Bruises are my crack.

Lest anyone think that misery stick doesn’t live up to its name.

Pictures!

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More please.

Last night, we were lying in bed. I was curled up on my side facing Him, with one leg tossed over His. His hand, that had been softly stroking my bare thigh suddenly curled into a claw, digging in to my skin, and He dragged His nails from my hip to my bended knee.

My mouth opened in a silent “oh” of pain and I looked at Him, my eyes probably as round as my mouth. He grinned rather sheepishly, and shrugged. “I can’t help it!” He said. “I just like hurting you.”

“So I’ve noticed!” I said, laughing and poking Him in the side.

I fell silent, watching as my leg colored itself with four red rivers along the path left by His fingernails. “Look.” I said softly, runnng my hand over the burning trails.

I hitched my leg up a little higher and smiled. “Again?”

He did. And again. And again.

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One more.

I know I’m a quiet, demure, sheltered little slavelet, but what the HELL are these for??

pizzles

Hitting? Dildo? Is it a lollipop??

More importantly, do I want one??

(that site also contains the misery sticks should any of you want one. Only 10 bucks! Come on.. you know you want one. :D)

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Cry

I think I’ve done more crying in the last two weeks than I have for the last year. For a multitude of reasons. More on that in a bit.

Master has gone off for a bit, maybe an hour or so, which gives me a little bit of time to make a post (I hope). I haven’t made many, or at least not many of substance because it’s just too hard to do when He’s home. It’s not that He wouldn’t let me, but I’ve been so starved for Him that I can’t justify sitting down here and ignoring Him for the length of time it takes me to write and think, or to read other’s and make comments. I realize that my lack of time here is beginning to have repercussions, and while that saddens me, it’s also the nature of the beast.

I’ve always said that I make a shitty friend because I’m a slave. The alternative is to make a shitty slave so I can have friends. That’s not going to happen. For those of you that are sticking by and being supportive, accepting me for me, my most heartfelt thank you’s.

I’ve been asked a lot of questions here and there in comments and emails and I promise I am not blowing any of you off. I wish I could be better at this, better at making time for things because it’s really not in my nature to be a rude bitch. What I will ask of anyone who wanted something answered is to please ask me again. Once something is lost in the shuffle, the chances of me finding it again are slim to none.

Just the other day (today possibly? time is fucked for me lately) I read something about a slave not being able to watch a tv show that they may like because time is no longer their’s to schedule. I thought then that DVR is a slave’s friend, at least it is mine. I have any show that I might want to watch set to record because 99% of the time, I’m not going to be able to watch it when it’s on. If I’m not doing something else for Master or the kids, then one of them is watching something. Though we have 5 tv’s in this house, I’m always going to be in the room that Master is in, and don’t we all know that a Man’s remote is attached to His fingers (grin). So anyway! After having that thought, I went and checked the DVR to see what was all lined up there for me to watch, and damn if there isn’t about 15 recorded programs just waiting for me and some time. Time that I will probably never have and shows that will probably be erased in favor of Family Guy or Spongebob.

But when I do have a little bit of time, where do I go? Here. I can’t say that I haven’t missed it here. I really, really have.

~~*~~

Now about that crying.

It’s been a hard, hard adjustment. I think Master and I had fooled ourselves in to thinking that we were maintaining just fine this last year. We weren’t, not entirely. But it’s only come out in the light now that we’re thrust back into the realities of 24/7 M/s. This slavery shit is HARD.

It’s not something that you’re going to “get” during weekend visits like we were doing before. It’s not something that’s going to happen over the phone or on MSN. Oh there are aspects of it, sure, and we were probably much better off because we had the background of it before the Evil Year (nice term for it, I think), but it’s a whole ‘nother ballgame this time around.

We’re both struggling, but it’s only been what? 2 weeks? Or has it been longer. Fuck if I can recall anymore. But in the last 3 days or so, we’ve not only recognized the struggles for what they are, we also welcome them because each conquered struggle represents a growth. A growth that’s been simmering under the surface for the last year. It’s exciting really.

He has His own struggles, Master-type struggles. Things that I wish I could speak on, but to do so would be to speak for Him and I can’t do that. I might *think* I understand what He’s thinking or feeling, but I don’t. I have a vague idea of it, but I can only speculate on most of it.

My own struggles are adjustment struggles. Dealing with the day to day realities of “this”. I’m still having a hard time getting myself to believe that it’s okay to go off and clean for several hours and not be sitting Right There waiting for Him to want or need something. The housework is still slacking. I go in spurts, trying to get a good bit of it done in the morning since I generally wake up before He does. But then I feel I have to be quiet about it because He’s sleeping and housework isn’t exactly quiet. I mean, you can only dust so much before you have to vacuum or turn the washing machine on. And once He’s awake, it’s like “housewife” shuts off and “cunt-in-waiting” turns on.

Not to mention how incredibly difficult it’s been getting my head wrapped around the very frequent sessions we’ve been having. To go from having these kinds of scenes maybe once or twice a month to having them almost daily is insane. It’s taking me a long time to “recover” from a scene well enough to walk back upstairs and function. The adrenaline rush makes me zonked out-sleepy, or I end up with an endorphin-headache, or He wants to wind-down by going fishing, which is great! But it’s not doing crap for my housekeeping chores.

I don’t know how many times I’ve stood in the kitchen with that blank stare trying to figure out what I can make for supper because the thought of food and cooking and having to be ‘normal Norman Rockwell family eating dinner’ hasn’t entered my masochistic little brain all damn day.

Today (and last night) He spanked me with a saw. A saw! Just out of the blue, yank down my pants and swat me with a freakin’ wood saw. (In fact, I was talking to blue on the phone, poor girl, had to listen to me whine.) “Going for blood” He says while He smacks the teeth-edge against my cheeks. And you know what? Saws hurt! They thwack with a sting like you wouldn’t believe. The grin on His face was priceless though. He’s like a little kid in a candy store, I swear.

That’s how it’s been though. Constant “turn around and bend over so I can swat you with this “thing” to see what happens”. Goofball.

:)

So last night there was (another) under-the-desk marathon. I’m really pretty good with the whole desk experience these days. If I’m not getting pleasure out of the fucking itself, I’m getting the residual pleasure of being used-n-abused. But my God, He’d been going for so long and I try, I really really try, to take it like a good little slut, but after a time, His otherwise wonderful cock that I love, begins to feel a bit like a hot, dull knife impaling my cunt over and over and over and over.

I begged, as I’m prone to do when I think I can’t stay in position for one more minute, for Him to please come soon. And like 45 minutes later, He’s still going strong (and hard and deep). And this whole time I’m having the usual internal argument. The “I can’t do this. I can’t. I’m just going to make Him stop and reason with Him and walk away and go to bed. It’s that simple. I.Can’t.Do.It.” argued against “this is what you DO, cunt. This is your purpose. Yes it hurts. No you aren’t enjoying it. You don’t always GET to. Get over yourself, stop snivelling, and cock that ass up!”, back and forth I go. Since I never have just crawled out and made Him stop, you can see who wins, but it’s still a terribly strong urge to overcome.

So then He stops, pulls me out, and sets me on my knees to suck Him instead of being fucked. This was no less of a struggle for me to do. Again, the position is uncomfortable, and I’m already at the end of my rope as it is, but I want, more than anything, to be good and to be the slut He expects me to be. And I am! I do. I suck with all the gusto I can drag up, ignoring the cramp building in my jaw or that my feet have long since gone to sleep, and I suck and I suck until finally, thank you jesus, He comes.

Soon after we go to bed. It’s late, I’m tired, mentally and emotionally exhausted. And I lay there and just start to cry. Silent, slow tears, all curled up in my chain, holding the lock in my fist, and not at all able to identify the emotion that’s overwhelming me. He stroked my hair and my face, told me that He knew how hard that was, how very proud He is. And I’m nodding and sniffling, it *was* hard and I love hearing that it pleased Him, so why am I still crying?

I think that it was in just realizing that this is it. This is what it’s all about. The hard struggle to “earn” that lock, to feel like I DID earn it, and to know that this is what it’s going to take to be told that He’s proud… and to really believe it. I just wanted to lay there in His arms while my jaw calmed down and my over-used cunt burned and the feeling slid painfully back into my lower legs, the rug burn smarted over my elbows and knees… and cry out the acceptance of going through *that* in order to be happy.

I’m a fucked up little cookie, but I’m a happily fucked up little cookie.

There was more crying today as He snapped my tits with that stupid awful stick and I struggled HARD with managing the combined pain of clovers and misery stick. It got bad enough that He took me down midway through the session because once again, we’d (I’d) smacked up against another “growth spurt” and it needed processed. It’s not often that we get to process things as they arise, and not have to put it away until next weekend or the next uninterrupted phone call. Though it was hard and I sobbed all guilt-ridden over “ruining the scene AGAIN!”, the issue was talked out, He took control of it, soothed my feelings of inadequacy, and pushed me right back into another scene, that thankfully was misery-stickless, but no less intense… and made me cry again for other reasons.

I’m a crybaby. A happily fucked up crybaby cookie.

And it just keeps getting better, you know? The pictures just don’t show it. My words can’t show it. It’s better and better, all the time.

~cunt

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Are *you* going to argue with Him?

I’m not! Master makes the rules in kaya’s world and by God, if today felt like a Thursday to Him, it’s Thursday!

Unless tomorrow is just bringing more of the same.

:D

A picture is worth a thousand words. So here, have several pictures and consider it an “essay”.

That fucking misery stick!

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Gone fishin’/Twat Torture Tuesday/Edumacation

We’ve gone fishing almost every day for a week. Sometimes B-man tags along with us, but mostly it’s just Him and I. Since I’m really selfish and like to have Him to myself, I’m not complaining. We really have a great time together, either just sitting silently, or having the privacy to talk.

Last night I was drooling for a quick outdoor switching but the freakin’ traffic wouldn’t slow down. Any other day there’s maybe two cars an hour, until I want to drop my drawers . Then that road turns into the Indy 500 qualifying track. Bastards. I would have done it anyway because I’m desperate like that, but with us being fully visible from the road Master seemed to think that switching my ass wasn’t worth a night in jail.

I disagreed. So, I whomp-a-lomped Him in fishing! He caught more fish than I did, but mine was the biggest. *gloat* He comes back with some nonsense about game fish and crap fish, but whatever. Mine was bigger, therefore I win.

Fishin' pics

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Dinner tonight.

Yum. :)

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Tack Bra – Revisited

I’ve gotten a couple of questions about the tack bra. I know that a lot of people don’t go back through archives (seriously, who has time for that anyway?) and I still haven’t been tagging my entries so I’ll just yak all about the tack bra again!

It is exactly what the name implies. It’s a bra insert full of tacks. Upholstery tacks to be exact. I had thumbtacks at first but they were too short, and too dull. Upholstery tacks work better, in my opinion.

How it looks from the outside.

How it looks from the inside.

Read more »

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Yardwork

Read more »

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A different kind of fear

This is about my wonderful children. (Why do I feel the need to preface a non-smut post like this? I suppose to save someone the bore of reading it if they’re looking for smut? Odd that.) Anyway…

This is mostly about Am and how my previously “good kid” has given me something else to worry about.

Recently Master and I were discussing the kids and He was asking me why it is that I treat one different from another, or why I have different expectations, say from B-man, than I do/did have from Am. I said that with each child, you learn as you go. I may see something that is less than desirable with Am that I can now try and “fix” with B-man, so I change my approach with him now, and hope that by the time he’s Am’s age, I won’t have the same issue.

But aside from that is the fact that they are all three very different people. I’m continuously amazed that they were spawned from the same gene pool, looks aside. But what works with one child is sure to cause strife with the other, personality wise. And I do interact with each of them as individuals.

I’m new to the whole “teenagers cause parents heart attacks and ulcers” club. And most of that came from Jes. She’s always been the one that I knew I would have to worry about. She’s so easily carried along with her peer group, and worried to death about fitting in and keeping up with her friends. If they smoke, she smokes, if they drink, she drinks. She’d follow them off the proverbial bridge without hesitation. So I worry, about car accidents and teen pregnancy. About cops and juvenile records. None of that has happened yet, but she puts herself in places where it *might*. I had thought that this was the extent of parenting fears and worries.

Am’s given me a new one.

While Jes is showing me what it’s like to worry about a child who flows with her peers, Am’s showing me what it’s like to worry about a child who is going to confront society. I’m beginning to see that her risks are just as real, by being the “good kid”, as the risks that Jes is taking.

We live in the middle of Wisconsin. We’re hardly the hubbub of cultural or social diversity here. We have cheese and we root for the Packers. Laura Ingalls Wilder’s first book was about her life in Wisconsin and I don’t think much has changed since.

We’re in a predominantly white area. Of the 2,000 students in the junior high here, there are *maybe* 10 african-american students. We have a much larger asian population. (On a side note, why is it that certain ethnic groups tend to immigrate to one area? Where I lived in Illinois, there was a huge Mexican population (I don’t mean Mexican descent, I mean people immigrating from Mexico) Here it’s people from Thailand. I’m just curious as to why here? There is nothing exciting in Wisconsin.) But back to Am.

She’s never going to blissfully follow along with what society tells her to do. She’s not going to quietly accept discrimination or laws that insult *her* moral code. She’s a speaker and an activist and she stands up for the underdog. These are things that cause(d) me to admire her, to feel pride and to compliment her maturity and strength.

The other day, about 4 or 5 days ago, the phone rang here. B-man answered it. I heard him say “no, she’s not here” and figured someone had asked for Am. I watched as his face got that puzzled “wtf” look, then he slowly hung up. I asked him who it was, he said he didn’t know. I asked what they said and he told me that they’d asked for Am and then said “we’re (….) because she’s dating a black male.” and he said that’s when he hung up. The (…) part he said he couldn’t understand what they said, and I wasn’t sure at the time if he was only telling me he couldn’t understand them so that he didn’t have to repeat it to me or if he really didn’t know what they said.

I continued to question him, about the tone of voice or could he make out any words at all besides “dating a black male”, was it threatening, was it a male or female, child or adult, and he just kept shaking his head and saying “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

Am *is* dating a black male. The sweetest, shyest, most polite young man I’ve encountered. They’ve been an item since last summer. She really likes him. And while I don’t think that the boy one dates in 8th grade is the future husband, I do know that I was her age when I met the man I later married and who fathered my kids. So at this stage in the girls’ lives, I do pay a little more attention to those who last longer than a week for dating.

It was later found out (within an hour of that phone call) that the caller was a mutual friend of Am’s and the b/f’s, who had thought it was Am on the phone and he was just being a dork. Well, good enough and I’m glad it was nothing, but since then? It’s rocked me a little.

It’s not just that Am is inter-racially dating. She’s also fiercely pro-life and is exceptionally vocal about it. She’s constantly nagging me to join groups and go on protests and do this or that, to start movements and picket Washington. She’s in people’s faces at school, and elsewhere, about it, arguing her viewpoint.

She’s friends with a lesbian couple at school. This poor couple is constantly being discriminated against by fellow students and teachers. It’s the teachers that Am finds the most offensive. She recently reported the teachers to the “bullying board”, claiming that the teachers are bullying the couple.

Earlier in the year, she got in to an argument in class with another girl over gay marriage rights. And it’s not just those things. She adheres to a very strong inner moral code and hotly defends her position all the time.

That phone call, prank though it was, has brought to my attention the possible repercussions of being willing to put yourself on the front lines of social injustices. It’s hard to say at this point in her life if she’ll continue on this path, but knowing her like I do, I would almost bet on it. And while I don’t worry a whole lot about her peers *now*, I do know how nasty it has the potential to be.

With Jes I worry about the trouble she will get into. With Am now, I’m worried about the trouble that will fall on her.

Keeping my sights set on B-man staying easy. ;)

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