Patronizing, humoring, whatever-you-say smile. “I won’t!” I said. And stamped my foot. Because you know a foot stomp means you really really mean it.

The first few times that Master actually snapped His fingers and pointed at something that He wanted me to get, I stared Him down. I played dumb.

“I’m sorry. Did You *want* something? I didn’t hear You *ask* me anything.” And He’d laugh and tell me what He wanted and I’d think, ‘that’s right buster-roo. I TOLD You I wouldn’t do a snap and point like the dog.’

And then He’d absolutely lavish the dog with praise when he’d respond to the snap-n-point. And look at me while He did it, with that “this could be you” expression on His face. That I would pretend not to see.

And I certainly didn’t show any jealousy toward the dog for getting that praise either.

I didn’t!

It became a bit of a battle between me and the dog. Though the dog was clueless, I’m sure. More and more often I’d find myself on the floor while the dog occupied space on the couch next to Master. The dog got petted and got treats. And still, I stubbornly resisted the snap-n-point.

He still tried, consistently. And I’d look blankly in the direction He was pointing in and dig in my heels and wait until He said the words. I really thought I was going to win that one.

What I didn’t realize was that while I was so busy concentrating on rejecting this snap-n-point lesson, He was teaching me the one-word command lesson. The word?

Now.

To even think about that word, these days, makes my tummy flip. It’s so deep in my psyche, the compulsion to *move* and do whatever it is He wants when He says ‘Now’. Teaching the lesson is simple enough, He says ‘now’ and I do it (whatever it may be) right now. If I dawdle or argue or hesitate in any way, I get swatted. If I do it obediently, I don’t get swatted. Even when the ‘now’ means that I need to come closer so He *can* swat me…lol It can always be worse, you know. Always.

So while I stood defiantly, with my hands on my hips and gloated with “I tole You that You wouldn’t train me like a dog. Hmmmph!” He was busy training me like a dog and I didn’t even see it.

What happened when He snapped and pointed and followed it up with a “now”? I obeyed. And I didn’t even notice it. Responding to the now had become so automatic that I tuned out the snap-n-point. And at some point, He began to separate the two again.

One day in the truck, He was driving and I was babbling away about something or other and He snapped and pointed at a soda bottle that He wanted. I didn’t even pause in my conversation as I reached for it and handed it to Him.

I so clearly remember that it dawned on me what I had just done. How I looked at Him, open-mouthed and offended! And He looked back at me, “What??”

“You.. You.. You snapped and pointed at me and I DID it!” I said, glaring at Him. He choked on His pepsi. “You’ve been obeying that command for ages!” He exclaimed and proceeded to give me example after example of when I had. And He was right. I had been.

Now, the snap-n-point is second nature. Me and the dog both sit up and pay attention when He snaps His fingers. I look at the dog, the dog looks at me, “is it you or me? You? Okay good, I’m laying back down then.”

Master’s taking it a step further just lately. I’m fine with knowing what He wants most of the time. For example, He snaps and points at an object, I get it. He snaps and points at His feet, me and the dog fight to get there. If He continues to point at His feet when I get there, I kneel. But now, He’s being more ambiguous about what He wants, snapping and pointing in a general direction. I’ve got to assess the situation, quickly. What’s He doing? What do I *think* He would want? What’s the logical next thing He would need?

When I can’t figure it out, it’s ok to ask. He doesn’t get mad at me or anything. But when I get it right without asking, He falls all over Himself praising me. So I try to get it right.

The dog can’t do that. *Hmmph*

(This post was inspired by Intricate Pieces who made a post about hand signals. It’s a very interesting read. As I read it, I was thinking “oooh I wish Master had trained me with hand signals!” when I realized that He did. But with just one. *grin*)

~cunt

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Mishmash

Master took me grocery shopping before He headed back to the city for the week. Because I was standing and staring (and drooling) at a container of Sara Lee’s strawberry cheesecake ice cream, He bought it for me.

I’m quite sure He didn’t mean for me to eat it in one day. Although He *did* know I’m pms-ing and that the possibility was there. So I *might* be in trouble.

Ice cream tastes better than ass, I can tell you that much..lol

But announcing to my kid that we were having ice cream for supper shot me right up to the top of the Greatest Mom in the World chart.

Awhile ago someone asked me about my cootchie shaving routine. I’ve since been unable to find that comment so I’ll answer it here. But that brings up something I wanted to address anyway. If anyone has asked me a question, either in comments or email, that I haven’t answered, please ask me again. Things get lost in the shuffle here.

Not only do I have the memory capacity of a 9 yr old with ADHD on Mt. Dew, I’m extremely unorganized. I’ll hold on to comments and emails that I want to address but I can’t do it right then cuz Master’s being a poop about how much time I spend online so I save it in my inbox and then a few days go by and I’ve suddenly got 4 pages in my inbox.

Which brings up *another* point I want to address. That last angsty post I made about friends? Somehow it got turned around to sound as if I was asking for comments on my journal and I wasn’t. Seriously, I have no complaints about anyone who comments here, you are all welcome to, I love all of them (even the people out to save my poor abused ass) (which I want to address too.) and I know that I get way more than my share of comments. So I was NOT complaining about comments here.

I was only speaking about not feeling good enough, or smart enough, or welcome to comment on someone else’s journal. That’s all.

And all of you, who took the time to buck me up that day? Thank you. I’d give you thank you gifts but I don’t own anything. :-)

Now, for those of you who are trying to save me. What impact do you expect to have by leaving a comment that says “Get some help.” It’s as effective as a midget pissing on a forest fire, you know? I mean, if you really felt I needed help, if you honestly believed I was being so horribly abused that you suspect I might be killed and create orphans out of my children, THAT’S the effort you put into it?

No advice on who to call, where to go, what to do? Just “get some help.” You are just posting that to get my goat, not to encourage me to get help. If you are going to do something, do it right or don’t bother, you know? Jeez. If I’m going to be thought of as an abused spouse then I want it done all the damn way…lol. None of this half-ass bullshit.

For the record though… again.. I am not being abused. I am not being manipulated (beyond what I wanted). I am not being brainwashed. I am not insane. You do know, Mr. Anonymous Helper, that I stay home all week by myself. I’m not locked in the house. I have a vehicle. I have a credit card and checks with my name on them. I am free to leave, to walk away from this life at any time. The only choice I carry with me, every day, is the choice to end this.

At least for awhile. Pretty soon I really will be locked up. But then I won’t be posting so you won’t have the opportunity to tell me to “get some help”.

Now where was I?

Right.. things get lost. They really do. It makes me feel bad and neglectful and I hate feeling ignored myself so if I ever do that to you, smack me in the back of the head. Please. I never intentionally ignore someone. I always mean to come back to it when Master allows me to. So, on to the shaving.

It’s fascinating stuff (kidding!) so I’ll cut it.

Shaving the cootch!

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