kaya-logic at its finest

An email I just sent Master:

I tried to call You to ask if I could order a pizza for supper but You must be busy. So I had the conversation with myself and You said yes. :D

*snicker*

Extremely busy. Extremely stressed.

Kid still home sick so no perversions to share.

This counts as a daily post.

~cunt

s&m sex

“It was only an hour!” He protested, rolling His eyes at my dramatics. It was Sunday morning and I’d just left the bathroom from my morning tinkle.

“It hurts! I can’t even wipe. I had to tap the toilet paper.” I was referring to Saturday night’s under the desk hour long brutal fuck-fest, that had literally left me too sore to wipe properly.

He muttered some dismissive sound and waved His hand in my direction. I bristled.

“You broke it and now You can’t touch it. I hope You’re happy!” I snapped. Spinning around I tried to execute a grand exit from the room, but it was completely ruined by having to waddle bow-legged.

As I left, I heard Him mutter “It’s Mine and I’ll use it any damn time I please”, to which I muttered back, thinking I was out of earshot, “Bastard.”

“Master Bastard?” He called after me and laughed when I declined to answer.

He did in fact, use my broken pussy shortly after that. To prove a point no doubt, though I put up a pretty good fight. A fight consisting of whinings and but Masters! that He totally ignored as He climbed between my legs. Just the pressure of His weight touching my bruised groin area made me whimper.

“I’m going to take it all in one hard plunge.” He threatened. But He was smiling down at me and I tried to laugh, vehemently retorting back “Oh no You are NOT- Oh! Fuck! Jesus Christ! OW!” and arching against Him as He did take me in one hard plunge.

The entire rest of the fucking was hard, deep and vicious, all I could do was hang on for the ride. When He’d finished, yanking me up so I could suck the last of the semen from Him, I flopped back on the bed with my hands cupped between my legs and groaned.

He smirked, acting all King of the Sexual Universe. “I think you should do an entry about this. ‘Can sex be used as an s&m tool?’”

“You write it!” I snapped. “You know what You want to say. All I’d say is that You are a mean bastard and everyone already knows that! (And am I right about that? I thought so!) Besides, I don’t think I could sit in the chair that long.”

The rest of the day, I whined each time I had to pee. I walked funny and He mocked me for it. And any time He so much as hinted at anything sexual, I curled up into a ball and whimpered.

But then I begged for, and was gifted with chocolate. And He intended on making me pay for it.

When I looked at Him standing there in the doorway, cock in hand, my first reaction was a trembling, sobbed out “Noooo, please, no!” Can I accurately express how beat up and tender my cunt was(and still is today)? Have I mentioned that He’s well endowed? Is it obvious that He doesn’t “do” gentle love-making kind of sex?

The thought of what was to come had tears pricking the backs of my eyes. Oh I obeyed, stripping and spreading my legs while He watched, but I whimpered the entire time. I pleaded, reminding Him of how sore He’d made me. He nodded, acknowledging my pleas, but carried on with settling down between my legs and taking me with the same force and savageness as He always does.

For a long time, the only thing I could manage to do was lie still under Him, fists curled up and held tight to my chest, eyes squeezed shut. I was being stabbed with a hot poker in my most sensitive of all places. I was being pummeled and beaten with callous disregard to my feelings. I was angry, and hurting, and barely, just barely submitting.

Still freely pounding away, He whispered into my ear, “You know cunt, this can take a long time. Is that what you want?” He punctuated that with a deep and painful grind against my pelvis.

“No Sir,” I choked out, stiffening against the ramped up pain.

“You know what you can do to make Me come faster. You aren’t doing them so you must like this.” Again, another bump and grind that spurred me into action.

I know how to move, where to lick, where to suck, where to flick and scratch and how to make my hips undulate against Him. It’s a no win situation for me, though. If I do nothing and just concentrate on “taking it”, He takes longer, drawing it out. If I do those other things, I lose my concentration on “taking it” and everything hits me full force, feeling ten times harder, and ten times sharper, and ten times more painful.. but it’s shorter.

I chose to assist. Moving and sucking, licking and flicking… with tears dripping down my cheeks.

It hurt. That’s all I can say.

After, in bed, I tried to get Him to admit that He hadn’t enjoyed it. I was petulant and pouty, with a sore throbbing cunt and my feelings were hurt.

“You didn’t like it.”

“Yes I did.”

“I didn’t!”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t like treating me that way.”

“I came didn’t I?”

Why do my feelings get hurt just sometimes? Why am I occasionally insulted that He takes pleasure when I don’t? Who knows. I sure don’t.

The chocolate was so worth it though. God damn it was good.

~cunt

A Gift

I’d begged Him. Honest-to-God, down on my knees at His feet, hands clasped to the heavens, begging. A steady and heartfelt stream of “please please Master, please please please”. Pure grovelling.

He gazed down at me, slightly bemused at my humiliating display of need. He gazed down at me from His impressive height, at my upturned face, my hands clinging to the fabric of His jeans, listening as I pleaded.

He gazed down at me, whithering me with His expression of power. Looking at me as a spider must surely watch a fly. Telling me without words, but with His eyes. I own you. Everything you have, everything you are is because of Me.

A predatory gaze to be sure, one that would normally send me scurrying back out of arms reach. One that would normally cause my words to dry up and my brain to quiet and calm in the absolute facts of my place in things.

But the need was great. The need beat a steady pulse in my ears, growing stronger and louder as I humbled myself on the floor at His feet.

“It’s only been three weeks.” He remarked disdainfully, sneering at my pathetic buckling under only three weeks of denial. But imagine! Imagine three weeks of no alcohol to an alcoholic. Imagine three weeks of no cigarettes to a smoker. Imagine three weeks of not touching the one you love. Imagine three weeks of intense, deep-seated lust burning constantly inside you.

Imagine begging on your knees to the one person who has the power to give it to you.

He pushed me away from Him with the tip of His boot. “We’ll see,” He remarked flippantly, and walked away. At the door, He turned, and once again His hard gaze landed upon my face. “If I give it to you,” He said thoughtfully, “You’ll only lose respect for me.” and with that He left, closing the door on my fervent denial of such a thing.

Left alone, those parting words reverberated in my head. Would I? Have I come far enough along to really see the pleasures He allows me as His gifts to me and not as something I manipulated out of Him? Long hours of introspection followed in the empty house.

He denies me often. Denies me many things that I love, things that bring me joy and happiness. But just as often as He denies me, He indulges me. He gets equal pleasure out of watching me squeal in delight, as He does in watching me suffer a denial. I carefully picked through and thought about the many, many things He allows me. All of the many things that He gifts me with. Each and every one of them are doled out according to His mood and His desires. Never, ever, because I’ve guilted Him into it. I may ask for it, but I’m never sure that I will get it.

Confident then that I would not lose respect for Him if He allowed me this, but not at all confident that I would get it, I settled down to wait for His return.

When He did come in, I searched His face for some hint. A smile played around His twitching lips but that gave me no clue. He would smile just as gleefully to deny me this thing and I knew it. He approached me, leaning down to capture a nipple between two very powerful fingers. My high-pitched yelp was cut short by the small thump of something dropping into my lap.

“You are such a spoiled cunt.” He said, laughing as I bounced.

I am. I am spoiled beyond belief.

Want to see what He gave me?

We bring you this public announcement.

Twat Torture Tuesday will be canceled on account of children with upset tummies who stay home from school.

One more clip

The piss drinking video made the cut! Master will be so pleased. :)
My stomach? Not so much.

Trying -and failing- to swallow it all.

Short clip.

Face fucked

That’s three different short clips that I put together into one. It’s by no means the extent of the face fucking that went on that night. ;-)

I apologize for the volume of the TV in the background but we have to use *something* so the kids don’t hear us, right?

We’d also ditched the jaw spreader early on because I’ve apparently snapped one of the springs. Oops.

I was suffiently ‘subbed out’, as directly after that Master put me under the desk for “only an hour” of savage fucking that left me with this gorgeously floaty expression, complete with raccoon eyes. The man smeared my make up! Can you imagine the nerve!?

God He loves this look

Face Fucking

I was asked this in a comment by pet_me_im_cute: “I don’t want to choke on my own puke. Also, is this something that sounds a lot hotter than it really is? Any good/bad experience? Is this breaking the “Sane” guideline of SSC?”

You won’t choke on it. Well, no more than you choke any other time you puke I guess. It somehow manages to force it’s way out around the cock. It’s messy, nasty, and a good bit will go the nose route (which is never pleasant, is it?) but out it will go.

Whether it sounds hotter than it really is is going to depend entirely on what the Boss is after. The actually puking part is disgusting of course. And when I’m in the process of being made to puke by His cock repeatedly slamming its way down my throat, I hate every godforsaken moment of it. As I vomit, or try to, and He continues to ram Himself into my mouth, I’m essentially swallowing and then regurgitating my own vomit. There is no escaping the pungent smell, or the taste. It’s smashed and smeared ALL OVER your chin and cheeks and nose. It gets in your hair, it drips down your front. And that only makes me vomit more. It’s quite the vicious cycle.

Neither Master nor I have a vomit fetish. This particular kink is nothing more than Him (and I) getting off on the power, the brutality, the degradation and humiliation. I will suck His cock, He will fuck my throat, until He is damn well good and ready to stop. It’s not the puke, necessarily, that He’s after, the puke is just a consequence of face fucking me with that intensity. I don’t always puke but if it happens it’s not going to alter His plans any. Most of my “pleasure” from it is going to come after, when I’m thinking back on being used so harshly, so callously.

Good or bad experiences. I’d have to say that every time the face fucking reaches that severity, it’s a mixture of good and bad for me. I really lose the ability to suck properly and can’t do much more than work to keep my mouth open and hold on for the ride. Try to time my breathing to precious gulps when He pulls back far enough, without also inhaling the combination of spit and vomit (and thus having a coughing/choking episode that throws Him off). And concentrate extremely hard on not beating Him around the groin area in an effort to get the hell away. My masochism and the desire to please Him is only a hair stronger than my body’s instinct for “fight or flight” when it encounters this kind of abuse.

We have a sign that I give when I’ve reached the end of my air supply. I’m to *gently* tap Him on the thigh (assuming my hands are unbound and if they aren’t, He’s just more careful with the process). Gently is the key word here. But when you *feel* like you are dying, it’s damn hard to control that tap. The urge is to beat frantically, which I have done. He absolutely ignores it and will hold out, pushing me well beyond the realm of “breath play” and into “oh my God the bastard is going to murder me!” until I gain that one second of control amidst the panic of dying and do it exactly as He’s told me to. A gentle tap on His thigh. I’ve also tried just pushing and not tapping, but again, He’s not going to let me control this signal. I either tap or He holds on until the panic is so great and so uncomfortable and the pain in my lungs is excruciating (and then punishes me to boot) that I’d simply wish I had managed to tap anyway. But even knowing all of that, making myself do that gentle tap takes extreme self-control. It really does. Because every bit of me is *wanting* to fight.

Add in to that the vomit fighting its way OUT while His cock forces its way IN, the smell, the taste… sounds like an awful experience don’t it?

But when it’s over? When I’m showered and wrapped in His arms, or settled at His feet in a fuzzy blanket… My throat is raw and burning, my voice either gone or quite raspy, my nose dripping and my eyes bloodshot from the crying that inevitably goes along with a brutal face fucking. My jaw is sore from being stretched so wide for so long, my lips possibly cracked, bleeding or just stinging, and the skin at the corners of my mouth feeling the same… but the look on His face. The emotion in His eyes when He gazes at me in all of my un-beautiful glory. That expression of ownership and power, satisfaction and pride. I feel so small, I want nothing more than to curl up and bask in the control He has over me, still reeling from understanding, and accepting, how He will use this body of mine. And never, ever before having felt so incredibly loved, or loving Him, as I do in that very moment.

It’s a wonderful experience. Amazing. Cathartic.

Those “sane” guidelines set down by some invisible member of an elite BDSM country club are not *my* guidelines. Master sets my guidelines. I have found the most incredible freedom in the guidelines that Master defines for me. Would someone else find this too “extreme” or well outside the SSC mantra? No doubt they would. Do I give a rat’s ass? Not at all. My advice to you would be that you run, don’t walk, but RUN as far away from those pre-set guidelines as you can, and make your own. Define your own freedoms. It’s worth the occasional “oh my God you are insane!” comments. Trust me.

That’s my take on it. :-)

No video (yet) and this particular face fuck did not get as extreme as some of ours have in the past. But it was satisfying enough that I got in a wonderful head space and that’s all that matters, yes? Oh, and of course Master was pleased too. ;)

Cut for photo-intensive ending

Master is sending me things to lighten my mood. :)

WOMAN’S POEM

Before I lay me down to sleep,
I pray for a man, who’s not a creep,
One who’s handsome, smart and strong.
One who loves to listen long,
One who thinks before he speaks,
One who’ll call, not wait for weeks.
I pray he’s gainfully employed,
When I spend his cash, won’t be annoyed.
Pulls out my chair and opens my door,
Massages my back and begs to do more.
Oh! Send me a man who’ll make love to my mind,
Knows what to answer to “how big is my behind?”
I pray that this man will love me to no end,
And always be my very best friend.

MAN’S POEM

I pray for a deaf-mute nymphomaniac with huge boobs
who owns a liquor store and a golf course. This
doesn’t rhyme and I don’t give a shit.

:-(

Baby Kitty
January 27 – January 28

Feldman is mostly doing okay. Every once in awhile she’ll go tearing up the stairs to Am’s room and then race back to the living room to the box I had tried to get her to keep the kitty in.

It’s all very sad.

EDIT: I’d like to say thank you for everyone’s comments. You are all wonderful people.