Under His Hand » 2007

When my parents got divorced, I was around 5 years old. There were six of us, ranging in age from 5 (I was the baby) to 15 (my oldest sister). I was just about to turn 7 when my mom married my step-dad.

My own father pretty much disappeared from my life. To this day I have no idea where he lives or even if he is still alive. Nor do I care. He made his choice.

My step-dad at the time of the marriage was 29 years old. He had custody of three boys, one of which wasn’t even his and another of which he was pretty sure wasn’t his. DNA didn’t matter to him. His ex-wife had walked out on them some time before and he’d simply stepped up to the plate for his boys.

He’d only been home from serving two tours in Vietnam for 5 years or so. He joined the Marines at 19, was sent over as a grunt and a sniper, and was injured twice. The first time was minor and he went back. The second time, he stepped in a booby trap and lost his spleen. They sent him home.

He came home to a cheating wife who walked out on him. With his three rowdy boys in tow, he employed my recently divorced mother as his babysitter. The rest, as they say, is history.

It amazes me when I think back to how it must have been for him. 29 years old, and now the ‘father’ and sole-provider for nine kids. 5 boys and 4 girls. My mom worked now and then, generally part-time jobs for Christmas money, but otherwise she was a stay-at-home mom. My ‘dad’, as I soon began to refer to him, was a welder, a blacksmith, a general handy-man-do-everything at a forging shop.

I know for a fact that money was tight when I was a kid. I know that we went without a lot of luxuries. But I don’t recall ever going without something important. With nine kids and (basically) one income, I don’t know how they kept us in groceries, let alone prom dresses and bicycles and eye glasses. But they did. And now, when I feel the money belt tightening here with just the three kids, I’m in awe of how they did what they did.

My dad was a biker at heart from as far back as I can remember. His dream was to own a Harley. He loved motorcycles, loved the open road, loved the whole leather chaps, long-haired, biker bar aura. Bits and pieces of Harley Davidson “stuff” littered our house. Still does.

All he ever wanted was a Harley of his own. But he wouldn’t buy one until he could afford it. With nine kids, it wasn’t happening. I know that I have never appreciated the sacrifice he made for us kids. He had other bikes, cheaper, lesser-quality motorcycles. He’d don his Harley leather jacket, and hop on his Honda, because a Honda was what he could afford.

Though I know he took a lot of ribbing from his biker friends over his choice in motorcycle make, he didn’t let that stop him from joining in. My parents went on poker runs and long road trips with the groups all the time. They even went to Sturgis. On a Honda. Where the bike was keyed to hell and back. But I think he expected it would be. He simply wanted to go.

He waited until there were but two kids left at home, myself and the youngest brother, probably 13 or 14 years worth of waiting, before figuring he could finally afford that Harley. One that looked a lot like this one.

He loved that bike. He’d stand outside for hours just to admire how it twinkled in the sun. A garage, that we’d never had for any of the cars, appeared out of nowhere, perfectly motorcycle-sized. He shined and polished and washed and wiped and bought all the little accessories that a motorcycle man has to have.

My parents were *always* gone after that. As soon as the weather was nice enough (and even when it wasn’t, because leather is warm enough and they had rainsuits) they were off. Day trips, weekend trips, week- and two week-long vacations across America. They went to DC to see the Vietnam Wall. They went to the coast, they went to the gulf, they went, finally, to Sturgis on a Harley, and if I’m not mistaken, they went on the 50th anniversary of it.

He loved his Harley.

But then my mom hurt her back. She had to have back surgery, she was laid up for a long time. She couldn’t ride anymore. After just a few short years, perhaps 3 years of owning his dream bike, my dad was without a riding partner.

He sold it. My mom didn’t ask him to, and I know that she (as well as all of us) encouraged him to keep it and ride alone, he wouldn’t do it. He said it just wasn’t any fun without his wife along. He sold it without a complaint, and to this day, some 10 years later, he’s never made her feel guilty about it.

I don’t have any idea what it is about my mother that has inspired such total dedication and love from my step-dad. They are about to celebrate their 30th anniversary and they’re just as in love as they’ve always been. My dad is 59, my mom a few years older, and they still go out dancing on the weekend, they still walk around their yard holding hands and admiring the flower beds, my dad brings my mom a bottle of wine every Friday and my mom makes him biscuits and gravy on Sunday morning.

My childhood had it’s horrors but it’s nice to finally be in a place where I can look back at the good things and not let them be colored by the bad. I have an amazing wonderful relationship with Master, my kids have a terrific step-dad, and I sit here and wish everyone could have this. I wish everyone could feel this love and dedication, I wish every child who got a rotten parent the first time around could get one that steps up like Master has. Like my step-dad has.

I don’t think I realized how lucky I was as a child. Not until now, not until I’ve seen it with my own children. Recently, Am asked if she could call Him Dad, and that speaks volumes about how she thinks of Him. And the other night, she asked *Him* to help her pick out a shirt to match the skirt she wanted to wear to school. And He did! I think that might even speak bigger volumes.

Yesterday, B-man wanted to try mowing the lawn. He’s finally tall enough and strong enough to handle the push mower. After watching him struggle with how to turn the corners, Master went out and was helping him, showing him how to tip it and spin it. I can’t explain what that does to me inside, to watch Master put His hands over top of B-man’s and show him how to do something. To teach him.

Anymore I’ve come to the conclusion that genetics and DNA mean nothing. I don’t mourn the loss of my father because someone better stepped in to fill his shoes. I see that happening with my own kids, too. Their father has lost out on some phenomenal children, but that’s okay. Someone else who appreciates them has gained some phenomenal children.

~cunt

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Uncategorized | kaya | 8:24am | Comments (23)

It tastes like chicken!

I saw this picture on cheezburger.com and it reminded me of one little snippet from the other night.

Master hadn’t been feeling well, and, in typical male-flu fashion, He’d not left the bed for very much. He’d figured out the intercom function of the phone and simply paged me upstairs to fetch Him whatever He wanted.

Which was fine, I mean why have a slave if you can’t put it to use, right?

Anyway! Needless to say, He was much, much too ill to bother with taking a shower. So for two, possibly three days(?), He marinated in stink.

He is so going to kill me for posting this…lol

As He was beginning to recover from the mysterious man-flu was when I was at the end of my mental freakout over kink and He decided that He was going to fuck the angst out of me. (That’s not a bad plan of action, by the way, fucking the angst out seems to work fairly well. As does beating it out. I advocate both approaches.)

Naturally, at some point in the brutal fucking I ended up with His cock in my mouth. He was really getting into it, too. Yanking His cock out of my mouth, He shoved my face into His balls and ordered me to lick.

So I did. I licked, without daring to breathe.

He was not summer’s eve fresh. But I think He’d forgotten, in His lustful recovery, that He’d failed to shower for several stinky days in a row. I licked and licked, in tiny kitten-like tongue-tip laps. More like flicking than actual licking.

You know how you try to stop up your nose and breathe through your mouth so that you don’t quite get the full affect of taste and smell? Yeah. I was doing that.

Can you say SMEGMA!? *gag*

Some several minutes into it, He seemed to get a flash of something. Grabbing me by the hair He pulled me away and asked me, with a touch of embarrassment in His voice, “Does it taste bad, cunt?”

It was all I could do to not be a sarcastic mean little bitch about it, and to just nod, with maybe a tiny touch of “here’s your sign” smirking, and to use the opportunity of being lifted up to gulp in some fresh air.

Typically, I would have lied. I would have swallowed (literally) and played nice and assured whoever’s genitals were in my mouth that they tasted wonderful! Being a girl, and having been through enough “Oh my God, do I smell??!” angsty moments during oral sex, I’ve developed some empathy.

Not to mention that being a masochist means that inhaling a little sexy musk is heady, arousing, intoxicating. A LITTLE musk.

But this time, no empathy, no little white lies. I nodded and I said yes and I made a face and I expected my little princess-y kitten tongue to be taken away from the cave of odiferous balls.

He laughed. And then He shoved my face back down, grinding my chin and mouth and nose into His scrotum. “Good. Lick it some more. Lick it all. Nasty fucking cunt.”

I fought it for a few moments longer, trying not to breathe, trying not to really lick. But the combination of His words and His hand tangled in my hair, holding my head so firmly to His body, His hard cock twitching so close to my face, and His laugh, oh God, when He laughs at me when I struggle with something, it sends me right over the edge. I caved, I sank, I embraced being His nasty fucking cunt and breathed Him in.

He had a flavor. And it was bad. And I loved it.

~cunt

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Uncategorized | kaya | Thursday September 20th, 2007 1:41pm | Comments (9)

“Hunger is insolent, and will be fed”

I’m not sure that I’m ready for words with all of this. What I can say is that I’ve done a complete 180. My attitude, my mood, me, everything about me is incredibly entirely different than the last little while.

In the past, when I would use the hunger analogy and proclaim that I need bdsm in my life, it was done more to illustrate the authenticity of my desires. I thought I needed it because I wanted it. I tried to make a deep and genuine want equal the importance of a need.

I don’t want to talk about the depths I was feeling. The despair, the pointlessness, the dark and dreary direction of my thoughts. None of that. What it has done has… scared me. Often I smack up against something, something huge and important, and for a brief while I’m sobered all over again at the realization that this is not a game. There aren’t time-outs or do-overs or take-backs.

I think I know what I’m doing and I think I’m properly attentive of the seriousness of this, and then I realize that it just keeps getting deeper and more serious and that I have to start all over again with being properly attentive of the seriousness of this.

It is not a game. This business of playing God is seriously scary shit.

But what is scaring me right now, in particular, is the 180. The 180 is illustrating to me, to *us*, just how deep-seated the need has become.

And figuring out what that means.

Pictures

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Uncategorized | kaya | Wednesday September 19th, 2007 8:36pm | Comments (12)

(ignore this, kthnxby!)

~cunt

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Uncategorized | kaya | 11:34am | Comments (0)

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Uncategorized | kaya | 11:29am | Comments (0)

Wishful thinking

Do you ever wish you could be ‘un-kinked’?

I do.

I wish I could be just as happy with it or without it. I wish I didn’t need it as much as I do.

I wish that I could lose this deep itch that tickles away in my soul. I wish I could take it or leave it, satisfy myself without it, I wish the choice to not have it carried no more consequence than choosing what topping to put on my ice cream.

Nicotine withdrawal has nothing on this. I’d choose quitting smoking a million times over if I could just lose the pull I have toward pain and degradation. I’m an addict, a common junkie. If s&m were sold on the street corners, I’d be your typical crackwhore, selling my soul for a hit. A literal hit.

I don’t like me when I’m like this. I don’t like who I become when I start jonesing for pain. I’m angry, irritated, on the edge of tears, on the edge of screaming, just plain on the edge. I snap at people, I can’t think straight, I can’t think of anything BUT what it is that I am not getting.

I don’t like this AT ALL. People who don’t know this, who don’t FEEL this, think it’s an over-reaction, like a pouty petulant child who didn’t get to the swings at recess. I wish it was. I wish that the reason I want to get up each day wasn’t so dependent on bdsm. I wish I wanted to get up and function when I know I’m not going to get it. But I don’t. At all.

It’s more than a hobby, so much more. It’s more than a choice or an interest or an exploration. It’s more than a want, more than a twitch in my pants, more than a vague desire. More than a “someday” dream.

I wish it were that easy. I wish it were a choice.

Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t me.

~cunt

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Uncategorized | kaya | Tuesday September 18th, 2007 2:30pm | Comments (29)

Block

I think I have writer’s block. Master is home with a headache so maybe if He starts feeling better, we’ll get up to some debauchery. For now, I got nothing.

We had a good weekend though. Friday night we rented movies and got ice cream. Saturday Master and I spent the entire day driving around to rummage sales. I’m sure it’s the last sales of the year, we’re already dipping down into the 30′s(F). I have such a good time with Him, all day, alone, no kids, talking and joking and just being together. I love Him so much.

We happened on some pretty neat pervy finds too. Master found a very old leather singletail for 5 dollars. It needs to be braided again at the end and have a cracker put on, but shoot, 5 bucks? We can fix it. We also picked up a padded chest that will work wonderfully as a spanking bench with a little modification. A wooden pizza paddle for 50 cents, and a couple of hemostats that, for the life of me, I do not wish to find attached to my pink bits.

Pics

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Uncategorized | kaya | Monday September 17th, 2007 8:00am | Comments (19)