And then He was gone.

For ten days in Florida. :(

I suppose we knew travel was inevitable. You cannot be a Field Service man if you don’t go out into the field. But the amount of travel is highly reduced so I can’t complain (much).

It was pretty last-minute, this trip of His. The powers-that-be had been assuring Him that He wasn’t going anywhere. So Monday morning He finds a travel itinerary for a Tuesday morning flight. When we were getting ready for bed last night, He stood at the foot of the bed looking at me. The phrase “we’ve run out of tomorrows” ran through my head. It must have ran through His too, because He set out to cram 10 days worth of fun and fucking in to one night.

I think He meant for me to feel Him for the next 10 days. My battered pussy just might!

Three times He fucked me, the last one early this morning. I’m not sure that much of anything else drives home the inequality of our sex life like being pulled from a sound sleep and gruffly told to “get under the desk, cunt, NOW.”

I have all of the ‘vanilla’ woman leftovers poking through the sleepy-fog of my brain at times like that. I grumble (silently, mind you) things like “ever hear of foreplay, Mister?” or “I’m not in the mood, I’m SLEEPING, for fuck’s sake!” All while I obediently drag my half-asleep ass out of bed and stumble-walk my way across the room toward the desk.

I can’t even look at Him. Not only am I too bleary-eyed and picking out eye-gunk, but I know He’s standing there, naked and hard, grinning like a damn fool. I can hear His little grunts of approval and feel His arousal. It irritates me. Because I am not aroused and I am not excited and my pussy is already sore from the two poundings He gave me last night and the very last thing I want to do is climb under that desk and be fucked again.

He told me to get my toy (bullet vibe), which really was nice of Him, but I was quite the unappreciative cranky-butt this morning. “I don’t want my toy.” and that one I DID say outloud, though I mumbled it. He, of course, didn’t care about that either and told me to get it anyway and to hurry up about it.

So under I went, and in He went, and it was every bit as painful as I knew it would be. I vibed like He told me to, really just desperately searching for the spot, the one spot on my clit that suddenly makes whatever is hurting feel good. But it was well and truly hidden. His cock continued on, relentless. As I was down there, biting my own arm to keep myself quiet like He prefers, I decided His cock was covered in sandpaper and I was being abraded from the inside out!

You know once you get that mental picture in your head, it seems to manifest itself. The more I kept imagining being fucked by a roll of sandpaper, the more it felt exactly like that. I may very well feel this one for ten days at least.

I know that He knew that I wasn’t into it. I know that no matter how quiet I am, I have to be exuding reluctance and irritation and just general, leave-me-alone-ness. I’m not going to say that He particularly enjoys me when I feel that way, but neither does it ever stop Him from going about His business with me. I don’t guess I really understand that. I know if it was me and I even suspected that the person I was fucking didn’t want to be fucked? I’d be all out of horny quicker than shit.

But as usual, some several hours later and I’m riding the “high”, secure in my place in things and glad that He can ignore what I’m feeling in the moment and give me what it is I really need for long-term completeness. I am sore (understatement of the year) but it’s serving it’s purpose. I’ve thought of Him and His cock and being ordered under the desk every time I’ve peed, every time I’ve sat down, every time I’ve crossed my legs. I’m very *aware* of my cunt. HIS cunt.

I think His favorite thing, ever, to say to me when He comes at me with His cock in His hand is “I’m going to fuck you raw, cunt.” I know so many of you out there are going to nod along with me when I say this; how wonderfully-horrible does it feel to force yourself to stay in position, to keep your legs spread wide and your pussy (or ass) cocked right up there for them to just pound at over and over and over, for, God.. forever. Knowing why you are doing it and exactly who you are doing it for, and fighting every self-preservation instinct you have to pull away, to block, to curl up in a tiny ball as far away from that cock as you can possibly get. To ignore that screaming voice in your head in favor of the calmer, quieter one as He pummels your insides to mush. How incredible is that?

When it’s over, of course. ;)

Oh pictures. Right. The man wants His pictures posted.

Pictures back here

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I’m not addicted to El-Jay! Who said that!??!

When you have dreams about negative comments and then dream-compose an awesome reply, it’s time to step away from LJ.

But in case this was a premonition and not just random images firing in my head while I slumbered, “Hater in Alaska”, I’m ready for ya!

Bring it.

;)

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Update-ness

I know there are a lot of unanswered comments on the bathroom post, but that’s a good thing really. There are SO many things in them that are making sense that I need time to process it. Thank you all for your input, it’s been extremely helpful. (especially all of those “suggestions” for Master. Gosh, what would I do without friends like y’all?)

I’ve really been quite crappy lately with replying to comments in general. It’s the same old story though. Time and How I Don’t Have Enough. I feel like I have to explain that every now and then because I know new people come along and probably wonder why the stuck up bitch that is me doesn’t reply to comments. It’s not that I don’t want to… I usually can’t. Given the choice between having enough time to post and read what you all are up to, or comment and reply, I choose to read and post.

There’s been several new adds to the friend list and I always like that. Kinda balances out those who find me too abrasive and leave. ;) I should almost come with a warning. KAYA: “Mouthy and opinionated! Lots-o-cursing! If you have “delicate senses”, don’t read any farther!”

Sometimes you have to be a high-riding bitch to survive. Sometimes being a bitch is all a woman has to hold onto.

;-)

We took the kids to see the Harry Potter movie a few weeks ago. I guess you pretty much have to be a Harry Potter fan to have liked the movie. Or at least have read the book, because I was lost (and bored) through most of it. B-man liked it, and the girls think Harry is cute so it was a hit with them anyway.

I’m not in the HP-mania crowd. Am started reading the books when she in about 5th grade (she’s a freshman now) and as she finished a book, I would read it. We both read the first two, and half of the third before having had enough. Even Am hasn’t read the other books and she loves to read. I mean it’s an okay fantasy book, but… well I’ll just stop at ‘but’. I think you either love Harry Potter or you don’t. I don’t. ‘Nuff said.

We also watched Knocked Up. I thought the movie was hilarious, though it’s definitely not for kids. It’s very sexually graphic. Master and I took Jes while the other two were at grandma’s. But it is funny.

Jes and I went to see Hairspray too. I LOVED it. John Travolta in the role of the mother was just too funny. I’m not usually one for musicals but this one was really good. I laughed, I cried. Good show.

Anyway. It’s been a quiet weekend here which is nice now and then. Next weekend we are going to Six Flags so we elected not to do a damn thing this weekend.

I also haven’t been in the cupboard. Yes, that’s a sore spot.

Master’s going to dismantle the weight machine because nobody ever uses it and it’s just sucking up space. There are several pieces on it that can be perverted in some way. He’s trying to figure out how to make a spanking bench with the padded seat and back rest. Plus, there’s a bar that’s almost a perfect replica of the Secretary-style neck/wrist shackle thing. The pulleys and cable can be used somehow and there is a little piece that will work wonderfully as a bit gag.

Now to just get the time and energy to use it all.

And since I’m complaining, a long time ago He tore apart the wooden pony because He’d decided to make a better one. I’m still waiting. You know what works really well for a wooden pony? A wooden sawhorse from Menards. It’s cheap, easy to modify and painful. [flashing red neon lights] *HINT HINT HINT* [/flashing red neon lights]

Sometimes being subtle doesn’t work, yanno?

To balance out my complaints I’ll post this stuff. Master wrapped me up in the horse bandage stuff. I was surprised at how HOT I got. I was dripping sweat before He’d even finished wrapping. I also found out that I’m bigger than 4 rolls worth. (maybe He shouldn’t tear down that weight machine after all??) Wiggle was possible, but not a whole lot of wiggle. It’s pretty restrictive. I also wasn’t dyed pink, at least not this time around. Maybe if He’d have left me in it for a longer period I would have been though. I could see spots of pink stain here and there.

Pictures and More back here

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Holy Deepthroat Batman!

I have GOT to learn how she does that. SO impressed!

(whored from the oh-so-delectable folk at Atlanta Bondage)

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Curiouser and Curiouser

I’ve decided that I don’t understand why a lot of Doms are drawn to the whole ‘permission to use the bathroom’ thing. So I’m tossing the questions out to all of you.

This was listed as one of my struggles. My struggle isn’t so much in obeying it, but more in understanding it. I know I know, I don’t HAVE to understand it, I just have to do it, but my middle name is Why, dontcha know. Yep. Kaya Why Jones. That’s me.

Cause, see, if I don’t understand it, I have trouble prioritizing it. So while I ask properly (may I go to the bathroom, please Sir?) when He’s next to me and the kids are out of earshot, I run into issue with it when He’s out of the room and I have to either wait for Him to come back or run around finding Him or the kids are listening. I could be in and out and have my hands washed in the time it takes to track Him down, wait to get His attention, wait for an answer, yanno? I’ve tried that, and gotten busted mid-pee before. That’s an icky tummy-sinking feeling, hearing His footsteps walking up to the bathroom door and that low, dark, mean “what are you doing?” sliding under the door. *shudder* So.. I find Him and ask and… resent it. Because I don’t know WHY.

He says it’s for power and control. Well, maybe I would buy that if it was something He ever denied me, because denial of a need indicates power and control, but He never denies me. At least not for more than a minute.

He also says it humbles me to have to ask. Okay, that it does. Especially when it’s a matter of having to indicate which function I’m about to perform in the bathroom. Though I’m becoming pretty used to it, less humiliated by having to announce that I have to poop.

So that leaves the convenient stand-by of “because I can, cunt”. Grr. I hate that answer.

Thoughts?
Answers?
Is it as common as I seem to think it is?
Is it one of your rules?
Does S/He know *why* it’s in place?
Do *you* know why it’s in place?
Does anybody but me care why it’s in place?

~cunt

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One Night In Bangkok.

No.. not Bangkok. One night in the cupboard. Three nights ago? I think.

This is transcribed from a notebook He let me take into the cupboard with me for my first ever overnight. I scribbled little bits of thoughts in between naps and uncomfortable flip-flops.

~~*~~

I asked if I could bring a notebook, pen and light in with me once I realized that He really meant it when He said He wasn’t going to let me out. I feel less alone when I have a notebook, like I have someone to share my fear with.

It has to be morning. Good lord. I’ve been in here for a thousand years at least.

~~*~~

He pulled me out at about 5am, cock in hand and ready to fuck. Having been rode hard and put away wet, literally(!), I was sore and cramped and in some funky-ass headspace that *really* turned Him on. Then He let me pee, finally!, tucked me into bed with Him and we slept another hour before He had to get up for work.

I think I’m going back in the cupboard tonight. Probably without the notebook and flashlight though. I couldn’t believe how distracting that was. Crazy.

Anyway, have a great weekend!

~cunt

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Freaky Friday

I did not want to do this task. I actively resisted, begged and pleaded to not do this task. I couldn’t figure out *why* He wanted me to do this silly, stupid thing.

But. It’s oddly comforting. Centering. It puts things into perspective and maybe.. I’m really not that hopeless. Looking at it I’m struck with how simple they are, like.. huh. that’s it??

My current struggles.

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“The foolish man seeks happiness in the distance; the wise grows it under his feet.” James Oppenheim

OR

‘Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm.’ -Abraham Lincoln

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One True Way-ism

I think most everyone agrees that it’s a bad thing when we (we as in bdsm types) try and “force” our way of doing this on others. When we present our way as the only way or the best way or the right way. It’s bad, naughty, tsk tsk and shame on you. There is no one true way.

Agreed? Good.

So why is it that we, as submissives or slaves, think that we should *be* submissive in the same manner? There’s been a common thread among several people I read, as well as myself, about gracious slavery, about waiting patiently, etc. About what sort of behavior is becoming of a slave, most especially when it comes to accepting that the Dom is busy/not in the mood/preoccupied.

I can’t tell you how many times I have declared that I am going to stop making demands on Master, that I’m going to stop whining and protesting and asking and begging. I’m going to sit in my metaphorical corner with a smile plastered on my face and BE HAPPY until He wants/needs me.

Because that’s what a slave does, right? Slaves aren’t bossy or pushy or needy. They don’t poke the beast or press for a scene. They don’t ask for attention. I can think of one person in particular who thinks slavery, GOOD slavery, *is* all about waiting. Waiting for one measly scrap of attention, however small it may be. And expressing a want for more would probably end the relationship.

Well, I just go round and round with this. Constantly. I vow to be better and then fail. Over and over again. Why is that I wonder?

Maybe because that one aspect of “one true way-ism” does not fit me? Perhaps?

In a comment to morningstar I said “would you continue to work if you didn’t get paid?” So, would you?

If your boss neglected to hand you a paycheck at the end of a hard work week, would you handle that graciously? Would you be demure and smile and say “oh, thats okay. I’m sure you are busy. No problem.”?

Maybe… for one pay period. I could see myself, when I was working, possibly giving the boss one chance. I would probably even work another week on the premise that I would then get two paychecks the next time around.

If he did it again? If he said, “Look, I’m too busy to write you a check so stop whining, get back to work, and you’ll get it when I get around to it.” Well.. I think that would be the end of our employer/employee relationship. I don’t think too many people would continue working without some sort of retribution.

So, okay. A Master/slave relationship is not the same as an employer/employee. And maybe I’m cheapening the whole spiritual M/s thang with that analogy. But, regardless, the point is the same. What I do in my endeavor to be His perfect slave (His, not anybody else’s) is work. It’s *hard* work. He is not an easy man. I don’t exist in an illusion of slavery, where we just put on the title. I work in His house and in His yard and in His bed. I sweat and my muscles ache and I suffer (sweetly sometimes. ;) in order to earn the title He gives me.

I do expect to get some sort of paycheck for that.

It’s an insult to some people that we use the slave word at all. It’s disrespectful to the history of real slavery in their minds. I totally understand that outlook. Without getting into another terminology war, there are vast and huge differences between the real slaves in the history books (or still out there presently) and us consensual bdsm slaves. One of those differences being that we do this, we *choose* to do this for a reason.

Real slaves had/have no choice and did not have the luxury of expecting a reward for their service. But I am not a real slave. I did not come out of some history book, I wasn’t kidnapped off the street and sold into service by strangers. I freely and with all of my mental facilities intact (shush peanut gallery), entered into this to fulfill an undeniable need I have.

So I do my part with the understanding that He is going to do His.

Maybe, for some bdsm slaves, it is the epitome of their service to wait two years for the attention they deserve. Just as it may be the epitome of another’s service to perform nightly blow jobs or keep a spic-n-span house or can a years worth of groceries. Just as nobody can say that how you do it is *wrong*, neither should I have to accept that my expectation of getting my “paycheck” is wrong. It is not wrong, it is me, it is how I am wired and I am done being ashamed of acknowledging that piece of me.

I can (and do and have and will again) wait for fairly long (to me) periods of time to ‘get paid’. Longer than I would like, longer than I’d wait for anything else I want, because this is life and He is human, as am I. Some things can’t be controlled and some things interfere and I accept that. I also accept that I don’t get to stand in front of Him with my hands on my hips and demand that *He* service *me* or that He fulfill His end of the bargain.

As long as He accepts that I am not a robot and when it’s been a long time in between paychecks, I’m going to start running low on funds. I can budget well and make a dollar stretch, but only so thin. The well is dry, I’m tapped out, the account is empty.

Do not expect to go on a shopping spree if you aren’t making deposits, you know?

The work involved in slavery is not, should not be, one-sided. It should not be only me that sacrifices or only me that scrapes the bottom of the barrel to give when I feel I have nothing left. It should not only be me that has to continue earning when I’m “not in the mood”. Because this is not 1850 and I do not live on a southern plantation, I get to have my needs met.

How do we balance that and still keep the truth of Him being in control, Him deciding the where and when? Well, we’re learning that. To me, it’s a simple solution. Step up the s&m. Give me a raise, pay me each week and tip me often. ;)

It really isn’t that simple, though I wish it were. I mean it IS that simple, as Lisa always says “just add more leather” and it really does seem to cut the world’s problems in half (at least MY world).

Here is what we know, what we’ve learned as we travel this rocky road to wealth. I operate at my highest, most wonderful personal best with a full and frequently filled tank-o-pain. He knows this. He also operates at His personal best with a happy fucktoy at His feet and a sated cock in His pants and an obedient girl doing His bidding. We can meet each other’s needs, easily and happily, with a little work.

I cannot demand a scene or act up to get a scene. It “taints the money”, if you will. He also cannot frequently choose not to scene when the opportunity is there. To do it at His fancy, yes. But if His fancy, more often than not, is to choose to do nothing, then perhaps He’s in the wrong lifestyle or at the very least, with the wrong slave. When His choice is to do nothing, it leads me straight down the road of resentment and angry questions. Why is He with me? What am I doing wrong? Is He a sadist or not? etc etc, as I’m sure you’ve seen here.

So, in summary:

Forced and manipulated Master = no good.
Angry and resentful slave = no good.

Frequently beaten slave joyfully sucking Master’s cock = very good.

See? Simple.

All of us go into this with our own ideas on what makes it real or what makes it work. Part of what makes me work is topping off the ol’ masochist cup. I can’t help that. And I can’t graciously sit by indefinitely waiting either. I am what I am. If having those needs and admitting those needs excludes me from fitting the bdsm definition for slave, I’m fine with that too.

All the cool kids are rejecting labels anyway. ;)

~cunt

ps. Picture post coming soon. Do not send it to the printer! *snicker*

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I

I give sloppy blow jobs. There is no resemblance to the demure, shy persona I (think I) carry around me when I am not sucking dick. There is no pinky held daintily aloft when I grab a meaty handful of penis.

I forget all I ever learned from my Miss Manners primer once in front of His cock. My eyes will gleam with greed. I will lick my lips, a big ol’ roundhouse slobbering slurp of lip-licking. I will not always wait to be invited before my twitchy fingers lurch forward. I will not offer to share, nor will I let a guest go first. There is not enough for everybody, it is mine and only mine and you cannot have any.

I don’t ask before touching. It will not be clean. I won’t be nice. I do not respect it and I will ignore anything and everything around me. I will call it names, mean and dirty names, names that would make my mother blush. I will bully the bastard into giving me exactly what I want and I will not say please or thank you for doing it. And I will gloat and brag and show off the results of my efforts.

Silence is not golden when I am sucking dick. I will slurp and suck, and I may even gargle. I will gag; loud, ugly retching gasps that assault your ears. I will lap noisily with my tongue hanging out, leaving wet swirls of spit behind. I will pant and heave, I may even snort, in desperate attempts to yank in oxygen. My eyes will water and there will be sniffles and snuffles as the tears cause my nose to run.

I will not care that snot begins to mix with my spit. It’s extra lube, lube I’ll need to force the large head of His cock through the restrictive hole of my throat. A process that forces my neck to tilt, so stiff and thick is He. My eyes will bug and my breath will halt and given the opportunity, I’ll push Him out with a coughing-gag that will probably make me pee a little in my lap and leave a trace of vomit along the length of Him.

And I’ll lick that up, too.

I will drool and leak, my open mouth becoming an unimpeded river of spit. It will bubble and splash out of the corners of my mouth, streaming down His cock to help my accompanying fist glide smoothly up and down. Up and down to meet my mouth with an audible smack of flesh against flesh, beating myself, fist to mouth, as I beat Him off.

Spit will puddle and fall, dripping over my hand to coat His balls in a slick layer. It will run down my chin, run down my arm, drip to the floor. If He’s standing, it will flow down my chest and stomach to pool in my lap. If He’s sitting, it’ll collect in the creases of His legs and slide under His ass. I will become a super-saliva-producer, it will be wet, and it will be slushy.

I’ll go after the end prize with the same determination as a late-inning relief pitcher. Bobbing my head faster than is ever possible when I’m not sucking dick. Ignoring the cramp that digs deep into my jaw until it’s suddenly so hard that I bounce up and off, clenching and unclenching my teeth in a quick attempt to work it loose before slamming back down, open-mouthed and balls-deep.

I’ll keep my lips curled protectively over the jagged edges of my teeth at the expense of probably losing a layer or two of delicate lip-skin. I’ll feel my teeth digging painfully into the pink insides of my lips, leaving deep tooth-shaped indents, some will cut, some will bleed. My lips will swell with the repeated assault of stiff cock sliding back and forth, back and forth, creating a friction that will leave them numb, tingly, and puffy for hours afterward.

I will greedily gobble down on it when I feel that first jerk, hear that first moan, the signals of impending orgasm. I will seek to feel the squirt against my tongue or my throat or the inside of my cheek. It makes me grin in greedy pleasure. Slurping reaches a new level of grotesque noise when I feel a lost trickle sneaking out of the numbed corner of my mouth.

The hard stretch of my mouth into an “O” big enough to encircle His cock for the minutes and hours He can hold out will give me the beautiful condition jokingly known as “blow job mouth”. The skin surrounding my mouth will crack and peel and flake. My mouth will be ringed with a bright red irritated circle. It is not pretty, not from beginning to end.

I give sloppy blow jobs.

But I will be mannerly and not spill a drop. I will be ladylike and not spit. I will, daintily and with polite pleasure, clean up my mess. I will return it to Him in almost the same shape and put it back right where I found it. I will smile and properly thank Him for allowing me to get down and dirty with His belongings. I will ask if we can please play again.

Like tonight perhaps. ;)

~cunt

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