That’s it??

I seriously expected something x-rated… or or, at least rated R.

I must be slipping.

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You might be a redneck…

YOU JUST MIGHT BE A REDNECK MASTER…

If the floor of your dungeon is covered with oil slicks and grease stains, you just might be a redneck master.

If your idea of fetish gear is camouflage pants, NASCAR t-shirt, and baseball cap, you just might be a redneck master.

If the only submissive you play with is also your wife, your sister, and your aunt, you just might be a redneck master.

If you need to move carburetors and dead batteries to get at the St. Andrew’s cross, you just might be a redneck master.

If you keep your crops in a rack on the rear window of the cabin of your pick-up truck, you might just be a redneck master.

If your cane doubles as your CB antenna, you just might be a redneck master.

If your submissive sleeps outside in a cage and your hunting dogs share your bed, you just might be a redneck master.

If you repair your leather with duct tape, you might just be a redneck master.

If your idea of a quality leather shop is BillyJoeBob’s Beer and Bait, you just might be a redneck master.

If you have ever had to take down the deer you were dressing in order to restrain your slave, you just might be a redneck master.

YOU JUST MIGHT BE A REDNECK SUB…

If you have ever gone to a play party in curlers and a kerchief, you just might be a redneck sub.

If you count your spankings “1…2…3…the next number…the next number…the next number…”, you just might be a redneck sub.

If your safeword is “cut it out or I’m tellin’ Ma”, you might just be a redneck sub.

If you know what your Master expects from you by the way he belches, you just might be a redneck sub.

If your master tells you to fix him a steak, and you start by loading the shotgun, you just might be a redneck sub.

If fulfilling your master’s every whim means picking up a 12-pack and changing the TV channels for him, you might just be a redneck sub.

If you have ever been bound and gagged in the bed of a rusty pickup you just might be a redneck sub.

If you have ever tried to brighten the dungeon decor with a pair of pink flamingos, you just might be a redneck sub.

If you have ever had to use your safeword in order to spit tobacco juice, you just might be a redneck sub.

If you have ever used nipple clamps in order to remove ticks from master’s huntin’ dogs, you just might be a redneck sub.

(Whored from Master’s gift. :D )

Some of them sound awfully familiar… ;)

We’re out of town for the day, but we’re giving lots and lots of thought to the suggestions coming in. Thank you all so much for giving them. :)

~cunt

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Saturthursday?

I had a task to do on Thursday for Titty day, but I was so far up in “OMG! The sky is falling, I have to get a Jay-Oh-Bee!” that I didn’t do it.

(I’m neurotic. Is that a common theme among slaves? I think I know a few. ;-)

Master toyed around with the idea of it being a punishable offense but I then had to ask what His punishment was going to be? Because though I didn’t do it, I accept full responsibility for that and maybe I do or maybe I don’t deserve a punishment for it, but He also didn’t make me do it while I was vacationing on Anxiety Island either.

He just kinda laughed and said that He’s the Master and He gets a free ride on making mistakes.

I’m thinking He owes me 500 sentences saying “I will not let my slave slide on assigned tasks.” Or perhaps the definition of “leniency” 200 times? Yeah, that’s a good one. Leniency is not my friend. I think I’ve said once or twice or eight thousand times.

Anyway, Saturday is the new Thursday, have you heard? So here you go. Titty Torture SaturThursday.

Pictures Behind Here

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I really like this icon, and it’s a perfect picture title for this entry.

I just don’t like feeling like a burden. Or that my kids are a burden. That’s why I keep circling back to needing a job.

We’re not destitute or starving. It’s not really a matter of needing money Right Now. And Master’s answer to me asking to get a job hasn’t changed. It’s a no.

But I don’t believe Him. I tell myself that He doesn’t have the guts to tell me to get a job. I tell myself that He’s backed Himself into a corner and is now trapped by some inflated sense of responsibility, some unrealistic determination to keep His word when He told me two years ago that I was done working.

I tell myself a lot of things.

I had always been rather stubbornly independent about financially supporting my kids. I wouldn’t take welfare when I easily could have. I wouldn’t force their father to pay child support. I’d always figured that I had them, they were my responsibility. It doesn’t take much to get my hackles up now. A simple eyeroll from Master over Am asking for money to go the movies, or Him exclaiming that school field trips are “too expensive”, and I start down the slippery slope to Burden Land, until I smack up against We’re Draining Him Dry.

I don’t even disagree with what He says about money and He’s not saying anything that any other parent doesn’t say. Kids do nickel and dime you to death. School is a major money-sucker. I’ve made the same complaints myself. He’s not ever even so much as hinted that we(the kids and I) are a “burden” He no longer wants to support.

I’m just very, very sensitive about it. Compounded by guilt. Because, destitute or not, we are a single-income family trying to raise three kids. Money is not falling out of the woodwork here. I feel like I’m making sacrifices on the kid’s behalf simply to maintain my “fantasy-life” of being Master’s housecunt. I feel selfish and irresponsible. I have trouble justifying to myself an “unnecessary” purchase that is specifically for either Master or myself, when I see (think I see) all these “things” that the kid’s need/want.

Master is stuck as well. Trying to balance what it is He wants (keeping me home) against this very real source of anxiety for me (being a burden). So He starts to waffle on it. He’ll say that maybe I should get a job, or maybe I do need to work. And doesn’t that just send me spinning off on another tailspin. Because when He starts to waffle, and agrees that maybe a job is the way to go, it’s only more “proof” that He’s wanted me working this whole time and just wouldn’t say it.

So that should be it right? He’s agreeing, reluctantly, that I can get a job. Easy-peasy, problem solved. Except, no.. that would be too easy. I am anything but easy (except in bed).

The fact is, the very idea of going back out there and working terrifies me to no end. I know that I can and I know that I’ll adjust, and probably fairly quickly. I also know that it’s probably not going to be the traumatic event that I think it will be. But, in the meantime.. absolute, stark terror at the prospect of dealing with… people. Society. I’m rapidly becoming an agoraphobe. I also know that I can’t do the job I’ve always done, at least not in the capacity that I used to. I’m expired and revoked. I’d be on the fringes of that job somewhere, or.. I learn something new. And how’s that for compounding the terror? I can’t even slip back into what my comfort zone of a job would be.

Also, as I contemplate getting a job right now… right now after Master’s *just* come home. Right when I’m, He’s, getting to do what we’ve been waiting a year and half to do? It’s terribly depressing. I’m in my element here. It’s been a dream come true having Him here every day.

I get up in the morning and make His coffee, and breakfast if He wants it. I stand, waiting for Him to finish showering, and I dry Him off. I’m sucking and fucking and bending over for spankings, all before 8 a.m.! I get myself pretty because He comes home for lunch, and it’s just a matter of time before I convince Him that He has time for a quickie at noon. There’s a renewed joy and purpose to serving and cleaning and cooking, all because I know He’s coming home and He’s going to see it and eat it and smile at me and enjoy it. There is nothing that I like more than waiting on Him, hand and foot. All day, all evening, all the way up until He locks me in for the night.

A job threatens all that, changes all of that. Not that I don’t think you can’t work and still be a phenomenal slave… I know many, many of you all do that. But it’s not what He wants. He wants me here in the morning. He wants me here at noon. He wants me here anytime He is here. He wants me here doing the yardwork and the garden (which is looking GREAT, btw), taking care of His dog and giving foot massages or back massages any time He snaps and points. Dropping to my knees for a blow job… or spreading my legs for a fuck. Sleeping when He wants me to, up when He wants me to. I’m on His schedule, not a bosses schedule. He doesn’t have to worry about anyone seeing a mark because no one sees me. He doesn’t have to worry about keeping me up too late, or making plans on a weekend, or zipping off on vacation.

I am exactly where He wants me to be, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. And I LOVE that. I love everything about what we’re doing.

Except for being stuck in a purgatory of guilt.

And that’s how we began kicking around the idea of making money off of what we already do for free. It wouldn’t change anything about us, all it would do is alleviate the anxiety I have over not making a dime. We’re not looking to make a yearly income off of this, and in some respects, I think it’s very egotistical for me to think I’m “good enough” to pay for. I don’t think that… at all. But I also know that other people *are* making some amount of profit.. so why not check in to it? Why not see what can come of it before I go “out there” into the big bad world and upset our entire life?

It’s a lot to think about. The main concern is making sure that what it is that we do remains genuine and for the purpose of *our* mutual pleasure and satisfaction, or for Master’s end goal. It could never become a thing where we think “oh we have to scene because we need to make that money!” And the more I think about doing any sort of films about someone else’s fantasy, the more I think we couldn’t do it. Neither of us are actors, I can’t even get myself into a short skirt and act like a naughty schoolgirl. It feels fake and ridiculous, you know? I tend to approach getting hurt with more seriousness. ;)

Although, what He had in mind was something more along the lines of, if someone wanted to watch me being whipped until I bled, to hear me scream… well, that’s something we do for ourselves anyway. Know what I mean?

So that’s it really. It’s an idea we’re kicking around. There might be some changes here in time, I may have outgrown livejournal. I don’t know. I love livejournal though. But I don’t think Master will ever let the blog itself become a “pay site”. I like it too much the way it is, I like the readers I have.. I don’t want that to change at all. Nor do I think He’s going to stop posting pictures. In fact, I don’t think He’s going to change much of anything on how the journal is right now. Possibly change the url.. and possibly stop posting free video clips. That’s it. :)

~cunt

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Curious

If we could make a video of your s&m fantasy, would you pay for it?

If we charged (small fee, like 5 bucks) for the video clips that we occasionally show, would you pay to watch those?

Otherwise I just might have to get a *real* job. ;)

(Meh. Guess I get a job.)

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Feel the Burn!

Usually, when the dog and I are walking, he’s a step or two ahead of me tugging me along. But today, I was boogying. By the time we got home, the dog was lagging and I was the one doing the tugging.

We did about 3 1/2 miles today at a pretty brisk pace (for me) and it really was feeling good. Right up until the last 1/2 mile when I got lapped by two cute hardbodies in size zero panty-shorts. Having to watch their tiny little butts twitching in front of me had me feeling quite like the waddling toad after that.

But I totally pwned the dog.

(on my wishlist: mp3 player. The dog sucks for conversation.)

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I know I said I was done but.. I lied. ;)

I figured that those last couple of posts would bring the “continuation of abuse” comments. I feel the need to address that.

A year ago I had a different reason for what I thought drove me to s&m and what made me want to be a slave. A year from now, I’ll probably have another theory for the elusive “why” question. They are all just theories. Speculation on what makes me tick. Can anyone else answer the whys? Why are you straight? Why are you gay? Why do you like strawberry ice cream? Why is your favorite color fuchsia? Why do you think feet are sexy?

Anyone can come up with why they *think* they are attracted to certain things or have certain fetishes, but it’s mostly guess-work.

Here are the facts though. Not all abuse victims turn to s&m. Not all masochists were abuse victims. Therefore, one cannot factually conclude that I am a masochist because I was abused. Who’s to say that I wouldn’t be exactly as I am now had I not been abused? It’s something that I will never know. Who’s to say that the reason I was chosen as the abuse victim is because I have a submissive personality? Maybe I was born this way and maybe it’s something that was picked up on by predators. (work with me here sugarplum :D)

And maybe, instead of Master just being a continuation of “abuse”, He’s the very first person to pick up on that submissive trait, and “rescue” me from myself.

Because here’s the thing. If you read one entry here and formed that very illogical conclusion, then you’re an idiot. Intelligent people don’t judge a person’s life and/or relationship from one journal entry.

If you’ve read here for a few entries and came to that conclusion, then you’re still an idiot. AND you need to have your reading comprehension skills tested. Because I’ve been so giddy-happy here lately that even I’m in danger of going into sugar shock.

Unless, of course, happiness somehow equals proof of abuse. In which case, I don’t want to live in your world.

I may be ‘comfortable’ with abuse and it may be something I’m ‘familiar’ with. But here are the key differences between abuse and s&m. S&M consists of consent, enjoyment, trust, respect, control, communication, mutual desire and outcome. Abuse? The exact opposite of every one of those words. Just because it’s a comforting, familiar theme does not make it a continuation of abuse. The intent and the result are completely different.

I do think it’s important when you make any life decision that you examine the reasons why. I believe that I should dig deep inside myself and ask myself these questions. You know another detail of proof that this isn’t abuse? He encourages me to do so. He examines the reasons and theories right along with me. He makes sure, by walking this path with me, that He’s not building on the rotten groundwork that “they” started.

In the end, with all the ugly truths on the table, I’m still just me. Maybe for the aforementioned reasons and maybe in spite of them. I’ll never know. I can tell you this though; years ago when I was being abused, I used to climb into bed at night absolutely terrified of what was coming next. Now I climb into bed and can’t wait to see what’s coming.

It’s like Christmas, every day. :)

~cunt

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Isn’t that icon just terribly vulgar? Suits me, don’tcha think? :)

I had said that with Master home I didn’t think He’d still hold me to the tasks.

I was wrong.

Today is the scrunchy.

Pictures

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Search for the Extreme

I suppose this is a continuation of the ‘Permission to Feel’ post and how the discovery of bdsm affected it all.

I was one damn cold fish in my early adult years. As much as I like to lay the blame for failed relationships on the other guy, I can’t not take some of the blame. I was a robot. Sex, for me back then, was just a continuation of what it had always been. My “goal” was to get it over with, as quietly and quickly as possible, as I had been taught to do my whole life. My ex used to joke (not really joking though) that the only way he could tell I was alive during sex was to listen for my breathing. It was the honest to God truth too. I didn’t move, didn’t participate. One has to wonder if some of my sexual partners who actually managed to orgasm might have been slightly necrophiliac in nature. ;)

More than sex though, I was as robotic in my approach and reaction to everything. I maintained a slightly bored expression all.the.time. I was boring, I pushed people away because I was boring, I liked being boring. The more boring I was, the less people tried to interact with me. The less they tried, the more I could stay safely wrapped up in my cocoon of nothingness.

When I felt things, emotions that were too overwhelming to contain and not show, were when they were extreme. Extreme rage for example. I could ignore and/or hide normal anger and smile and pretend it wasn’t there, unless it was something that sparked extreme rage. And even then, my “show” of shaking hands, red face, and possible raised voice was more emotion than I knew how to deal with. Letting anyone know that I was angry, visibly so, was a failure. Something I was ashamed of.

(Even now, I have trouble with anger. I simply don’t know *how* to express it. I feel it, more than I ever have, which only furthers the frustration of not knowing what to do with it. The only way I know how to express it is in an extreme manner, even if it’s not something that would warrant an extreme reaction. But I’m learning and Master is a most patient teacher. Sometimes. He’s not a saint. ;)

Extreme situations cracked the shell. Even if I didn’t show it, I felt it. It was scary, but intriguing, exciting. I put myself into extreme or dangerous situations because when it was over, I could revel in the emotions. From fear to fun. Having a loaded gun held to your head sparks a very intense emotional response. One that fascinated me more than the possible prospect of being killed did.

Sex actually felt like *something* when it was non-consensual, in the back alley behind the bar, being slapped around by a stranger who thought I was too drunk to report it. Or being face to face with the anger of a man whose cock had just been down my throat, spilling my stomach contents down his lap, was exciting.

I could give a hundred examples where my personal safety was less of a concern than my quest for something I could feel. I’m not only lucky to be alive, I’m exceptionally lucky to be clean.

It was the discovery of bdsm that first made me think that possibly these extreme situations that I craved could be done in a controlled environment. That perhaps I could engage in the pain and the humiliation and *not* be putting my life on the line for it. I didn’t know that people actually did this on purpose. I also didn’t think I could be loved and cared for and *still* be hurt in the way that I need.

BDSM was my door to safety, not the other way around like people like to think. This is how I was taught how to feel in the safest, most loving way that would possibly work for me. Had I not ever discovered this, I have no doubt I’d be one more statistic by now. One more murdered female because I taunted the wrong man into hurting me.

I like to think I was born this way. Born a masochist. I want it to be pure and clean and free of ulterior motives, but most likely it’s not a genetic trait or a crossed wire in my brain. It was created. In the ‘nature or nurture’ debate, I’m far on the nurture side I suspect.

The desire to please Him and the joy I get out of serving is actually a belated and secondary reaction. In the beginning of my bdsm forays, I was all masochist all the time. Serving or being obedient was done only because it humiliated me to be bossed around or to have rules to follow. Or I saw it as a small price to pay to get the treatment I needed. If obeying some stupid silly rules would get me beaten, then bring on the rules. I think that’s why it was so hard for me, after meeting Master, to understand that He wasn’t going to work that way. And why it then became rather difficult for me to be obedient.

Obedience and service, to Him, are separate from the s&m play. It took a long time for me to see it that way. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve completely accomplished that yet. I do still catch myself trying to trade off serving or obeying for beatings and pain. The less I get of the pain, the less I desire to serve.

I’m working on that though. Very hard actually. I know there is a separate sort of pleasure that follows serving and being good. And I’m discovering that I want to do it and I want to please Him for no other reason than that it makes me happy. And that, when the pain does come, it’s not tainted with negativity, which is a whole new realm of feelings.

In that post, Permission to Feel, I said I wasn’t sure if He’d given me permission or I gave myself permission or if this was simply a safe place to do it. My guess would be that it’s all three of those things.

The fact that He will, and does, give me those extreme sessions is what allowed me to open that door with Him. That He pushes me through those times and isn’t disgusted or irritated or show any other negative response is what gives me the confidence to show it, to keep showing it. I don’t have to hide the tears or the sobs. I don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt when it does. I don’t have to feign bravery when I’m scared or act like I like it if I don’t. He’s always right there, solid and consistent and encouraging my responses. That’s HUGE to me. Nobody ever has wanted to see me cry, or cared if I was or wasn’t crying. Nobody has ever coaxed me into screaming profanities and kept pushing and pushing until there were no profanities left, nothing but quiet acceptance. Nobody has ever tilted my head up and looked me in the eyes when I’m emotionally raw and told me I’m beautiful.

Having the security to feel and express those intense emotions led to a crack on the lesser emotions. This is where the permission came in. He’s given it and the safety was there for me to let myself do it.

I don’t think I have any less of a need for those extreme pain sessions or hard mental pushes. I think that’s ingrained into my being. But I can go longer without them and not have a complete mental backslide. It’s been a while since we’ve had one now and I can feel it, a vague itch in my brain. The good thing, the *progress*, is that it’s not affecting my behavior or my approach. I’m still just as content in service and blow jobs. I’m beginning to separate the two.

I want a damn medal. A trophy. Something.

I know that He’s riding the high of success. He deserves it, I was no easy conquest.

Well that was a lot of babbling to get to that simple conclusion! I’m going to close with a you tube video that sums up something I want to say to Master. :)

Lyrics here.

(sure wish I could remember seeing that sexy man in concert..LOL)

I’m pretty sure I have to post some pictures later. Yay for pussy pics!

~cunt

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What can we do?

(This happened several days ago)

I’d been waiting for a LONG time for Master to do something. It was a simple something; to send an email to another Dom concerning the long-awaited phone communication between myself and another slave. I knew better than to nag, because sure as shit the answer would switch to a no. I was(am) currently riding on a yes… (assuming this email conversation is ever settled.) So I’d waited. Patiently. Quietly.

Honestly, I’m very spoiled and very whiney. So having to be quiet about something I want for weeks on end is a serious test of my character. But I was. I might have mentioned it once or twice, because how do I know if He’s forgotten about it if I don’t ask, right??

But He hadn’t forgotten. He’s just mean.

One morning, several weeks into the Long Wait, I was busy doing something or other and He interrupted me to send me off to fetch a cup of coffee. In a spurt of stupidity (or bravery, depending on your outlook) I quipped back that I would run off to get the coffee if He would sit down and send off that email. “Deal?” I asked.

“Do you ever want that email sent off?” He said, with that stupid eyebrow quirk and The Look and everything.

I stomped off to get the coffee, stopped at the door and fired angrily back over my shoulder. “There is no incentive to be good about it anyway!”

I got the coffee, only fuming a little. Carried it back to Him and when I opened the door, He was standing at the end of the bed, Blue Stick of Death in hand, idly tapping it against His thigh.

“Do you need some negative incentive to continue being good?” He asked, holding up the stick.

“No, Sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Sir”

“Turn around.”

I turned, bracing myself for the blinding pain of that stick, but He just laid it down in front of me. Message received Master. Loud and clear.

(I don’t know still what the status is of the email. And I’m not going to ask either.)

Now, today, currently. The weather here is HOT. Fans just ain’t cutting it. When you drip sweat off your nipples just by sweeping the floor, it’s hot. We have an a/c unit, it’s just not installed yet. If I could lift it up and wasn’t afraid it would topple out the window I’d do it myself!

I think Master was thinking I might do just that because before He left this morning, He told me not to try and put in that a/c. So even if I thought I could do it, I can’t!

A little while ago, while sweating over cleaning up from dinner, I very sweetly and generously made Him another offer.

“I’ll suck Your dick if You put the a/c in tonight.”

He laughed. “Let’s see. You’ll suck my dick if I put the a/c in. AND you’ll suck my dick if I don’t put the a/c in.”

Bastard. I want some damn bargaining chips.

“Well… I’ll suck Your dick happily if You put the a/c in.”

That’s all I got.

And He’s not making any move toward the a/c either. Hmmph.

~cunt

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