Two of them had to be eaten right away. The berries were mushy and just seconds away from spoiling. And my fingers kept slipping in to the chocolate during the dipping process, so I had to lick ‘em. And of course the spoon needed cleaned after stirring. Other than that, I didn’t sneak any chocolate. At all.
Aren’t I good? *beams*
Uncategorized | kaya | 
Thursday May 24th, 2007 4:04pm | 
Comments (17)
Uncategorized | kaya | 10:40am | Comments (11)
I finally started yesterday which means I’m done with the hormonal tsunami and now I just feel fat(ter), have a headache and want to sleep, sleep, sleep. God hates women, I’m convinced of that.
Thank you all so much for the comments yesterday. If Master wasn’t so stingy with my time I could reply to all of them (see, always His fault). I think it does help for Him to read them, and He did read every one of them, so He can see that pms really is a hormone/chemical problem, that it’s shared by a lot of women, and that it isn’t me just being a bitch, or being willfully disobedient or disrespectful. Not that He ever considered that it wasn’t hormonal, but just how hard it is to control can be a mystery to men I think.
I used to know a guy who would make me steaming MAD about pms. He said pms was just a woman’s license to be a bitch. He said that while he agreed that there “might” be hormone changes going on, that we women were still obligated to control it and not use it as an excuse to be bitchy or to require men to tiptoe around us for one week a month.
He also said that pms, if it is as uncontrollable as women claim it is, is the reason why women should never be in any position of power or responsibility, nor ever be in the military, because dependent upon what time of the month it is, we were just as likely to start World War III as we were to bake cookies and have someone over for tea and a “good cry”.
Lordie but he used to make me angry. Anyway, enough about him.
I was being facetious when I said I was attempting to find a correlation between women’s lib and pms hormones. Sort of. What I was trying to figure out was what was the major hormone surge that causes pms, and if, possibly, women who are more “agressive” in pursuits of equality or power have a naturally higher level of said hormone. Because I do believe that there is a chemical/hormone difference between someone like me and someone who attends weekly “I am woman, hear me roar” meetings.
When we think of or talk about the women of the 40′s and 50′s, people like to pretend that women stayed in those roles of the submissive, subservient wife because they had no other choice. I do agree that *some* of them did, but I also believe that a great majority of women were happy campers in that role. I don’t believe that the difference between the two was just a matter of having different interests or goals. I think it goes deeper, more biological than that.
Now that my pms is abating, I get to be fascinated with that feeling. It’s such a different emotional drive than what I usually feel that I can’t help but wonder if that’s how other women feel all the time, and if that’s why being the submissive, subservient wife is such a foreign concept to them. It certainly felt foreign to me, that need for power and control, while I was in the midst of it. Is it too unrealistic to wonder if we submissives have a normally lower hormone, maybe testosterone, than women who strive for power?
I’m completely separating subservient and submissive from masochism because I don’t think the two are dependent upon or related to the other at all.
On a side note, if they could put the components of a Burger King Whopper and a strawberry milkshake in a pill, pms would be cured. ;)
I have another post rolling around upstairs but one thing I learned last week is that my time is Master’s time. He’s said something about buying the paint for the bedroom today (thank God He’s just going to pick it out Himself) and it is Thursday so maybe a post later, maybe not. I’m trying to read when I can, and comment when I can… but it is what it is, and as much as I love and miss the blogging world, I’m far too happy with having Him home to worry about it. :D
~cunt
Uncategorized | kaya | 7:47am | Comments (20)
I’ve spent most of the morning googling PMS trying to find the hormonal or chemical reason for what I’ve been feeling. It’s a sad fact that for all the progress the world has made, pms still seems to remain a mystery. Almost every website I came across started with some variation of the phrase “the definitive cause of PMS is not yet known”.
I’ve said before that my pms is never the same. Some months are purely physical, others more emotional, or I get blasted with both. Very occasionally I have no symptoms at all. That’s a lovely month. :D I don’t think I have anything near the newer and badder version called PMDD, nor do I think I’m needing treatment of a medical sort. I’m finding ways to treat myself and coming up with observations. Observations lead to questions. Questions lead me here. :)
One of the hardest to reconcile “issues” that I’m seeing is that for whatever reason, pms causes me to think that I’ve risen in status around here. As a slave, and in a household where I’m clearly NOT at the top of the totem pole, I’m not a queen or a diva, I’m not even an *equal*, it’s a major problem.
I’ve tried finding some connection to the hormones that trigger pms and the hormones that trigger women to join women’s lib movements, but I’m not using the right search terms or something because I can’t find anything.
Some woman lib’er somewhere is going to take offense to that, I’m sure. But I’m being completely serious about the feeling. That’s the best way I can describe it, I want to be treated as an equal when I have pms and when I’m NOT, when I’m being treated in exactly the same manner that Master always treats me, the way that fulfills me those 26 other days of the month, my feelings get hurt.
There is all sorts of information out there about serotonin levels and adrenaline and endorphins and increased sensitivity to pain, blah blah blah. None of that is helping me, unless serotonin, endorphins and adrenaline is what fueled woman so many years ago to demand equal treatment.
There are three incidents in the last two days that I’m going to use as examples for my “equal treatment”. One was Monday after a scene. A good scene, a scene that that my pms-induced sensitivity to pain didn’t fubar. But at the end of it, I didn’t feel like I had had the properly deserved amount of orgasms (don’t laugh, I’m being completely serious here!) That is *exactly* what I felt, exactly what I *said* and exactly what threw me into a several hours long slump that ended in tears, while I tried to explain to Master why it is that He HAS TO make sure I’m sexually satisfied.
Oh believe me when I say the absurdity of that isn’t lost on me. Not at all.
The second incident is even more ridiculous than the first. Twice Master helped Himself to a bite of the food on my plate. I think I could have, without any guilt, stabbed Him in the back of the hand with my fork, I was *that* irritated with it. *MY* plate, *MY* food. I think I even said “if You want some I’ll go get You some, but don’t touch mine.”
Third incident. He started planting the garden without me. That’s it. He put plants in *MY* garden.
There are other things, really tiny things that spread out to include the kids and the things they ask me to do, other things Master has asked me to do, that cause me to literally sit on my ass and point out in excruciating detail how *unfair* it is that I’m being asked to do these things. Even the dog has gotten a lecture or two.
So what is it that is causing this sudden, irrational feeling of possessiveness? Or of feeling, believing, that I’m owed all of these “rights”? I don’t know that it would be such an issue if it wasn’t in such stark contrast to how things usually work around here.
Previously, Master would combat these feelings. Playing what I have come to call His “dom trump card” and bulldozing through it until I comply. But that would generally escalate into a much larger “fight” before I would end up complying. And the compliance would come from me being defeated, not from any “purer” sense of submission.
This month, He’s approaching me differently. He’s, well, He’s coddling me almost. He’s listening to me whine, stroking my hair, agreeing with my self-absorbed observations. And apologizing for “mistreating” me.
THAT is really, truly, throwing me off-kilter.
When He held me while I cried, petting my hair and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t make you orgasm enough, snooks.” I don’t think I have ever felt less like a slave in our entire relationship. I assume He’s just trying to “get through” the next few days by whatever means necessary but this… this is hard to take.
It seems the more He soothes the pms, the more He’s killing the slave. I like that we’re avoiding any huge escalation of rebellion leading to defeat, but this softer approach seems just as negative in other ways.
What I’m finding interesting while I go through this desire for equality is getting an inkling of understanding how other, “normal” women must feel. If this is what they feel every day, it’s no wonder at all that they don’t understand BDSM, or power exchange relationships. It’s a very strange feeling, and at total odds with what I usually feel. It’s as “different”, I imagine, as if you girls suddenly woke up to find a penis dangling between your legs. It’s foreign, unusual, new.. and part of me wants to play with it, while the other part just wants it GONE.
What do other Doms do when the sub has pms? How do you want to be treated with you have pms? And what is the connection between pms hormones and equality??
~cunt
Uncategorized | kaya | Wednesday May 23rd, 2007 9:17am | Comments (32)
The only coherent words that I managed to utter before forgetting how to breathe were “I want a safeword.”
They’re just clothespins with the tiniest square of 20 grit sandpaper glued to them. But this time, today, there was no grace. There was no bravery or pride or determination. I cried. I begged for a safeword (which tickled Him to no end).. and then I forgot how to breathe.
The pain from those clothespins on my cunt was incredible. Far, far worse than I ever imagined it would be when I suggested using that black string for Twat Tuesday. And I KNOW that I can barely handle that particular string on my breasts when my breasts have always been where I can take the most. Why I ever thought for one second that I could take it on my cunt is beyond me.
It was a moment of letting fantasy cloud reality. I wanted to do it, for Him. I wanted to grit my teeth and get through it by grim determination, mind over matter, by repeating to myself the mantra “I will not die, I will not die”. That little phrase gets me through a lot of painful processes. But not this time. This time, I thought I was dying.
Generally, even a nasty clamp down there will hurt like the devil at first, rise in pressure for a few agonizing moments, and then slowly begin to fade down to “bearable”. These did not. The pain just kept coming, in a rising tide that was drowning me in desperation.
He tugged and flicked and laughed… while I came to terms with the very, VERY low limit of my masochism. A simple string of clothespins decorated with sandpaper dropped me over the edge.
When He took them off, I lay for a long time with my hands over my face, ashamed, so so ashamed. Do you know how humbling it is to talk big, and then so easily, so simply and quickly have the cocky wiped right off your face?
Uncategorized | kaya | Tuesday May 22nd, 2007 9:22pm | Comments (9)
If the quote in the title is accurate then Master doesn’t love me. He only likes me.
This post is about spit. Slobber. Saliva. Goober. Hocker. Loogey. (I’m literally getting nauseous just trying to think up slang words for it. Ugh.) If there is a particular name assigned to having a fetish for spitting on someone or being spit on, I can’t find it.
Answers.com says “‘Spitting fetishism’ is the name used to describe a fetishistic attraction to spitting.”
And from here: “In Rod Evan’s clever book, Sexicon, the term automysophilia is proposed as a general word that describes sexual arousal based on being dirty. (In Greek, auto- means ‘self’, myso- is ‘dirty’ and philia is ‘liking, loving;.) Automysophilia might, of course, be further subdivided into arousal due to different polluting substances– the fetishist can be quite specific about whether it’s pollution by spit, piss, mud, earwax, or Fox News that turns him on. It seems, however, that we also need a term for the fetish of being aroused by making another person dirty. Maybe allomysophilia, using the Greek root allos ‘another’) fits the bill.”
I rather like the word allomysophilia. Master is an allomysophilia-ist. I, however, am not an automysophilia. I don’t “get off” on being dirty.
When He spits on me, which isn’t all too often (thank God), I am not wallowing in erotic depravity, or feeling deliciously humbled, or anything of the sort. I’m grossed out.
I’ve always been grossed out by spit, even my own. I can’t look in the sink when I spit after brushing my teeth. When my kids were babies, the drool turned my stomach. At work, I could clean up the nastiest diarrhea incontinence without hesitation, but any sort of mucous or slobber? I’d pass that mess on to the next shift, if at all possible.
I’d be a proctologist over a dentist any day.
My long-winded point is, I loathe spit.
That wetness covering my chin there? That’s not semen. That’s SPIT. And it didn’t just cover my chin. It covered my entire face. It was dripping, in slow, thick spit-fashion, down my cheeks, off my jaw. He made me open my mouth so He could spit directly into it. Because I love Him? I swallow. And for good measure, He rubbed it in, smearing up into my hair, over my eyes and forehead.
I think I can feel it, crawling over my skin, when He spits on me. All of the little bacterium and enzymes and cells. Eating at my skin like acid. It consumes my thoughts, my senses. I can smell it, it’s an inescapable odor, whether real or manufactured in my head I can’t say. The more I try to find clean skin, wiping my face on my hand or arm if I’m given the chance, the more it spreads, that creepy-crawling feeling of being covered in germs and gross, the more the desire to shower, to get clean, rises and rises… and I’m completely unable to focus on the other things He’s doing to me. The pain is secondary. The fucking is secondary. His voice giving commands is secondary. I’m All-Shower Network in my head.
He fucked me in the ass, then shoved His cock down my throat. It didn’t even register at the time. I was covered in spit, nothing else computed.
I licked and sucked His balls, tongued His asshole. But I was covered in spit… and those things were inconsequential.
When He had finally sated Himself enough to let me go, He asked if I wanted to go get cleaned up and I all but shouted in relief. “Yes! Oh my God yes, now. please, right now. Move OUT OF THE WAY!” I practically dove into the shower.
~~*~~
There’s been a discussion recently on TSR about humiliation. On one hand I believe that humiliation within the context of my relationship is impossible. Because no matter what it is that He’s doing to me, or requiring me to do, I’m simply being obedient. Obedience is not humiliating.
Another side-effect of frequent humiliation is becoming “used” to it. I’ve either come to crave the aspects of our relationship that other’s would consider humiliating, or I’ve hardened to it and it’s too common-place to be anything other than “normal” in my world. I mean, doesn’t everyone suck urine from a cock? Totally normal.
Spitting should be way up high on the list of humiliating things, especially considering my extreme negative reaction to it. But I feel nothing close to humiliation. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed, I’ve not lost any dignity. If anything, when I get out of the shower, I feel empowered, I feel pride. It’s just one more difficult and hated thing that He’s done to me that I submitted to, quietly and with some semblance of grace, watching with an almost detached fascination how incredibly turned on HE is while He defiles me with saliva and semen, making me lick His dirty cock. Even as I squirm in filth, He’s lusting over me.
So no, not humiliated. Pleased. Basking in His satisfaction. And *that* is what will get me back on my knees with my mouth open the next time He spits on me. Not a fetish for “being dirty”, but a fetish for being pleasing.
It’s a world of difference.
~cunt
Uncategorized | kaya | 8:09am | Comments (15)
I know I’ve been doing more pictures than words lately, but sometimes, there are no words. This post is dedicated to tracytris per her request :D
I started out the day looking like this:
I ended the day looking like this:
The in-between part was hot. And hard.
Uncategorized | kaya | Monday May 21st, 2007 4:49pm | Comments (22)
It’s been a trip having Master home all this time. You wouldn’t think it should be this huge adjustment, but it really is. Plus, I’m just beginning to enter the hell of pms so let’s all keep our fingers crossed that I get through the next few days relatively unscathed. When I woke up this morning, tired and cranky right out of bed, I asked Master when I was due to start. He keeps better track of things than I do. He reached over and took a nipple, slowly squeezing it until I yelped.
“Monday.” He said decisively. That made me laugh, and if He’s right God knows He’ll gloat for days. So we’ll see what Monday brings, though His track record of commanding my uterus into obedience has been pretty good.
We haven’t really done anything heavy. I haven’t been in the cunt cupboard once, there haven’t been any big scenes that leave me shattered-but-filled. No blood. ;) That’s a good thing though because I’m having a hard enough time getting the little things right.
I haven’t really gotten into any trouble since the emailing “thang” (shock gasp). The only thing I messed up on was getting into bed with underwear on, which, to be honest, just makes me giggle.
I know that I’m not supposed to wear clothes to bed, that’s been a long-standing rule. But when Master isn’t home, I generally snuggle in bed with the cats which requires me to leave the bedroom door open so they can get out to the litter box. Leaving the bedroom door open requires that mom wear underwear just in case a nosy kid pops in in the middle of the night. Master doesn’t give a rat’s ass what I wear or how I sleep if He isn’t home so it all worked out just fine.
It really was without any thought that I climbed into bed that night with my spankies still on, nor did Master Himself catch it right away. It was actually some several hours later, mid-snore, that I was rudely awakened by an atomic wedgie and Master’s growly voice in my ear demanding to know what “these things” were still doing on.
I admit that at the time I was mighty irritated with Him. I mean, is there a less pleasant way to be yanked out of sleep than the “rug burn” of material and elastic on your tailbone?? Perhaps I would have been slightly more agreeable had He wanted them off so He could fuck me or spank me or something fun like that, but He didn’t. No, He just made me get out of bed in the middle of the cold, dark night, grumpy and tired, to take them off. And to reiterate that I am not to have clothes on in bed.
I crawled back into bed some kind of grouchy too. But the next day when I complained about the atomic wedgie treatment, it just made me laugh. Because I already know that this is the stuff that’s going to trip me up for awhile. The little things. It’s always the little things.
One of the things that I’m battling right now is my propensity to do nothing more than what He tells me to do when He’s home. This is something that magdala and I have talked about before. It’s almost like we’re afraid to do anything, or to start on anything, for fear that They will not want to interrupt us. So I’d sit and wait for Him to decide what we were doing.
It was standard procedure that the house would be let go on the weekends. I literally would do *nothing* if He didn’t directly tell me to do it so that I would always be ready to jump up and do what He wanted to do. That’s how the weekends went, and Monday I’d have to play housecleaning/laundry catch up.
But now He’s not going anywhere (yet anyway) and I’m still finding myself practically unable to get involved in something. Because… what if? What if He wants to fuck. Or wants to play. Or wants to go fishing. Or a million other things that I won’t be able to do if I’m in the middle of cleaning the toilet!!
I don’t know how these thoughts and reactions get started, but they really are incredibly strong and hard to break. I write it out here and read over it and it just sounds so ridiculous, but I’m telling you, it’s really real. Honest.
Master’s been home now for over a week. Things are getting desperate.
So B-man has no clean jeans and there are no clean towels (Am wouldn’t run out of clothes if I didn’t do laundry for a year I think.) The house is a MESS, the lawn needs mowed, and I’m hovering around Master like a pesky mosquito. I know I need to do these things and they’re pulling at me, nagging little thoughts of OCD-ness… and I’m waiting, just waiting for… something. For Him.
But I made real progress today. I mowed the lawn. And started one load of towels.
I don’t know why He doesn’t just tell me to do it. It would be so simple then. And I suppose that’s the answer right there isn’t it? Lord knows He can’t make it *easy* on me. Bastard..;)
I really hope that this goes away soon. Or do I? Should it go away? I mean, isn’t it a good thing that I want to always be 100% available? And why do I think that I’m *not* 100% available if I’m in the middle of doing dishes? It’s not as if He’d hesitate to pull me away from whatever I’m doing if He wanted/needed something.
I’m afraid He would though.
Isn’t the process of enslavement fascinating? :)
I’m really, really, REALLY enjoying the service end of things right now. Cooking and serving Him, foot rubs, showers, taking His boots off (swoon). Things like that make me a happy little cunt.
We’ve been having some phenomenal sex too. Jesus Christ on a bicycle, He’s been rocking my socks. I was watching Oprah not too long ago and the guest speaker was a doctor who suggested that humans should have sex at least 200 times a year. When I mentioned that to Master, He laughed and said “Now what do we do for the rest of the year??” I don’t know how He maintains His libido, but if I could bottle it, I’d put viagra right out of business.
So yesterday I was under the desk (I’m getting quite familiar with things down there again) and He was doing His thing when He announces, rather nonchalantly, that He’s going to fuck me up the ass.
Now, I don’t think He’s quite aware of what that kind of announcement does to me. Because anal sex, while enjoyable on some occasions, has the very high potential of being very painful and unpleasant. So I start to stress immediately. I *had* been happily diddling away with my clit while He fucked my pussy, but He says “fuck that ass” and everything comes to a screeching halt.
I didn’t say anything at first because sometimes He’s just talking you know? If I’m quiet He might forget He said it maybe. But I can’t stop thinking about it either. But if I *say* something and He had forgotten about it, then by saying it, it’s as good as begging for it. But I was getting dangerously close to orgasming and the very LAST thing I want to do AFTER an orgasm is have butt sex because seriously now, it is no good AFTER the grand finale.
You see the dilemma?!
So He’s busy pumping away at my cunt, without a care in the world, and I have my face pressed into the corner under the desk having an anxiety attack. (In my next life, I want to be the Dom. Srsly.)
I ask. I have to. The suspense is too much and I can’t hold off the orgasm much longer and I just have to know.
“Are You going to?” I whimpered, clenching my scared butthole.
“Going to what?” He said, and see, dammit, He HAD forgotten! But He doesn’t ever allow me to *almost* say something. Once said, I have to finish it.
“To fuck me in the ass.” *le sigh*
“Yup.”
*double-clench*
So He did and the insertion was that burny-ripping-really bad pain that had me squealing and trying to scootch forward through the wall in front of my face. Then He did and said something that brought it all into focus.
As I was trying to tunnel through the wall, He tapped me on the butt, and said “nuh-uh-uh cunt. You push back against Me, I don’t chase you. I know it hurts. Now come on, press back.”
It was no less painful after that, but I did press back as He pressed forward, and I did hold my position as He fucked my ass. Is it Him acknowledging that it hurts and He means to do it anyway that gives me that extra little bit of tolerance? Or is it because He phrases it as a direct order and I’m inclined to obey?
I don’t know. More things that fascinate me.
As usual when He fucks my ass though, the pain starts to feel good, and I come… and the rhythmic pulsing of my ass as I orgasm always pulls His orgasm from Him so we come together.
Which is good because butt sex after my grand finale is NOT good. Not good at all. :)
~cunt
Uncategorized | kaya | Saturday May 19th, 2007 7:13pm | Comments (16)
Uncategorized | kaya | Friday May 18th, 2007 2:11pm | Comments (17)
Electrical tape is stickier than I expected.
Uncategorized | kaya | Thursday May 17th, 2007 11:11pm | Comments (12)
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