Is it a curse or a blessing?

We were having sex last night (again). I was under the desk (again).

And it just was. not. working.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be there. I did. I had my vibrator in hand and was all gung-ho horny and wanting to get it on. I’m okay with being under there now, so it wasn’t that at all.

But whatever cosmic energies that we’d pissed off yesterday were conspiring against us and it simply wasn’t going right. Positions were off and angles weren’t right and tempers started to flare. Well, HIS did anyway. I held mine in check. Sort of.

He started with His usual gentle tap on my hip, one thats supposed to alert me that I’m beginning to slide out of position. Except, I wasn’t. I swear to GOD, I was not moving. And if I don’t think I’m moving I don’t exactly know how to correct myself, you know?

So I ignored Him. (probably not the most brilliant move on my part.)

Those “gentle taps” soon progressed to harder jabs and exasperated sighs and Him snatching my leg and repositioning it here, then moving it there, and all the while I said nothing, did nothing, merely tried to hold myself in whatever new position He arranged me in, and each time His cock would slip out, He’d start all over again with the jabbing and the sighing and the repositioning until, finally, He barks at me “You’re pulling away from me, cunt!” and I protest, still quietly and demurely, that I’m not, I promise I’m not moving, Master, honest injun, I’m not.

So He thrusts into me rather hard, which of course sends me forward a tiny tad and He “ah-ha’s!” and points that out as proof that I am so moving and that I better just knock it off.

~le sigh~ Yes Master. Of course.

I’m still holding my temper, really only mildly frustrated, because I was still vibing and still concentrating on getting myself off and not really incredibly concerned that He was having trouble finding His rhythm. It’s not like He was mad at me, as that would have changed things… He was just irritated that things weren’t lining up right.

Eventually I pipe up from my tiny muffled space and meekly offer that perhaps the problem is that I wasn’t under there deep enough. I pointed out that I couldn’t reach the wall behind the desk, which is generally how I brace myself, with one palm pressed hard against the wall and without that support I was maybe, perhaps, flopping around more than usual.

He scoots me in farther. TOO far, of course. But my moment of offering suggestions was over by then. So instead of not being able to reach the wall, I’m pressed so far into it that I can’t even lift my head without banging it into the back of the desk. A panel of wood that ends at the most inconvenient height, just enough room to smoosh my head between it and the floor. Oh yippee.

At this point I’m beginning to feel the first pangs of irritation myself. I mean, for fuck’s sake here, I’m *trying* to have an orgasm and this new position has made reaching my cunt a tad difficult.

I started shifting, slowly, stealthily (or so I thought), trying to maneuver some room between my body and the floor so I can get my hand tucked back against my clit, when all of a sudden, He slams into me, honestly trying to nail me to the floor with His dick I think, and sends my now unbalanced body (because my hand was tucked underneath me by then) flying forward where the back of my neck, still cruelly bent and stuck between the floor and the back of the desk, bangs up hard on the edge of the fucking wood panel.

So much for holding my temper. I cursed, something along the lines of “jesus fucking christ!”, threw the vibrator away from me and smacked both palms against the wall… and pouted.

He did apologize for making me hit my head (didn’t know it had been my neck, which is now bruised and sore!), but He didn’t stop fucking me. And what do you know? With both hands bracing me I stopped moving around. Positions lined up and the cosmic energies cooperated and pretty soon He was happily in rhythm and all was right with the world. HIS world anyway.

I was still pouting. I mean what the hell. Is it so much to ask to get a *little* cooperation so that I can have an orgasm too? Jebus! I was really offended, too. And just… mad. He picks up on that, maybe the steam coming out of my ears was a dead giveaway, but He likes that shit you know? He taunts me with it.

“Are you mad now, cunt?” He says, in that somewhat challenging I-dare-you-to-blow-up, sing-songy voice that is like fingernails down a chalkboard.

Yes! Yes, you selfish mean old Bastard!

But I keep my voice even. Even and controlled, while gritting my teeth.

“No.”

“No…. what?” again with the taunting.

No FUCKER.

“No Sir.” man, I was boring some damn holes in the wall, lemme tell ya.

“Good thing.” He says, bucking up into me.

Oh.. grr.

And that’s how the conversation went for quite some time. He made little quips about how good it felt and I’d think mean things about Him.

“God damn you feel good, cunt.”

At least one of us thinks so. Fucker.

“I love fucking you like this.”

Wish I could say the same! Fucker.

“It feels too good to let it end.”

Not from my side! Any time now! Fucker.

Until finally the absurdity of it all was just too funny. Every time He’d make some groan of pleasure I’d mentally tell Him off. It was freakin’ hilarious and I started giggling to myself down there.

He treats me like a fucktoy sometimes… with no real concern over my comfort or pleasure, which figures right into how you’d treat a blow up doll. I mean, does any owner of a blow up doll ever worry about what the doll wants or what the doll thinks? Of course not! That’s stupid. I beg and plead to be treated like an object, to be treated like a nothing, nobody, fuckdoll whore… and then get all pissy when He does.

Which is funny. To me. It’s funny that I’m tucked up into this cramped space getting my brains fucked out (literally!) and I’m pouting because I can’t reach my vibrator. And what’s even more funny is that He’s completely oblivious to it all. He’s just doing His thing, feeling good, riding the edge of orgasm, while I’m mentally givng Him what for.

Because I’m an object, there for His pleasure. He’s not there for mine! Why the hell do I forget that on a consistent basis?? It’s crazy.

But at least I see the humor in my craziness. Good thing He does too.

I did finally come too, right with Him. Because once I get off my high “what about ME?” horse and relish in being His objectified fuckdoll whore, it makes me come.

Oh yes, I AM a masochist. I knew I was! It seems I forget that part once I get a vibrator in my hand.

And then He caned me. For “being good”. I failed to see His logic on the reward system there. After sex, after all hope of coming is finished?? That’s not a damn reward! Cripes, it hurt!

I slept good though. Today is fanfuckingtastic day so far. Damn Him for knowing what I need all the freaking time!

Masochism. Curse or blessing? Fuck if I know.

~cunt

ps. Master’s starting a new thing. A daily picture of some sort.

Act of Service

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When things get tough…

.. the tough get busy. Busy spanking, that is.

Frank and Lisa have a theory that goes “just add leather”. That adding more s&m rights the wrongs and fixes what’s broken and oils the ol’ M/s gears.

It’s probably not a method that would work for everyone. But for quite a few of us it works like a charm. Like a healthy dose of bitter medicine, it’s perhaps not wanted, merely necessary.

Beating the Devil out of me (our version of ‘just add leather’) is Master’s preferred way of dealing with the demons that invade my normally docile headspace. Maybe He figures the flood of endorphins in my brain will drown the little bastards.

Whatever the mechanics of it, it works. That’s all I know. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted. It wasn’t the erotic, la-la land vacation that I like when it comes to long paddlings… but it was what I needed.

At the end I was suddenly exhausted. Like ‘can’t keep my eyes open’ exhausted. So He simply put me in bed, chained me up, and kissed me good night. I slept like a baby.

Today is a much better day. All demons are banished ’til another time.

Pictures… and a preview

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Humble

It seems impossible for me to keep something short and simple and to the point. Because in order for me to say “it started while I was lying in bed wide awake last night”, I feel like I have to go back and explain *why* I was lying in bed wide awake even if it has no real bearing on the outcome. So perhaps you’ll want to skip to the ending.

Really, it started on Saturday morning, with Master standing in the middle of the living room demanding to know where the remote had disappeared to. Even after all this time Master still has so many years of bachelorhood under His belt that He continues to expect things to be in the exact spot that it was last placed.

But I know better. Because I’m a mother. So I immediately started searching through the couch cushions. Unfortunately, all I found in there were slightly moist crumbs. (And why are they always moist? Is it butt sweat? *gag*) The next logical place after couch cushions is under the couch.. followed by the bathroom, the freezer, and then the kid’s bedroom. It is a finely tuned system that also works well for car keys, cordless telephones and pets.

Since I was already standing at the end of the couch, I said to Him to peek under the couch when I lifted it up. His response was that no, HE would lift it. But not only was I already bent over and grabbing the couch, His comment promptly made me feel like I was 10 years old again, on the playground, singing “anything boys can do, girls can do better!” and I yanked the end of the couch up before He could say any more. My display of Herculean strength allowed Him to snatch the remote (yay!) before I let the couch fall. And then pretended that I hadn’t just pulled a muscle in my back. *sigh*

It actually wasn’t too bad then. I finished my chores, even mowed the lawn.. but by late afternoon I could tell that if I didn’t stop, what was a minor “injury” would become much worse. So I hit the couch, after hearing many comments of “I told you so, cunt”.. which is how it came to be that I had nine hours to watch LOTR.

Sunday was worse than Saturday, and other than cooking, I didn’t leave the couch all day. And THAT’S how it ended up that last night, I was lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Typically I’m so dog-tired by bedtime that I’m asleep practically before I’m chained in, but having done nothing to make me tired for the entire day, sleep was elusive.

So I lay there, all wrapped up in chain, while Master softly snored beside me.. and I felt very small and very sad for some reason. Not in a bad way or a pitiful way. I was also quite secure and comfortable, with brief thoughts of wishing that I could get up, wanting to go do something other than lie in bed wide awake, but it wasn’t a pressing desire, more a fleeting thought of “if I wasn’t a slave, I could be doing this, this, and this right now. But I am a slave and so I can’t.”

He’d left the TV on anyway, so I wasn’t entirely bored to death, even though the sound was very low and I could barely see it from where I sleep. The TV in the bedroom is positioned to be comfortably viewed by Him, not by me, but it still provided me with some entertainment.

As I was watching, there was something, a commercial or some blip, that showed a man doing sign language, and it reminded me of a time, years ago, my very early teen years, when I was mapping out my future and one of my strong interests was in sign language. A possible career path that I considered was either teaching or interpreting sign language. Along with many other things.. nursing, writing, social work, psychiatry. Just those things that children verging on adulthood begin to think about.

And I was suddenly very pensively thinking about all of those things that I would never do. All of those early idealistic goals that are gone, erased now, because my path is pre-set and pre-determined by someone other than me.

I’ve spent a lot of time accepting the things that I will miss when the isolation, the concept of ‘cunt in a cage’, finally becomes more complete. I know the things that I will miss of the world.

But I had not ever thought of what the world may miss of me. I hadn’t considered, really, what it is that I may have accomplished or may have had to offer, even in a tiny, insignificant way, to the world.

Perhaps that sounds very egotistical. I know that much more important people than myself die every day, and yet the world continues to spin without so much as a moment’s notice. Except to those close to them. So I understand that I will, mostly, wink out of existence and not very many will notice, nor will it have any impact on anything.

But for just a moment last night – and possibly for the first time – I had a pang of regret. Of wishing that I had accomplished something more, something significant, before being placed on this particular path.

Maybe I’m finally understanding the full implications of making Him the center of my world. That in order to accomplish that… I will be the center of no one’s.

That makes me feel very small indeed.

~cunt

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EMO 101

Okay, so this is kind of mean.. kind of snarky. Fits right up my alley don’t it?! :D Bonus points if you can guess who the author is. ;-)

Rule #1. Your hair MUST be dyed black.
Rule #2. NEVER wash your hair.
Rule #3. Wear skulls and safety pins.
Rule #4. Black everything.
Rule #5. Your hair must go over one eye. This might mean sacrificing the vision of that eye.
Rule #6. Huddle in corners as often as possible.
Rule #7. Converse converse converse. No other shoe is allowed.
Rule #8. Whine about how horrible your life is to everyone around you.
Rule #9. Cut for the attention.
Rule #10. Write stupid love poems about death and loneliness.
Rule #11. Post them so everyone can read them.
Rule #12. Cry. A LOT.
Rule #13. Carve your boyfriend’s/girlfriend’s name into your arm. It’s romantic.
Rule #14. Black rimmed glasses, even if you don’t need glasses.
Rule #15. Remember, bright colors are the enemy. If you have any bright colors, burn them.
Rule #16. DON’T smile.
Rule #17. Don’t go in the sun. PALE is good.
Rule #18. Happiness. Is. Forbidden.
Rule #19. The dirtier you look, the more depressed you seem.
Rule #20. If you lose all your friends, good, you’re officially emo.
Rule #21. Last but not least, kill yourself by the time you’re sixteen or forever be just an emo poser.

Honestly, I don’t know where she gets it. *snicker*

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Hi! – From the webslut

So, as ya’ll probably know by now, kaya’s making a move. And I’ve got the wheel. *grins wickedly*

I haven’t even begun the designing yet, so things are kinda ugly around here. I’ll be working on that, though, so don’t yell too loudly if things look totally out of whack. If you happen across an error of some sort while you’re surfing, email me at webslut@underhishand.com and I’ll see what I can do.

I HAVE managed to get her Livejournal entries imported but, sadly, the comments didn’t make it.

WordPress has RSS2 enabled so those of you who use readers, you can add her feed with through http://underhishand.com/?feed=rss2.

If you’d like to know more about readers, Wiki has information (including links to different programs/sites) here. (They even come in handy for pulling from LJ users.)

I think that’s it for now.

Enjoy!

~ dara

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LOTR = WTF?

So I finally got around to watching the Lord of the Rings movies yesterday. I’m only, what, 5 years behind schedule?

The movies were great… but the ending sucked ass. WTF. Where did they go? How can I have spent nine hours watching a story and not get the ending? Dude. That pisses me off.

Bah.

One of these days I’ll have to sit down and watch those Star Wars movies. You hear about those? Another 5 years and maybe I’ll have time. ;-)

~cunt

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Erogenous Zones

Aside from the more obvious erogenous zones (genitals, etc.) where are yours?

I have two big ones. The soles of my feet and the palms of my hands. If they’re stroked with a smooth, feather-light touch, I’m immediately aroused. It’s a direct line to my crotch. It’s got to be the perfect touch though.. not a tickle, and not pressing too hard, or the effect is vastly different. But a light stroke of a fingertip drives me wild.

Master tends to do it too hard, more like a massaging action. Which is still nice.. but not that erotic, eye-rolling effect. Not surprisingly, the fact that I don’t get that perfect touch very often makes it all the more alluring.

Often times I’ll hear “my mind is my best erogenous zone”, which just makes me roll my eyes. Of course it is, it’s probably that way for most everybody. But that’s not really an answer to the question. Unless the partner in question is sticking their finger in the ear and stroking the brain, that sort of answer is elitist and smug. So okay fine. Go play brain tickles while the rest of us explore what feels good on our bodies.

I enjoy the other areas too.. the ears, neck, a light stroke down my back will make me erupt into goosebumps. But no other area besides my feet and palms will cause me to instantly want to rip off my clothes and offer myself up like a sacrificial virgin.

So what spot does it for you? Where does your magic begin?

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Now I know my ABC’s…

I can’t do memes so of course this isn’t a meme. I’m just fresh out of journal entry topics so I made this up. Though, yanno, if y’all wanted to do it too, I’d read it.. we just won’t call it a meme.

The ABC’s of our BDSM.

A is for… Ass. Remember those early months of anal angst that I had? Good God you all must have thought I was such a ninny. I’m glad to say that I’ve definitely conquered the anal angst. Though butt sex isn’t something we do every day, it’s certainly nothing that I stress over anymore. And if He walks away with a case of poopy dick? Sucks to be Him, right? ;-)

B is for… BOOBS! Master does like my boobs. Or, I should say Master does like TO HURT my boobs. The vast majority of our video clips have breast torture in them. I’ve always been partial to titty torture myself so it all works out great!

C is for… Cunt. Not the one between my legs, but the name. Master has called me cunt since day one and it’s become as normal sounding as my given name. I know a lot of women hear the term ‘cunt’ and get all sorts of offended. But it wasn’t ever meant to be that, and it’s not an insult to me. It’s a label used to further the objectification, much like some refer to themselves as ‘it’. I am cunt, I am a cunt. That’s my main purpose for Him.

D is for… Dick. Man, I heart me some dick. ;-) What else is there to say about that? I like pussy just as much as the next lesbian wannabe, but dick does it for me.

E is for… Enemas. Master and I dabbled in enemas a bit and found it just didn’t do much for us. BUT in the experiments we did find one that appeals to Him something fierce. Pee enemas. Not only does Master like using my ass as His toilet, I get off on the objectification of it quite a bit. However, it’s quite the job for Him to be able to get hard enough to penetrate my ass, while also being un-aroused enough to be able to urinate. So I am currently (like, today current) working on making an ass-friendly funnel just for that purpose. Maybe I’ll sell them on the craft page. :D

F is for… Fucking. Obviously! We fuck a lot. More than the average married couple I think. Master’s libido is amazingly healthy. The sexual energy in this house oozes from the damn walls!

G is for… Gags. We have a pretty varied selection of gags. Some cut off all chance of communication, some only hinder it a bit. But all serve to effectively block me from giving input. But they don’t block output. Output He wants, input? Not so much. I’m opinionated and I have very focused ideas on how things “should be”. Given the chance, I’ll speak my mind too much and sometimes, talk Master out of, or into, something different than His initial plan. So He cuts off the input. But the output, the moans and whimpers, grunts and cries… those all flow freely around every gag we own. I much prefer to be gagged because it serves to make ‘letting go’ that much easier. When I’m not gagged, He wants input. Input means keeping my head in the game and being able to answer, coherently, the questions He asks, or providing the feedback He needs. But gagged, I’m released from that “burden” and allowed to float, quietly, serenely. It’s awesome.

H is for… Hood. We have one hood, a full leather one that laces up the back and zips shut across the mouth and eye holes. I love the sensory deprivation that comes with wearing the hood. Sight is gone, hearing is muffled, breathing is restricted. Putting the hood on makes me feel like me is gone… when He looks at me, I don’t feel that He’s seeing ME because what makes up me, my face, is obliterated. And with that I sense a change in His demeanor, as if He sees me as even more of an object, a faceless, nameless, lump of meat. It’s very profound for me.

I is for…Internal Enslavement. Unfortunately, all of the links seem to be down right now, but internal enslavement is the process of “establishing and maintaining a solid and inescapable state of ownership”. I am not here, as His, just because I want to be anymore. I’m here because I can’t NOT be. Call it brainwashing, call it Stockholm syndrome, call it bullshit if you like… but there it is.

J is for… Journal. Without the benefits this journal has given us, I think we probably would not be as far along as we are. I really didn’t know how to communicate effectively with Him on a face to face basis. We struggled with it a lot, trying to find what the appropriate level of free expression was for our relationship, mainly for me and how to talk to Him. He’s intimidating and He has the power and His limits on how I could talk and what I could say made that initial communication difficult for me. But I always had the journal and I was always able to be brutally honest here. Over time, He and I have learned to talk to each other and the journal doesn’t very often fill in as a communication tool anymore. But I still love it, and it still serves a purpose for Him.

K is for… Kinky Krafts! w00t! I love love love making things for Master to hurt me with. I get all sorts of horny while I’m creating. In the middle of doing the funnel today I had to stop and masturbate. tee hee.

L is for… Love. I love Him. I am loved by Him. While there are times when I believe the intense love that we share hinders the progress here, there are more times when I’m convinced that without that love, I never would have survived what progress has been made. I need loving reassurance through this. I need to know that in spite of the many degrading paces He walks me through, I’m still lovable. Without that, I think I’d lose all desire to continue.

M is for… Master, of course! What would I be without Him?

N is for…Nipples. Gah.. my poor nipples. I don’t think I am ever within His reach and He’s not tweaking.. or trying to! Depends on if I can get away fast enough or not!

O is for…Orgasms. What fun would any of this be without orgasms? I am so glad that Master is not a fan of orgasm denial. It’s fun once in awhile.. but as a standard rule I think it would backfire. I hear that a lot, from those who do have constant orgasm denial. They tend to lose it. Makes sense to me, if you abide by the “use it or lose it” theory. ;-)

P is for… Pain. I’ve made my peace with being a masochist. I need pain just as I need love and intimacy. I don’t consider myself a huge pain slut, but when I can manage to embrace it and channel it right, there is no better drug out there.

Q is for…Quietude: the state of being quiet; tranquillity; calmness; stillness; quiet. That is a work in progress, helped by use of gags and ropes. :D

R is for… Rattan Cane. Definitely one of our favorites for striking toys. Even if they do break rather easily.

S is for… Seclusion. Seclusion and isolation play a large part in what we do. Restricting my outside influences dwindles my world down to one person. Master. It’s limited now because of the kids, but we dabble in it as much as we can. It may never be total, but it will be much more than what it is now. Some day I may have to do an entry just on this topic (if I haven’t already).

T is for… Torture. There is one place in which one’s privacy, intimacy, integrity and inviolability are guaranteed – one’s body, a unique temple and a familiar territory of sensa and personal history. The Master invades this shrine. He does so publicly, deliberately, repeatedly and, often, sadistically and sexually, with undisguised pleasure. Hence the all-pervasive, long-lasting, and, frequently, irreversible effects and outcomes of torture. Torture is about reprogramming the slave to succumb to an alternative exegesis of the world, proffered by the Master. It is an act of deep, indelible, traumatic indoctrination. Torture has no cut-off date. The sounds, the voices, the smells, the sensations reverberate long after the episode has ended – both in dreams and in waking moments. The Master becomes the black hole at the center of the slave’s surrealistic galaxy, sucking in the slave’s universal need for solace. Torture is the ultimate act of perverted intimacy. The Master invades the slave’s body, pervades her psyche, and possesses her mind.

U is for… Urine. Piss play is a pretty common theme lately. Seems like everyone is doing it! What can I say about it? It’s gross and disgusting and it tastes bad and it smells bad and I fucking love it. Not only am I working on a funnel for my ass, I’m also making a mouth funnel, too. (thanks for the idea, love)

V is for… Violet Wand. That Master wants really badly and I don’t!

W is for… Welts. Or any marks for that matter. I love them. That’s my badge, my reward for ‘taking it like a man’. I get mighty disappointed with myself if I don’t come out of a scene sporting some marks somewhere.

X is for…X-Rated. That’s us in a nutshell. We’re x-rated. :D

Y is for…Yes Sir. Do you have any idea how many times a day I say ‘yes Sir’. A bazillion! At least! ;-)

Z is for… Zippers. Hate them. Yep, just hate ‘em. So why is it that I keep making them???? :D

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It’s all about the butt!

A couple of people wanted to know about the vibrating, inflatable butt plug. I got it at Extreme Restraints, and what do you know? It’s on sale right now! That’s a sign. You must purchase it!

Here it is in it’s natural state. By natural I mean that Master hasn’t pumped it up any. It’s fairly small in size as butt plugs go, but it’s kind of heavy. It has some weight to it. And those two tails hanging out your backside (the controls) pull down on it too. So in spite of it’s small size, it feels like a hefty plug.

Do I like it and would I recommend it? There is just no easy answer for that question. Mainly because I am incapable of keeping things simple. :D

There are two kinds of days in the life of a sex slave. Good Butt Days and Bad Butt Days. Subtle slave recently wrote much the same thing and I was nodding through her entry. Some days, wearing a butt plug is erotic and feels great and everyone is a horny, happy camper.

But on those Bad Butt Days, that initial burn that often accompanies anal insertions never goes away. It hangs around, it gets worse, it assaults your ass in waves. Then the cramps come, you start to sweat, your tummy hurts, it probably hurts worse to clench so tightly but you’re afraid of what might happen if you don’t. The burn seems to travel down your legs, you feel weak… until you are just one big, burning, cramping being existing around the epicenter; your anus.

I hate those days. Really truly hate them.

Yesterday, as (my)luck would have it, was a Bad Butt Day. In the 45 minutes or so before Master was due home, I was in and out of the bathroom a dozen times at least. I took the plug out, put it back in, took it out, over and over, trying to ‘turn the day around’ for me before Master got His evil paws on the controls of the thing.

Because, on a Bad Butt Day, a vibrating, inflatable butt plug feels a lot like Satan’s hand. Shoved up your ass. And he’s waving a hearty Hello! at ya.

Let’s take another look at that small plug.

This is pumped up 15 times. 15 is the most I’ve been able to take. Now imagine, a Bad Butt Day, with that bowling ball lodged in your rectum… and it’s set to vibrate on high. And then have to hold a bowl of soup and a glass of milk balanced on your back while on your hands and knees.

With someone like Master at the wheel it’s a whole new sadistic torment. He pumps it and releases it. He pumps it more. He turns the vibrator up and down and up and down. Plus He’s spanking and pinching and poking… just, you know, being a general poo-poo head.

Times like that, the absurdity of my life kind of reaches up and metaphorically smacks me upside the head. Just a big ol dose of “what the FUCK are you DOING here?” Oh but that’s a whole ‘nother entry, idn’t it? ;-)

Anyway! Yesterday I hated that stupid, vibrating, inflatable butt plug and had I answered this then I would have NOT recommended it to anyone.

But a good night’s sleep and a pleasantly aching asshole today has softened me up a bit. I fondly recall sweating and cramping while silently serving as His table. I get wet when thinking about how the cane strokes smarted ever so much more than usual because they made me clench extra-hard around the quivering plug. And I love how open and wet and available my asshole feels when that plug is removed.

The best thing about this plug is that you are able to get that really, REALLY full feeling without actually having to stretch around something that large. I’ve still not conquered that giant plug that we have because it’s just too big in diameter. But with this plug, it goes in and out easily, and can really make for some hugely erotic sensation once it’s in.

If you like that sort of thing.

So sure. Buy one. ;-)

~cunt

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“Home is where you can scratch where it itches”

Master came home for lunch today.

It was a Mastercard lunch

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