I needed to get the camera cleared so I can use it while Jes is here. She’s coming tonight (yay!). These are nice (read “non-naked”) images that I can load up on the kid’s computer.
These are the twins, Roly and Poly.
And this one… well, he takes after his daddy who is not quite the most brilliant cat in the universe.
We call him Dopey. Suits him, don’tcha think? ;)
Have a great weekend!
Uncategorized | kaya | 
Friday March 30th, 2007 8:01am | 
Comments (17)
One of the definitions of ‘furlough’ is “a temporary leave of absence authorized for a prisoner from a penitentiary”.
That seemed very fitting to me. :)
There are a few reasons for my furlough. One, our computer that has been dying a slow and painful death for the last few weeks finally succumbed to a fried motherboard or fried hard drive (or fried something-that-makes-it-work) and though I still have access to the kid’s computer, I’m just not up for leaving all of the traces of my perversions on here. I know I can wipe it, but it’s not worth the chance of forgetting or whatever. So.. no pictures, no links, no reading, no nuttin’.
Two, this weekend is when Jes comes for her spring break and I’m going to spend my time with her and not here. She’ll be here for about 10 days. Three, the week after that is the scheduled “come to Jesus meeting” and I won’t be online for that week either. I’ll probably be in the cupboard for most of that time.
I’m not saying I won’t be here at all, my blog addiction hasn’t been magically cured just because my computer betrayed me, it’ll just be scarce. I’m relieved from my daily posting requirement, pictures are out of the question (not only am I not going to load them on this computer at all, I’m also not going to have them stored on the camera) but I am still doing my tasks. You’ll just have to imagine it. ;)
There have been some happenings in the last little while that have caused me to reflect on the sacrifices of slavery. Not only my own personal sacrifices but those that I’m making on behalf of others who are directly affected by those choices. Some of them are small and insignificant, or so it would seem on the surface, but with closer scrutiny can have far-reaching consequences. And some are huge, leaving me riddled with guilt and second-guessing myself on a daily basis.
I’m taking the time to examine these things. It sucks that Master is too busy to discuss them with me, and I’m not inclined to share them here. Though I know most of you are incredibly smart and insightful people, most of this stuff is too personal or too complicated to express through this forum. I wish I could say for certain that I’ll come back from this furlough exactly as I left, but I’m not making any promises.
It could be a very enlightening process.
~cunt
Uncategorized | kaya | Wednesday March 28th, 2007 7:59am | Comments (27)
When Master walked in the door Friday, it was in the midst of a flurry of activity. Am had just ran in with two friends in tow, begging for a ride to Teen Night -and some money to pay for it of course, and B-man was yammering at me about going to a friend’s house, and could he stay the night and what we were going to do -weighing his options no doubt. More fun to hang with mom and dad or to hang with friends? I played it pretty boring, sly horn-dog that I am, and said we weren’t going to do anything.
It’s answers like that that keep me from having to turn down that Mom of the Year Award. :D
B-man took off with his friends, Master wearily climbed back into the truck, along with 3 loud and annoying teen girls and myself, and we headed, as quickly as the speed limit would allow, to Teen Night. Dropped them off at the door, and found ourselves in blessed silence. Kid-free. We looked at each other, grinning.
“What do you wanna do?” He asked.
“I don’t know. What do You want to do?”
“Let’s go drink.”
“Deal.”
We stopped at a neat little Mexican place where they serve miniature bottles of Corona, in a bucket of ice, a 1/2 dozen at a time. We ate chimichangas and finished our bucket, then headed home. To fuck.
Earlier that day, during my required hourly masturbation-tease, all I could think about was stripping Master down and servicing His cock. Nuzzling into His balls, loving the way they roll and fall over my face while I lick and suck at the skin covering them. If I closed my eyes and thought about it real hard, I could smell His scent, dark and earthy, hidden in the hollow where thigh meets groin, lapping up the taste before moving to devour His cock.
A few beers on top of those thoughts and I was one dripping cunt.
Another aspect of that day was the onset of ovulation. An unpleasantly uncomfortable period where pain stabs into my side and I carry the sensation of holding a broom stick up my ass for a few long hours. (The doctor says I have ovarian cysts, nothing serious enough to worry about, just one of those ‘sufferable’ conditions. Needless to say my doc is a male and has never stuck a broom stick up his ass.)
So there was me, with an intense burning desire to fuck like a mad woman, but dealing with that really non-erotic pain that seems to prohibit any sort of fucking at all. Quite the pickle.
Perhaps I could have finished Him off with my mouth, stroking and sucking until He burst down my throat, thus satisfying His lust. And perhaps He’d have allowed me to vibrate my clit until a nice, low-key orgasm washed over me, thus tampering my own lust, and neither activity would have disturbed my stupid ovaries.
But then, perhaps that would knock us out of the running for Sadist and masochist. Can’t have that, now can we? ;)
He flipped me over, and took me hard, ramming in deep, causing me to cry out as the broom stick sensation boiled over. Each thrust sent waves of pain rolling through my insides. Over and over again He commanded me to spread my legs as they seemed to want to close and press up, holding Him away. Over and over again I cried out that I was trying, and fought the instinct to protect my innards, pulling my knees open, giving Him unobstructed access to pound me into oblivion.
And damn if I didn’t come. Repeatedly. Eyes squeezed shut, hands locked behind my knees, gasping in that heady mixture of pain and pleasure. Until finally, unavoidably, pain overtook pleasure. Seeing the transformation across my face, that of real pain, He finished, emptying into my mouth as He always does, and flopping back on the bed, as I whimpered a bit, waiting for the intense cramping to abate.
“Did I wear you out again, cunt?” He mocked me. He loves to hear me detail for Him how sore I am, how I couldn’t possibly subject myself to another fucking. It makes Him puff and swell and smile smugly.
But I was lost, stuck in a pain-filled haze, with my clit beginning to direct my words.
“I could go again.” I said slowly, and not entirely sure that I *could* go again. What I was sure of was that I wanted to be taken again, with my legs pinned behind my head, and fucked, slammed, ridden like a cock-whore through the pain that filled my crotch. I was suddenly craving it more than I’d craved anything in my life ever.
He laughed. “Whatever! You were just begging me to stop a minute ago.”
That was true, I had been. And was sincere in wanting it to stop then too. This wasn’t the usual pain that I felt after a good hard fucking. It wasn’t a surface pain, no tender clit or stinging vagina. This was deep pain, way up inside pain, the kind that makes just the process of sitting down a slow and easy maneuver.
And I wanted it worse. I wanted it poked and prodded and slammed with the head of His cock. I wanted that uninvited pain in my ovaries to pale in comparison to how bad He could make it. I wanted fucked.
I switched tactics. He’d just finished fucking me as it was. Getting it up again would take work, but I also knew that once up, getting Him to come again would be brutal.
“Are You going to admit that I beat You?” I grinned, rubbing against Him. “My pussy out-fucked Your cock? Tsk tsk.”
He yanked the blankets off of His naked body and slapped my lips to His nipple. “You’re going to have to work for this one.” He said, clearly challenging me. With my hands all over His cock and balls, my tongue working His nipples, I rubbed my raw, wet pussy up and down His leg.
It didn’t take long and He was perking right back up.
“On your hands and knees. NOW.” He barked. Springing up into position I had just a moment of regret. This position was going to guarantee Him freedom to pound as hard and as deep as He wanted. I’d expected to be on my back, where I was afforded some small amount of blockage, even if it was as little as tucking my pelvis into the mattress.
I’m notorious for biting off more than I can chew. His first wicked slam into me proved that I’d done exactly that again.
I scrambled to grab a hold of the bars of the bed, squeezing them until my knuckles turned white, the pain in my vagina and abdomen much more intense than my fantasy had been.
“Oh God.. that hurts.” I breathed, the words hitching as He thrust them out of me. I struggled to not be fucked right out of the bed.
“I know it does. Now get back here.” He growled, yanking me back to Him by my hips.
I understood then that I was in it til the end, that He was going to make it bad, very very bad, and that I was going to stay exactly where I was, on my knees with my ass cocked in the air until He was done.
All I could do was hold on, and try to remember to breathe. My hair fell over my face, was sucked into my mouth as I gasped, my arms shook with the effort of holding myself in position, and always, the constant stabbing throbbing pain in my stomach.
I think it was the pure animalistic way He was hammering at me that broke through the pain. Maybe it was the fact that He wasn’t going to slow down or back off, no matter the agony He was causing me. Or, maybe it was simply that I had asked for it, begged for it, wanted to be taken and pushed through this. I wanted to be brutally fucked in spite of whatever else was going on in my body.
Whatever the reason, I was suddenly thrusting back against Him. Arching my back and cocking my ass up even higher, silently offering my holes, spread wide and available. Grunting in appreciation for the pain, meeting His thrusts. He used my efforts well, increasing the speed and force, until finally He grabbed me by the hair and yanked me around to His cock where I eagerly accepted what remained of His semen.
What is the purpose of a fucktoy?
Why, to be fucked.
~cunt
Uncategorized | kaya | Sunday March 25th, 2007 6:41pm | Comments (12)
Uncategorized | kaya | Friday March 23rd, 2007 9:50am | Comments (22)
I used to be one of those girls who would never leave the house without the perfect hair and the perfect make-up. I wouldn’t even walk to the mailbox without getting all dolled up. You never knew who might see you!
Then I got old. Tired. The only one left to impress is Master and He’s more attracted to tears than eyeliner.
My wonderful haircut that I loved so much is grown out. My hair is back to it’s frizzy, unmanageable self. Master is determined that my bangs are going to grow out. I have always had bangs, I think I look like a dork without bangs. They get so long (like where they are right now, down to the tip of my nose) and they drive me insane. The last time they got like this, right about the time we were getting married, I begged to be allowed to cut them. He let me.. consider it a wedding gift. He wanted me to feel pretty. I did. Now I need to come up with another excuse so I can cut them again!
I am feeling old, noticing the effects of aging for the first time. The gray hair is pretty persistent, my nails are brittle and weaker, my skin is changing. I have wrinkles.. and sags.. and lines. Sags, oh lord, my boobs, small as they are, are sagging enough that the letters are getting cockeyed! I’m gonna have to tack them up by the nipples to keep the letters in a straight line pretty soon. ;)
I’m feeling it in my body too. Aches and pains that I never had before. I really need to motivate myself into the walking and exercise, especially since I’m not working now. My metabolism is slowing down, I’m getting stiff. By the time we are able to be ‘cunt in a cupboard’, I may get in and not be able to get out!
I used to be a pretty girl. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I never lacked for male attention, ever. I was told I was attractive often. I turned a few heads in my prime.
What’s interesting now is I notice the heads turning nowadays… but it’s not me they’re checking out. It’s my daughters. On one hand I want to chase these men down and smack them over the head with my purse for looking back to check out my daughter’s backside or for eying her cleavage, but I’m also feeling a little like it’s a passing of the torch. Like, my time is done, time to step back and let them have the spotlight.
In as much as being eyed up and down by a strange man is a spotlight moment. ;)
What really made me think of all this was the day that I wrote those ‘messages’ on my body for Master. As I was diligently trying to write upside down and backwards (and I did the words on my ass in a mirror with my left hand and still got them all right. W00t!) it occurred to me that I was tackling that task with the same concentration and care that I used to have for putting on make up and fixing my hair. It was odd, to be writing ‘cock hole’ on my labia with the same intent, leaving me feeling just as attractive as I did when I had the perfect mascara.
It was like the difference in my life from then and now rose up and smacked me in the face. And I realized the make up drawer is there more for my daughter’s use than for mine, because what’s seen as attractive to Master and I has changed.
Uncategorized | kaya | 1:48am | Comments (18)
Master sent me over to raid His tool-bench for Titty Torture Thursday.
The thing I dislike about the black and red clamps is how localized the hard pressure is. And how heavy they are. 5lbs may not sound like a lot but 5lbs dangling from a one inch square off my tit is damn uncomfortable.
The thing I dislike about the black and yellow clamps is the grated plastic surface that presses into my nipples. As well as how fast they spring open when I release them, taking trapped nipple flesh with them! (yeah yeah, I exaggerated that bit. It does spring open and hurt like a bitch though)
Uncategorized | kaya | Thursday March 22nd, 2007 12:08pm | Comments (20)
Let’s see if I can make up for yesterday’s lack of Twat Torture Pictures. :)
Fisting is a painful act. Which is precisely why I’m attracted to it. Go figure, huh?
It’s really not a painless insertion. It’s like giving birth… backwards.
I’m most often back-pedalling on the bed, the sheet sliding and bunching up under my bare heels, trying to scoot away from the relentless, excruciating pressure of Master’s hand boring it’s way into my insides.
I moan, in much the same manner that I moaned in childbirth, low and guttural. Becoming feral in my acceptance that the only way through it is to suffer, grit my teeth, and hold out for the end.
There’s a point when the widest portion of Master’s hand begins it’s slow but forceful entrance where I think I can feel tissue tearing, a sharp blooming pain. I can see it in my mind’s eye, the skin stretch so tightly, so thin, that it’s almost transparent around His fist. Though I don’t know if I have ever ripped, or if it simply feels as if I should have.
It’s at that point that I want desperately to quit, to snap my legs together with my hands cupped around my poor battered pussy and breathe the pain away. But I don’t. Not only because I can’t, but because I know what pleasures lay over this agonizing hump.
Once my skin reluctantly grants His hand passage, there is a transfer of pain. What was once highly concentrated on the ‘ring of entrance’, now rolls and fills the whole of my vagina. A deep pressure, a pressure that shifts along with the movement of His hand and fingers, sometimes sharp if He pokes a spot, sometimes dull when He rubs. But constant, always.
He likes to poke and prod, to press up as far as He can get, until my eyes pop open in stunned panic, half-believing that He’s attempting to tickle my throat. He likes to pump, a genuine fist-fucking, so hard and so fast that I no longer control my own breathing. I’m forced to exhale when He pushes in and up… and I gasp in air when He pulls back and out.
The pressure and the pain slide and mix together to create the delicious blend that is pleasure. I can’t think beyond my cunt. I’m nothing more than one giant pulsating vagina, with no thoughts outside of His hand and the throbbing need to cum.
I much prefer to be allowed to stimulate my clit when He’s fisting me. Otherwise, the intense sensations are too overwhelming. It’s system overload to the max. But give me a clit to manipulate, to direct the course and timing of the orgasms and I’m one incredibly happy girl.
Orgasms while being fisted are sensational. They’re the strongest, deepest, whole body consuming orgasms that I ever have. I don’t know if it’s because He’s in there touching and rubbing and slamming on spots otherwise left unstimulated, or if it’s because my cunt is so full, so stretched by His hand and wrist that there is no room left in there for my cunt to spasm so it shoots it out, sending it zinging across the whole rest of my body. It brings cerebral orgasm to a new meaning.
Orgasm recovery time is lengthy. My eyes do not want to uncross, my mouth doesn’t want to close. My toes stay curled, fingers clenched. Milk that orgasm for all it’s worth, twitching still against His arm.
Until He goes to pull out, chuckling at my blatantly whorish behavior. He finds me amusing. I’m too busy thinking about my pussy to care.
The extraction itself is unpleasant. It’s uncomfortable, as what hurt going in still hurts coming out, but what’s most disturbing about it is how very very empty I feel. As if the sudden physical emptiness leaves a matching emotional hole. Where a second before I’d been literally connected to Him, I’m now alone. It takes awhile for that feeling to go away.
Master doesn’t fist me very often. I’m not sure I could stand it any more often than it happens. Part of what keeps it such a wondrous activity is the infrequency of it. I don’t want it to lose the edge that it carries.
Uncategorized | kaya | Wednesday March 21st, 2007 10:58am | Comments (27)
Twat Torture Tuesday was changed for today. Master had a different task that He wanted me to complete. He still considers it a ‘cunt task’, it’s just the cunt(me) getting put to work. :)
Also, this makes two posts today and I’m only supposed to do one. The reason I’m posting this at all is a reminder to myself that I can’t make a post until I’ve talked with Him and gotten instructions on what all He wants in the post. The tasks, pictures, etc. are supposed to be included with whatever other babblings I’m doing. I had posted this morning before asking or knowing what my task was going to be and would have ended up having to make two posts to get the task post in.
I can’t do that anymore and I completely spaced out that fact. S’okay though, all new rules need adjusting to. Live and learn, right? Right!
~cunt
Uncategorized | kaya | Tuesday March 20th, 2007 4:42pm | Comments (0)
Master wants to know my thoughts on the cunt cupboard.
The easy observations are this. It’s small, cramped, dark, cold and uncomfortable. Now, Master isn’t all that interested in having me be so uncomfortable that my focus turns to trying to stay warm or avoiding leg cramps, so some of this can be fixed.
The pink stuff(whatever it is) on the bottom is a lot less spongy than I had expected it to be. It was quite like lying on a board. Master at one time had mentioned getting me a dog bed to put in there, if I was good and deserved one. And honestly, how much more perfect could I be? (snicker) It does keep the chill of the cement floor and walls to a minimum though, so I’m grateful for that.
I definitely need a thicker blanket in there if I’m going to avoid an hour or two of shivering before hypothermia sets in.
Okay, so I’m exaggerating the hypothermia. But it is chilly and I do need a blanket. And a pillow. A laptop and a tv would be nice too. ;)
The dark is necessary, I think, to get me into the right headspace.
I do have room to stretch my legs out… *if* I can overcome the fear of sticking my bare feet into the dark pocket under the bottom steps. Cause that is seriously creepy.
About this spider repellent. I gave it long and serious thought. I’ve decided that given the choice between sitting in a tiny room sprayed down and puddled with dead and ground up spider guts or sitting in a tiny room that may or may not contain one live spider in a corner somewhere…. I’m gonna go with the live one. Though I sincerely appreciate the opportunity you gave me to gag and feel nauseous for a while. ;) (does this qualify as responding to a comment? Probably. Whoops.)
The first time I went in, true to form, I fell asleep. Probably before Master had even walked away from the door. Being caged or confined has that affect on me. Shut the door = snooze to my wee brain. Master claimed that He could hear me snoring in there. I maintain that I do not snore. There is no audio-evidence of this accusation and He has said that He’s tried to record it, so logically, if evidence cannot be obtained, the accusation is untrue. So says the laws in kaya-world.
(He also claims that I fart in my sleep. Again, I dispel this myth. I do not fart. I do not walk around the house farting. I don’t know why, I suppose my digestive tract likes me. Perhaps I’m kind to my body. Who knows! But I am entirely too dainty and flowery and lady-like to fart. Simply not true.
Master says I don’t fart during the day because I save it all up so I can fart against His thigh while I sleep. Passive aggressive behavior maybe? *giggle*
Speaking of farts, let’s talk about queefs for a brief moment. Is it an age thing?? What the hell? Master is quite the fan of doggy style, and I certainly used to be! But nothing.. nothing.. can ruin that magical moment of being yanked around from a savage doggy-style fucking in order to suck that wet juicy cock into my mouth quite like the eruption of musical notes of an unpleasant nature from my equally wet and juicy cunt. By the time I’ve finished playing Beethoven’s Fifth in C(unt) minor, the mood has completely dissolved.)
I digress.
I’ve digressed into farts, queefs and snores. Truly, I have no shame left.
Anyway!
I slept through my first “cupboarding” experience. I wish I had some juicy tale to tell about it, but it is quite simply as easy not remembering any of it. :D
He woke me up when He opened the door to let me out. Proceeded to beat a little, tie me up, etc etc.. and then He put me back in. The second time was less smooth than the first.
The first time He ordered me in, I resisted a bit going in. Stalling and asking questions, but once in, I curled up without a word of complaint. The second time He ordered me in, I went in without a word of complaint, but proceeded to resist a bit once He’d shut the door. I don’t know if the differences in my reaction account for anything or not.
I felt really disconnected the second time, and unable to ‘settle’ into myself. I wanted/needed Him to communicate with me, and was hollering out to Him, asking for the bathroom, asking for a blanket, asking when He was going to let me out, what if I get scared, what was He doing… You get the idea. He responded to the first few questions, trying to ease the transition, but eventually told me to “shut the fuck up” (after all of His nicer approaches were ignored by me) and I did. Once I did shut up, and was nowhere near to falling asleep, I got to feel the full effects of the place.
It’s effective. Very much so. When there isn’t any other stimulation, my mind just… stops. It’s like when you put a soothing, cool balm on a red, itchy rash. The relief is phenomenal. I stared into black nothingness, couldn’t tell you a thing I thought about, and waited. Wait to be used, wait to be ignored, wait to be hurt, wait on the unknown and unpredictable.
Maybe He fell asleep and I’ll be left all night. Maybe He’s lining up tools-o-torture and He’ll be pulling me out any second. Maybe He’s watching tv and isn’t giving any thought to me at all.
I suppose that’s what I think about. All the possibilities.
It’s definitely not a ‘vanilla’ headspace though. That’s a dangerous transition to make when my mind is locked in unstable cunt space. Maybe that will come in time, being able to switch smoothly from crawling out of the closet and proceeding on with normalcy, without being used and abused in the middle. It seems that I’m equating the desired headspace the isolation brings with then needing, requiring maybe, something severe.
I know from past experience with isolation that if He takes me out and attempts a snuggly, cuddly ‘nilla time, I completely go off my rocker. What I’m thinking at the time is “I just wasted x amount of hours getting into this mindset and You’re going to waste it??” It’s not just time that was wasted.. but more a sense of *me* that is wasted. Or something. I really need to think on that more. I’m not sure if I’m accurately explaining it.
The kids were gone Saturday, off spending the night with friends, so the cupboard was able to be used to more of an extent than I had planned on. And I was able to let loose with some screaming and sobbing while He was able to let loose with some heavy pain application. And hard fucking. Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick, He pounded me so hard at one point that I couldn’t *not* grunt. I think His cock was poking the bottom of my lungs. It was hard enough that the next morning when He attempted to fuck me again, I was so sore and so swollen and so obviously in really bad pain that He stopped. How often does *that* happen, huh?
….
See what happened here is that Master just called and I’ve completely and utterly lost my train of thought. Now I could sit here staring at the keyboard for another 20 minutes trying to recapture it, OR I can close this and be a good little girl and get back to the chores. Oh it’s Tuesday too! I have to check on that.
Bubbye. :)
~cunt
Uncategorized | kaya | 9:04am | Comments (14)
The freedom to curl up in a dark, tiny cell, behind a locked door, and drift off to sleep as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The freedom to sit naked between His legs, to face Him, to have my face slapped into throbbing, red nothingness.
The freedom to sit naked between His legs after being slapped, and cry, in waves of silent fat tears, without being embarrassed, without being ashamed, and without ever having to explain why. Because He already knows.
The freedom to lie on the floor, and be an object. A footstool, the heavy weight of legs and feet melting me into the floor, understanding that moving/thinking/talking is unwelcome, unneeded, unnecessary.
The freedom to be blank.
The freedom to react, to beg and plead, to scream… and not have it answered.
The freedom to sob. Great heaving howls that render my face scrunched and blotchy, with red swollen eyes, tears mingled with mucus, dripping unrestrained from my jaw, my chin, my lips. Sobs that interrupt my breath, that leave me unable to speak, to form coherent words. And…
…the freedom to know He finds that beautiful.
The freedom to hang from the chains in slumped defeat, accepting the pain… because there is no other option.
The freedom to be wrapped in cold, unforgiving chain.. and be secure at the click of the lock.
The freedom to be me. This is the gift He gives me.
Uncategorized | kaya | Monday March 19th, 2007 12:50pm | Comments (27)
Like
