I can’t think of anymore titles. A year and a half of title-thinking is too much PRESSURE!!

I finally caved in to the kids and switched trees, with a little help from my friend there. I took the advice of some of you for having two trees and my beautiful white tree with the blue lights and the blue garland and the blue ornaments is outside. I’m happy, the kids are happy and the cats love this bigger tree so they’re most happy.

Here’s a couple of photos of the Christmas village that the cats keep playing Godzilla with.

Pics

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The state of kaya

On the job front.
What job? Obviously I do not have one yet. Every time I start a sentence to Master with “When I get a job…” He interrupts me with “IF you get a job.” and follows that up with that dare-you-to-challenge-me look. I don’t challenge Him, not yet anyway. He’s just waiting (I think) for a reason to shoot it down, a reason like my attitude. I can hear it already. “You don’t even have a job yet and you’re already getting mouthy and high and mighty. Well just forget about getting a job at all then.”

So I just nod and correct myself with “If I get a job” and pat Him on the head like a good little slut.

Okay. I don’t pat. But I do nod and smile.

Besides, He’s put so many conditions on it that I don’t know how I could ever find a job that would satisfy Him. He doesn’t want me to have to leave before the kids go to school and He wants me home before they get home. No nights, no holidays and certainly no weekends. He wants me to be able to take a day off any time He decides to take a day off and to have the freedom to take any vacation time the same time He does.

So like.. nobody else in the world wants a job that’s Mon-Fri, from 9am to 3pm and starts out with 3 weeks of vacation time, and comes with the benefit of being able to call up and happily say “not coming in today!” once or twice a month, right?

Anyway. It’s not a big deal. If it happens, it happens. If not, then I’m still His housecunt and I’m pretty pleased with that just lately. It really is convenient to be completely open and available when it fits into His time, and not the other way around. That, in and of itself, can set your mind in the right direction.

The kids.
Kids are good. I’ve come to the conclusion that the ages of 11 to 15 are the worst. Though I think I’ve said that from age 0 on up, this is definitely it. Jes is going to be 15 next month. That makes me feel incredibly old. She’s talking about driver’s education already and I am not ready for that.

They’re doing well in school. Am even managed to pull off an A- in math, in spite of the math genes I passed on to her. Last year, Master presented the kids with a grade incentive offer. It went like this:

A – He would pay them $5.00
B – He would pay them $3.00
C – nothing
D – They pay Him $3.00
F – They pay Him $5.00

Of course they all heard the part where they pay Him money and it was unanimously rejected. Loudly. “I’m not paying you money for my grades!”, “That’s not fair!”, “No way!”

So at the end of the school year last year, He pulled out their report cards and pointed out that all year long not one of them had a D or an F and added up how much He would have had to pay them. Needless to say, this year they opted to take that offer. First quarter report cards just came out and so far, He owes them all money..lol

Because the money seems to be an effective motivator with the kids, I started fining B-man for his detentions..lol. The kids are allowed 4 late assignments per quarter and after the 4th one, each one gets you a detention. Well, he was doing detentions 3 and 4 times a week because they were fun. The late assignments were nothing more than being unorganized and losing them, or forgetting the page at school and not getting it done. Not that he can’t do the work, he just didn’t care. If the consequence is fun, why bother putting any effort into changing the behavior? (Funny how that applies to slaves as well, huh? :D) But he really likes his allowance so he can buy those little star wars toys so I started charging him one dollar out of his allowance per detention. The first three weeks or so, he was only getting about half of his allowance and complaining up a storm about it too. But it’s probably been a good month since he’s had a detention or a late assignment now. Hit ‘em in the pocketbook!

About the animals.
So far so good. The crabs are doing okay I think. The dog just sleeps and farts all day. The cats are fine, though I’ve given up on keeping any decorations on the tree. It’s entirely too tempting for them. Even though I pretend to hate it, I secretly think it’s cute when they climb up the middle of the tree and it’s shaking and rattling. I do wish they’d stop walking through my Christmas village and knocking my tiny little people over though.

I’ve already gotten some comments from neighbors and such about the lights and I’m not done yet! I still have a whole box of lights to put up. Nobody else has any lights on. Scrooges.

Us.
Us is wonderful. Things seem to have slipped into a very comfortable and easy routine. I think it’s mostly me, in that I’m not so obsessed with playing or scening. I don’t see the lack of intense sessions as the beginning of the end anymore. I may have finally accepted that He’ll do it when He feels like it and that I can’t force it. That’s lifted a lot of pressure off of me, and I’m sure from Him too. He’s the Master and I’m the slave, and that doesn’t need to be proved through weekly beatings. Not that those aren’t nice, too…lol… but I feel like I’m internalizing the truths more than I’m needing outside ‘proof’ of it.

It used to be that when He would come home for the weekend, I would be in a constant state of agitation, just waiting for the Big Scene that Had to Happen. The closer it would get to Sunday night, the more agitated I would get. It was getting to where we might not even feel like doing anything, but He felt He had to or else I would have a meltdown, and I felt like I had to do it or it would mean we were just pretending to be “the bdsm couple”. Or something. I don’t know. It was all fucked up. Anyway, that’s gone. I don’t stress about it and I don’t push it. He does it if He feels like it and I submit because that’s what I do. If I do feel like playing, then wonderful for me and I get alot of pleasure out of it. If I don’t feel like playing, I submit anyway and somewhere along the line I get alot of pleasure out of that too.

It’s smooth and it’s nice. I’m quite happy.

I guess that covers everything. I do have a post brewing, about some weird kind of flashback-type reaction I’ve been having lately. But maybe later today. I’ve got to get busy with chores and stuff.

Have a good one.

~cunt

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We now return you to your regularly scheduled program, already in progress.

Tack-bra Titty Torture Thursday.

Since 7:30 this morning, and until 3:15 this afternoon, my boobers are encased in cups o’ ouchies.

This makes me incredibly wet and juicy in my nether regions. I *love* this tack bra. The longer upholstery tacks work ever so much better than the thumbtacks. And when I get a bundle straight in a nipple.. *twitch*.. I’m a stiff wind away from orgasming in my jeans.

I probably won’t post any pictures of today’s effects because honestly, there are few visual effects to take pictures of. But no worries! I have other -and better!- pictures to post of tack bra lasciviousness.

I wore the tack bra this last weekend. Not all day, only specifically because we were about to fuck. Wearing the tack bra while I’m being pounded down below is the frosting on the cake. It just makes something that’s really good even better.

Read more »

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One more and then I’ll move on to the debauchery.

Please sign this petition.

Say NO to crabinacup!

and:

Warn Wal-Mart

Tell Wal-Mart that you’d never shell out money for captive crabs and won’t shop there till it stops selling hermit crabs and other live animals!

Write: H. Lee Scott Jr., CEO & President, Wal-Mart Stores, Inc., 702 S.W. Eighth St., Bentonville, AR 72716-8611 • 1-800-WAL-MART • walmart.com

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More hermit crab fun.

I promise I’m not going to obsess and only post hermit crab stuff. Cross my heart!

But just this one more. :D

Little pinky-punkin did finally die. It was only about 2 minutes after I cleaned out it’s shell and placed it back in the box that I caught this. Generally, crabs are a little more leary about shell changing. They love to do it but they are wary because it leaves them so vulnerable even for that brief moment of switching. The fact that this one switched so quickly and carelessly points to his own shell being very inadequate and him being desperate to get out of it.

See how he holds on to his old one while he makes sure the new one is a good fit? It’s just adorable.

Video behind cut

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Wal-mart Massacre

Look at this. I’m already up past bedtime. I do have permission this time though. I was just monitoring a dying hermit crab. :(

You want to hear the hermit crab story? Okay!

A few days before Halloween, I was walking around the local Wal-mart and I went past a Halloween Hermit Crab display. The shells were all painted with childish halloween characters, funny ghosts and tweety birds in vampire capes. Oh so darling aren’t they?

Except these crabs were in individual tiny plastic bowls with no food and no water. Now, I’m no animal expert but food and water seems to be a basic, you know? And having lived in Mississippi once upon a time, where hermit crabs are in abundance, I know a tiny bit about them. I know they need a warm wet climate. I know they need water. I know they need food. And I know they aren’t solitary creatures. They live in groups and colonies.

But I wasn’t hermit crab shopping and though I felt a pang of pity as I went by the display case, I assumed that the people who sell these creatures are providing the basics of care for them. Maybe they were pulling them off the shelves at night and getting them the care they needed.

Fast forward now to last weekend. Which is almost two weeks after that first Wal-mart trip. I was in the same Wal-mart, happened to walk by the same display and there were the same painted crabs, in the same dry, food-less bowls. Two of the bowls held dead crabs. I was horrified, really.

I’m not an animal activist and I’m not a vegetarian. You won’t catch me picketing slaughter houses. But this just.. I don’t know. It just made me feel awful. They’d been set out to appeal to little kids with their brightly painted shells and left to dehydrate and starve to death, trapped in tiny tupperware bowls.

I stood there debating. What would Master say, would I get in trouble, should I or shouldn’t I. My animal loving heart trumped my slave heart this round and I bought two of them. I called Master as I was on my way home, figuring I could tell Him and if He was going to have a fit, He’d be almost done with it before I got home.

“Master! I love You and guess what I bought!” It never hurts to butter up a little, I always think.

“Um.. you better have bought what I told you to buy and nothing else since you didn’t ask to buy anything else.”

Shit shit shit. Not starting out well. Just keep it cheery, kaya. Think positive!

“What did you buy, kaya?”

Catch that tone, did ya?? Commence nervous butterflies and need to pee.

“I bought hermit crabs.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“I already bought them!”

“No.”

“They’re in the truck with me now. I’m bringing them home.”

Silence.

“Where are you?”

“Almost home. Be there in 5 minutes.”

“Hurry up.” *click*

So! That was the conversation and you can bet I was one fast talker when I walked in the door too! He didn’t even know what hermit crabs were really, had no clue that people kept them as pets. He was struck by how ungodly hideous they are, but He had to admit they were so ugly they were cute.

But mostly, He was affected by their tale of woe and horrible treatment. Once I’d given Him a brief rundown of what I know of their care and assured Him that they weren’t expensive or difficult, He was much more open to the idea. I knew I had Him when He was quiet for a moment, and then said;

“How many more of these were at the store?”

“I’m not sure. A few more.”

“Let’s go back. We’re getting all of them.”

He’s such a softy. :D

We did. We ended up with three more that were still alive though just barely. And while my “crabitat” isn’t an ideal environment yet, it’s a hell of a lot better than a dry tupperware bowl.

When we first put them in, they remained tucked up in their shells. But once they smelled the food and had the warm sand, they were soon crawling all over, climbing and being cute. All except one. I kind of expected some casualties. Recovery from those conditions would be pretty hard and they are fairly delicate little uglies.

There is nothing you can do for them. I’ve just been sitting here, watching this one with the pink pumpkin shell slowly fall apart. Literally. First the legs, then the big claw, then the little claw. It’s not molting, as I had hoped. I looked that up. I at least pulled him out of the tank so the other ones weren’t crawling over him and knocking him upside down. As it is now, he’s lost all of his appendages but his little antennae are still twitching. It won’t be long.

I’m seriously disgusted with Wal-mart. They are just ugly little crabs but that’s pure animal cruelty. I guess I now have a new hobby. I swear I’m going to be the crazy animal lady. Or I *am* already.

But here are the survivors of the Wal-mart massacre.

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Belated Twat Torture Tuesday

The twat torture task today had nothing to do with fucking that giant ass plug because there was no doubt that it would fit. It’s not near as big as those ‘motherfucking pillar candles’ (remember those??). No.. the torture part came in when He said He wanted four pictures of it posted. Not four pictures of the plug, four pictures of the nasty hair I am currently sporting on my cootchie.

Have I expressed already how much it disgusts me to have pubic hair? I have? Okay, then I will spare you that angst again. Suffice it say that I shudder every time I have to wipe after I pee. Ugh.

I asked, for the 8,003rd time last night, if or when I could shave. He just laughs, in that easy, no big deal to Him kind of laugh that makes me want to reach up and claw His eyes out that I hate.

Oh..maybe if you are really good and beg me really hard, you can have shaving as a Christmas present.

Christmas!? Are you fucking kidding me! I’ll look like I have a dead beaver trapped in my lap by Christmas. I’ll be able to jeri curl it and do those fancy-schmancy hair-dos. Not to mention that I’ll gag every time I look at my own crotch.

And if I’m not really good and I don’t beg You hard enough?

Next Christmas.

*puke*

Bastard.

I even tried to make Him feel silly for putting me on this shaving ban. No I am not ashamed of it! He’s playing dirty, why can’t I?? I told Him, ‘yanno, whatever Your point is with the not shaving thing, I’m not getting it. So why don’t you just give it up. It’s stupid.’

Yeah, He was not amused either.

I know I know. It’s just pubic hair. I guess we all have our triggers and that’s mine. And it’s not just the hair by itself, it’s the progression of humiliation and realizing how powerless I really am.

I mean, I came into this very clearly stating that I am a humiliation slut. I love it as much as I hate it. It’s all part of the game of bdsm. Make me do it so I can squeal and argue and whine pretend I don’t want to do it.. blah blah blah, right?

But all of that came with a pre-set list of my acceptable ideas of humiliation. The things that I wanted to protest about while secretly being tickled pink that I had to do them. And He was a sneaky fucker too. He stayed within those limits, while even telling me that I had no limits, until I actually got around to believing that I have no limits, and now… NOW He’s stepping outside of that list.

So while before I would toss up these protests, and inside I’d be cheering about being humiliated, now I’m tossing up these protests and there is no cheering going on behind them. He’s not even acknowledging the protests! I’m as effective as a gnat knocking on a steel door.

And I don’t know what to do about it.

He’s not responding the way I have trained Him to respond. He’s not letting me manipulate Him. It used to be that my reaction guided His next step. Or.. I thought it did. Now I don’t know what the hell is going on.

You ever feel like you are on a slippery slope and now that it’s too late you are realizing that the bottom isn’t the fluffy white cotton softness you signed up for?

Now He talks about all these… these things that He’s going to do to me, or going to make me do, or whatever! And I’m a flustered, freaked out mess! If I express my mortification, that only spurs Him on. It’s like tossing dynamite in a fire. And if I can manage to pretend to be all nonchalant and unaffected, He latches on to that and runs with it. Like “oh well if you don’t care then maybe I should do *this* instead!” and of course the *this* He mentions is a thousand times worse. What the hell?

He’s just enjoying watching me squirm, which is fine. I can deal with that. But beyond watching me squirm is the glee He’s showing at planning on making me DO these things.

There has to be a way to maintain some control of this. There does! There has to be something I can say, or some way I need to react so He loses interest in this. I just need to find it.

In the meantime, if you really want to share in my humiliation and if you really want to make it a thousand times worse for me, look at these pictures and know that no matter how mild it may seem to you, it’s killing me.

(Eliciting any pity yet?? No? Fucking cold-hearted people!!)

*sigh* look then. see if I care!

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I’m such a slow learner.

I am officially “ungrounded”. So let’s make sure I don’t fuck it right back up and get kicked offline again, huh? :-)

I will be good. I will be good. I will be good.

I stayed up past bedtime last week. I didn’t admit it either. Well I did, but I hadn’t meant to. It slipped when we were talking.

It wasn’t that long ago that I was telling pet/sable that if she would just *ask* first, things would go so much smoother. That these men who love us (and spank us) do listen to us, and it’s the act of not communicating that plucks the decision making right out of their hands, and leads to disobedience.. and ultimately, punishment.

So.. unable unwilling to take my own advice, I decided, for myself, that I was perfectly capable of picking my own bedtime, thankyouverymuch, and went to bed when I was damn well good and ready.

I could go into all sorts of explanations and excuses because I have alot of them.

Though not one of them explains why I was ashamed to tell Him. That’s probably a pretty good indication that my ‘explanations and excuses’ are fairly lame. I was wrong. I knew I was wrong. I hoped I wouldn’t get caught.

I don’t have *any* excuse for that.

Another sure sign that I know I’m wrong is that I get testy when He calls me on it. I get snippy and snappy and quite disrespectful. God.. I’m so easily read. He knows me inside and out (literally) and I still think I can somehow control the situation.

So.. He got mad, I got mad in return, the consequences continued to escalate the more I protested. (Go figure, huh?) There was a spanking, and of course it was one that immediately had me in tears. He was disappointed, and quite verbal about expressing that disappointment, from the moment He walked in the door Friday night. I hate hate HATE having Friday nights like that.

He walks in the door, with that expression on His face that just rips me open, He’s *not* pleased to see me, He’s not excited about being home. He’s stern and lecturing and making me feel about 2 inches tall. At least I have the decency to be ashamed, and to stare miserably at the floor (because having to make eye contact while He lectures is a soul spanker. Jesus that just kills me). From lecture to bending over for a quick and wicked cropping, that has me in tears from the first strike… not just from the pain of the spanking but the whole miserable thing. There’s no cuddling, there’s no welcome home fucking. No joy. He’s disappointed, I get spanked and lectured and sent right to bed. *sigh*

There were sentences to write. Two sentences, each of them 250 times. My bedtime was made earlier than before, and any hope I had of getting it later is gone now. And no internet for four days.

He’s steadily increasing the internet ban each time I mess up. It started as just one day. It’s up to four now. He’d said I would be permanently banned if I mess up really bad again -like the time I ignored the entire contract/rule list/task list/chore list. I guess if I keep on with these little slip ups, I’ll work my way up to a permanent ban all by myself.

As it is, He’s considering an internet schedule that would limit my online time even more now. Maybe I need it anyway. I don’t know. We’ll see what He does.

I was in a pretty foul mood with the hammering down of the punishments. It just seemed like such heavy consequences for missing a bedtime, you know? It’s hard to fight off that little independent voice yammering in the back of my head sometimes. He’s not here, I’m not tired, I haven’t had a bedtime since I was 13… it’s difficult. And I really felt like He came down on me awfully hard for it.

I had to talk myself out of that funk though. I mean, He’s not going to cave, I’m not going to get Him to change His mind at all. My choice then was to continue pouting and whining and ruin the rest of the weekend and rack up more and more consequences for grumping, or accept that I messed up and it was time to pay the piper. In other words, as He hissed into my ear during the lecture, suck it up, buttercup.

That phrase is getting to be like nails on a chalkboard around here.

And I did. I accepted it. I stopped arguing. I stopped pouting. I picked up my stupid notebook set aside just for writing those lines and sat down to do it without having to be reminded. 10 pages, front and back. As a “reward” of sorts, my sentences were reduced from the original 500 to 250. And I was properly grateful for that. I loathe spending an hour or two copying sentences. Loathe I say.

On a side note; am I the only one who is slightly chagrined how well writing lines works? I still have those sentences repeating in my head in a constant loop.

Anyway, it’s done. I will get there someday.

~cunt

ps. I noticed that a couple of new Wisconsinites are reading. That’s pretty cool. *waves* Nice to “meet” you. :-)

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Because bruises are my crack.

Wanna see my butt?

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From kaya’s Master

Greetings,

I would like to thank all of you for voting, kaya wants you to know she “dislikes” all of you. We actually bruised her backside pretty good and I will allow her to post those pictures.

612 cane strokes. It took just over two solid hours to get r done. Then after some after care and snuggling..I am again impressed that said insatiable slut/cunt begged for me to QUIT making her cum and fucking her like she hasn’t been fucked in awhile….Family stuff ya know and lil ears and noses can do that…..

Next free play session, we will finish up the tally of strokes to objects over the next couple months. I am already starting to plan for Christmas *evil grins*..it’s where the giving not receiving counts…and oh boy do I plan on giving to her..over and over again….*that’s a cool song I think….over and over again*..anyways…

Hope everyone enjoys the pictures and her post…..

My feelings while doing it were….come on…let it bruise and welt. kaya has this ass that just DOESN’T want to bruise it will puff up and swell but hardly ever bruises. So after a play session like today…..it’s about the only way she can get bruises/bruised. Hard Long play sessions and smacking in the same spot over and over and over again. Sometimes I think she’ll get frustrated at not bruising. She looks at all the other sub/slaves and sees their war wounds and then looks at me all pouty saying her ass sucks. hahahahaha… I enjoy it..it makes it more of a challenge.

HEHEHEHHE she just came in and read over my shoulder, then left groaning a bit into the bathroom to look at her ass saying it hurts…fuck. *GRINS proudly*…you can feel the welts.

Getting back to bruises, then only way that we have found out to put bruises on my lil cunts ass is either LONG play sessions or using a heavy deep penetrating object like the flat of a sword blade. so if you have any suggestions from my fellow Dom/Mistress’, please feel free to comment. We have tried paddles, spatula – stainless steel ones weighing about 2-3 pounds a piece, crops, bamboo, canes, thick paint stir sticks, shade rods, swords, arrows, belts, shoes, boots, kitchen sink..*light goes on*..hey we haven’t tired the kitchen sink..Just boinked on it is all

well. I will allow kaya to get on and post. Hope everyone enjoys and has a great week. Happy Thanksgiving and Xmas and New Years in case I don’t post again..

Best wishes,

M

AND NOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW here’s kaya.

~~*~~

I have to admit to being very, very nervous at that number. Master was pleased as punch. 612. How nice…. for Him. Of course there is the pull of the masochist, and all day Sunday I was jittery, nervous and anxious. I knew it was getting done Monday morning.

It started with an under the desk session. To get both of our heads right. Climbing over that stack of pillows for the first stroke was hard. I knew once it started, it would go until the end. I didn’t want it to start, just as badly as I wanted it over with.

The first 100 was a warm up. I guess when you are aiming for 612, you can assign 100 for a warm up. They were fairly light, though still pretty hurt-y. I think those rapid fire, lighter ones can be more of an overload than the spaced out hard ones.

After the first 100, I started slipping away. I concentrated on my breathing, I focused on the sheet balled up in my fist. I made myself relax, kept my ass muscles slack (not easy when you hear that wind-whistling crack coming at you). There’s that very brief moment after the cane hits when you feel nothing at all but right on it’s heels is the fire. He was spacing them out fairly decently, I’d count in my head after each stroke.

CRACK!

One one-thousand.

(deep breath)Here comes the pain. two one-thousand.

(grit my teeth as it would sink in) three one-thousand.

(moan, shift forward -just a tiny bit, mind you- follow moan with a pent up breathless OW) four one-thousand.

(blow out, imagine blowing the pain out) five one-thousand.

Keep counting in my head like that, and anywhere between 8 one-thousand and 12 one-thousand, He’d be pulling back for the next stroke.

It’s a sort of self-hypnosis I suppose. But it’s very delicate I think. Almost anything can ‘break it’. Him talking to me, background noise, anything that interrupts your mind. In this case, what interrupted the process was pain. Pure and agonizing pain.

At almost exactly the 300 count, I lost it. He’d definitely increased the force quite a bit by then, as well as the speed. I wasn’t getting much beyond “six one-thousand” before He was cracking me with the next one, each one feeling harder than the one before. And once I was out of the ‘zone’, with the continued application of more intense pain, I couldn’t recapture it.

I started having trouble holding position then. Doing a lot of wiggling, twisting and rolling. I was getting extra strokes that didn’t even count towards the 612 for breaking position, and the pain and frustration was starting to get to me. Rolling through my mind was the fact that I was just barely half-way and the repeating truth. I can’t. I can’t do it. It’s too much.

Of course right behind that thought was the knowledge that there is no option for “I can’t.” He would not allow me to quit. I was breaking.

He finally pulled me out of that position, and set me up in a new one. Standing up, bent over almost double, as far as I could bend.

I started to cry.

It hurt *alot* more in this position. Plus, He was delivering at an increased speed and force and had lost any and all patience for wiggling or dipping out of position. There was no chance at all for me to be able to process the pain or to ride it out with any semblance of dignity.

I sobbed. For the last couple of hundred strokes, I sobbed and cried and shook. Big heaving, snotty, slobbery, bawling… that had not one tiny little effect on Him whatsoever. None. I hung on through those last hundred by sheer defeated acceptance that I had no other choice.

And then it was done. It had seemed so endless, so hopeless and despairing, that the end kind of snuck up on me and took me by surprise.

He wrapped me in a blanket and squeezed me tight to Him, crooning and petting and praising, while I alternated shivering and shaking with bursting into tears and crying on His shirt. He held me until I calmed down, until I warmed up, until my wild hitching breath had evened out.

Then He pointed out that my pussy was dripping wet, which I denied at first as I hadn’t even given my crotch a thought. He had to prove it by rolling me over and fucking me absolutely senseless, leaving me slightly disoriented.

It was great.

And I have bruises. For the first time in…. I don’t know how long. So now I like you all again. :D

I guess He had planned on “spicing it up” by delivering the rest of the votes per item after the cane. But I was in no shape for any more. He says He’s still going to do it, it’ll just be spread out more.

As it is, I have a school play to attend tonight, (hard school bleachers) and after that a two and a half hour car ride to the Big City. Have I mentioned how painful it is to sit right at this moment?? So not looking forward to any of that.

I’m about to go take a post-endorphin-rush nap with Master. Happy Monday! Today is, incidentally, our one month anniversary. No status increase for me in this house, I can tell you that!

~cunt

Oh! You want to see pictures??

Voyeurs this way!

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