Am’s report card thanks you.

Am received VERY high marks on her speech on gay marriage, thanks, in large part to the information, links and emails from all of you.

 Other than a one point deduction because she was six seconds off the time limit, she scored the highest marks possible on all other areas. The best compliment, for her, was a listener who later told Am that her speech had changed the listener’s views, and that she was now a same-sex marriage supporter. What better evidence that you’ve written a damn good persuasive speech, eh? :D

 Though she still focused quite a bit on the religion/bible aspect, she also touched on almost every other point mentioned here. It was a good speech. Aside from debunking the bible, her points on how marriage has evolved over the years (from women being seen as property and  the old views on interracial unions, etc.) were, in my opinion, the strongest parts of the speech.  

She done good. I thank you.

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I gotta peaceful, easy feeling…

I had already fallen asleep, though  not for long, just long enough to reach power nap stage, when he woke me up by pressing his cock to my lips. Sleep sucking is still a favorite activity of his. “Like a babe to a tit,” he’ll  say, describing for me what I’m often too deeply asleep to remember the next day.

 But this time I woke right up, all the way up, and stayed there. I stayed there while he finished doing whatever he was doing. I stayed there while he crawled into bed beside me. I stayed there while he wrapped himself around me, pinning me down with body-to-body bondage. I stayed there while he drifted off into gentle snoring in my ear.

 Nights are boring when you can’t sleep. It always amazes me how easily (well, relatively easily) I can manage hours in the cupboard, alone and dark and silent, yet nighttime bouts of insomnia drive me to the brink of madness. Five minutes feels like thirty, and thirty minutes is an infinity of darkness.

 So I reached down to play with his cock. I mean, goodness, it was right there, a tantalizing, chubby bulge just barely brushing my thigh. What red-blooded woman can resist that I ask you?!

I just traced it, outlining the shape of it with my fingertip, trailing the very gentlest touch of my fingernail over and around the head. Holding my breath, waiting for signs of life, a twitch, a hardening, a moan of pleasure. I was getting wet, thinking of sex and fucking, midnight pitch black half-asleep sexin’, nothing but determined, hurried, hot contact of genitals and lips, working toward one focused goal. Climax.

I could almost taste it.

Then he snore-snorted, and flopped over, pushing me away with his hip, grumbling in his sleep.

*hmmph* how RUDE.

I went back to being bored.

I tossed and turned, fought with the covers, twiddled my thumbs and tried, really really tried, to stave off insanity. Until finally, feeling I’d done my best, tried my hardest, “suffered” as long as I could stand to suffer, I propped myself up, poked him gently in the side and brightly announced “Imma get up for awhile, k?”

See, I figure that the happier and more confident I sound when I request things like this, the better my chance for success. But all I got for my Pollyanna effort was a muffled (and irritated) no.

I pleaded my case a little bit, which he continued to deny, and then I did what I should have done in the first place.

I pouted.

I did it silently, or so I thought. I mean I just laid there, scowling at the darkness. Maybe scowling at his back but it was dark so how did he know, huh?

“Are you all pissy now?” He barked.

Now there’s a loaded question. There is no way to answer that without digging myself a deeper hole because I am incapable of keeping my emotions out of my voice. If I say no Sir, I’d totally be lying, hissing it through gritted teeth and he’d know it. So what can I do, except to be honest?

“Yup.”

And then he chastised me. “Sick and tired” [...] “every time you don’t get your way” [...] “pissy little brat” [...]

Well! What the deuce? What am I *supposed* to do when I don’t get something I want? Either ya want genuine reactions or ya want a robot.

Now before you all go nuclear on my ass (and before he does!) lemme explain. It’s not like I’m throwing foot-stomping temper tantrums here (not always anyway). I’m talking about expressing the disappointment of being denied something, anything, whatever it may be, that I want. That I, in that moment, think I *need*. Badly.

If I don’t show any sort of disappointment, or “pouting”, isn’t that akin to showing that whatever it was that I was after really wasn’t all that important to me anyway?

Isn’t it?

Is it supposed to go like this:

“Master, may I [fill in the blank]?”

“No.”

“Kthnxbye! Want a blow job?”

What? No nothing? No scowl, no but.. but.. but’s? No awwww’s? No arms crossed or tongues sticking out or hmmph-ing?

That totally sucks donkey balls. I was a good pouter. Really good.

Wasted talents, I’m telling you.

Grrs.

~cunt

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Like we didn’t see *this* coming a mile away!

I knew as soon as I mentioned not shaving on the journal, a picture would be the next order. I am so on to him!

Compared to some of the hairy bushes I’ve seen while browsing Master’s porn collection, I think my pubes are pretty sparse. Some of those women have hair that you could braid. Is that real, you think? Like, honestly home-grown bush? I keep thinking they must glue a wig on there for the photo. Cuz, like, dayum. You’d lose the bird AND your hand in those bushes. ;-)

~cunt

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The Universe

The greatest predicament of living in the jungles of time and space, kaya, is learning to be happy while still having unfulfilled dreams.

Ha. I’m one step ahead of you, Uni. ;-)

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“Life is like an onion: you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep”

I haven’t been allowed to shave my cootch for… awhile. A few weeks anyway. The cum coated cunt photo, if you look real close, shows the fuzz on the “horizon”.

I don’t know why he’s not letting me shave. Some whim, or wild hair up his ass, or.. whatever. I’ve never understood his back and forth preferences on pubic hair. I gave up trying to understand it.

In fact, I’m currently in a place where the why of anything is just too much work for my head. That’s unusual for me, considering that I’m the “But why?” poster child. I don’t think it’s that I don’t want to know the why anymore as much as I know that even if I get the why it doesn’t matter.

“Because I said so” seems a sufficient answer these days. Talk about coming full circle. The last time that answer worked I was about 5 years old.

So I have a hairy crotch. It’s beginning to “fluff”. You know, like padding. I can feel it through my clothes, all poofy and squishy. Normally this is about where I tend to get grossed out.

But I’m not. Because… I’m actually enjoying *not* shaving. That’s real maintenance! Shaving is a constant, on-going project. Time and effort and expense and.. and.. just.. stuff.

(Please, no recommendations for waxing or lasering or any of that. It ain’t happenin’, ok? Not ever. At least, not if I have anything to say about it.)

So now, instead of waiting on pins and needles for permission to shave, I’m dreading when I get permission to shave. I don’t wanna. “Au natural” is in, isn’t it? ;-)

I think, maybe, I can attribute this new-found peace I’m experiencing to a series of hard truths I’ve read lately. First read on sommar’s journal (locked, sorry, no linkie), a set of quotes lifted from TSR.

The exchange orginated with the question of “what then?” What happens when the Dom is satisfied that the slave has reached “perfection” (in the Dom’s eyes). What happens to the challenge for the slave, does the Dom end up needing to come up with new ways to reinforce the slave’s position, new rules, new tasks, new whatever, in an effort to keep the slave happy.

And I saw myself in that. A lot of myself, I’m ashamed to say. Always on a quest to feel enslaved, finding something more extreme, more edgy, anything to push the “harder, deeper, faster” button.

And then I read this, by Raven Kaldera.

“How about this for an exchange?

Slave: I don’t feel challenged enough. Everything I’m doing has become comfortable and boring. It’s too easy. I don’t feel like a real slave, being made to do painful things.

Dom/me: Look, I’m in charge here, and what I say goes. And I want a slave who is happy and content with their lot, even if that lot is just to do the same hundred services for me for the rest of their life. So if you want a challenge, how about getting rid of that attitude you just spouted, and taking on a new attitude of being content with whatever you’re given? How’s that for a challenge? That ought to keep you busy for a while.”

To hopefully end up thinking this:

“This isn’t the way I wanted things to go – and they’re going the way my owner wants them, even though I hate that – and that means that I’m the slave, and that’s paradoxically terribly satisfying to me!”

Interesting, isn’t it, that letting go of the “harder, deeper, faster” button has presented the hardest challenge of all. Not one that’s going to earn me a place on the Olympic Painslut team though. The extreme challenge is in just.. letting go.

I mean, you think you’ve done it, you know? You think you’re already there and have already relinqushed everything there is to relinquish and you’re already doing it his way.. and blah blah blah…

Until you realize that you aren’t.

I keep peeling back layer after layer and finding things I didn’t even know were there. Bits of resistance and pieces of stubborn selfishness and crumbs of me-me-me. And I’m really okay with this too, with seeing my own imperfections, because it’s with a neat-o kind of clarity that I’d been missing before.

So! Onward we go, one layer at a time.

~cunt

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Aroma

My fingers smell like pussy. Specifically my pussy.

Last night, fresh after pleasuring, it was a stronger, headier scent. I didn’t need to press my fingertips to my nose to capture it. It lingered, wafting from between my legs through the sheets, drifting off my hands up to my face.

I didn’t wash. I enjoyed the smell.

It’s 10am now and I still haven’t washed. I’m still enjoying the smell.

It’s faded though. Quite a bit. Now I do have to press my fingertips to my nose to inhale the very slightest traces of scent left. It’s musky, low. Makes me think of earth and sweat, primal.

I’m quite attracted to scents. Odors, real odors. Perfumes and colognes are nice, pleasing to the nose… but odors, naturally occuring odors, are different. I don’t want to nuzzle my nose into a neck of Drakkar Noir during sex. Drakkar Noir is inhaled through crisp dress shirts, out on the town, exciting my sense for the real scents. The scents to come.

I want to snuggle my nose into earthy, natural scents. I want to sniff the blend of sweat against skin, to flick my tongue out to taste it. I want to smell the traces of me across his chin, caught in the curled hairs of his goatee. I want to breathe him in, trapped odors of arousal nestled against his thigh, tucked into his dark creases.

Then I want to loll in the resulting odor of coupling. His come mixed with mine creates an odor unique to us alone. His body scent, rolled and tangled with my own, smeared across my chest, my face, my neck. My groin.

Savored. In the air, on my fingers.

I’ll shower soon, and it’ll be gone. Lost to raspberry-scented body wash. Lost to Drakkar Noir on his dress shirt.

Leaving me hungry, lusting, for another whiff… of us.

~cunt

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“If nothing ever changed, there’d be no butterflies.”

“All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.” ~Anatole France

Change is inevitable. We grow, learn, life leads us into unforeseen directions. It’s a constant.

Though it’s hard. I’m as reluctant to embrace change as the next person. No matter how uncomfortable the old may be becoming, it’s familiar. I like familiar. Change is… scary. But change is stubborn and persistent. It won’t be denied. It just keeps pressing itself in your face, until you either give in and work with the change to make it as good as it can be, or retreat into a world of memories, fist closed around times no longer there and never coming back… a life wasted over the refusal to change.

I am changing. I have changed. My need, intent and purpose for keeping a journal has changed. And I feel like I’ve held on to it with that tightly closed fist for too long. I’ve tried to keep it what it once was… but it’s a losing battle. I’m not the person I was two and a half years ago. I cannot be.

It seems that some feel they are entitled to certain content here. Perhaps they feel that I owe them something? I’m not sure. I don’t quite understand that response from people, that they somehow feel they deserve something from me here.

You don’t.

I’m not the “newbie” to bdsm that I was when I first began blogging. I’m not full of angst and riddled with doubts and questions. I’m no longer seeking out profound answers to impossible questions. I no longer care to “figure it all out”.

I’ve made mention several times over the last few months that this journal no longer serves the purpose it once did. What was once a valuable communication tool is no longer needed. We’ve bridged the gap in our communication skills and it’s simply easier and more conducive to success to talk to each other. I’m not “afraid” of the words I need to say, I don’t hide behind the “safety” of letters and prose anymore. I am not, any longer, intimidated.

Those are all good things, I think, at least for me personally and for us as a couple. But not so good for the journal I guess. For me to sit here and retype the personal moments of a conversation now feels invasive and inappropriate. So I don’t. And, predictably, the content here suffers.

Having been struggling over this for a fairly long while at livejournal, we made the decision to push forward, to attempt different angles and methods. Perhaps to recapture what was once a pleasurable activity for me. The act of sharing and enjoying this in a public venue still does bring eroticy and fun. Both for Master and myself. But I have changed, he has changed, and so too, must this journal reflect that change. The key is simply going to be finding what it is that’s going to work for us now.

The very idea of making money seems to stick in people’s craw. As if I, we, should somehow be immune to needing an income. The fact remains that we are the parents of three teenagers, we have the same bills and monetary needs that everyone else does. Why it is that getting paid to paint clothespins seems to be such a stickler is beyond me. It’s actually quite humiliating. As are the video clips. That Master gets to make a profit off of my humilitation only worsens it. And if that’s the reason this is so hard to swallow for some, well… my gosh.. haven’t you been reading the wrong blog then.

Anyway. Seems simple enough to me that if you don’t want any part of the “money-making” then you just don’t order the stuff. I’m hardly concerned that you don’t like it. I’m much more focused on the look HE gets when I show him how he’s profited off of me. I’ll get the same feeling when I hand over my paychecks. It’s a kink of mine, like any other.

So. If what you want is the same soap opera-ish kaya blog, read elsewhere. I’m not that same angsty-drama-queen anymore. I’m not putting up with the same bullshit that I used to. This isn’t your place to attack, judge, or insult. This is my place, for whatever purpose it takes on for me, for Master, for us. I don’t know exactly what the content will be anymore. In some ways, it probably will not change much at all. I’ll post the pictures as Master dictates, I’ll write whatever it is that’s on my mind.

The comments will change though. I don’t owe you a place to be a bitch. If you want that, pay for your own site. Comments will be deleted at will. Find a nice way to say what you have to say or say nothing at all. I *will* make this my personal bubble of happiness, insulated from the crap. The Jerry Springer atmosphere that tends to linger around my comment section is over.

Master and I have reached an extremely comfortable plateau. We do what we do, it’s fun, it’s good, it makes us happy. That’s where I am now. Change has brought me here.

Change can be good, if you let it.

~cunt

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Happy Thanksgiving!

10 Rules For Thanksgiving Dinner At My House.

1. Don’t get in line asking questions about the food. “Who made the potato salad? Is it egg in there? Are the greens fresh? Is the meat in the greens turkey or pork? Who made the macaroni and cheese? What kind of pie is that? Who made it?” Ask one more question and I will punch you in your mouth, knocking out all your front teeth so you won’t be able to eat anything.

2. If you can’t walk or are missing any limbs, sit your ass down until someone makes your plate for you. Dinner time is not the time for you to be independent. Nibble on them damn pecans and walnuts to hold you over until someone makes you a plate.

3. If you have kids under the age of twelve, I will escort their little asses outside and you can bring their food out to them. They are not gonna mess up my house again this year. Tell them that they are not allowed inside until it’s time to start telling family stories about their mammas and papas. If they come inside for any reason except for that they are bleeding to death, I will break a foot off in their ass.

4. If you must, I will allow one prayer for Thanksgiving dinner. Just one. We do not care that you are thankful that your 13 year old daughter gave birth to a healthy baby or your nephew just got out of jail. Save that shit for somebody who gives a damn. The time limit for the prayer is ten seconds. If you are still talking after those ten seconds are, you will feel something hard come across your lips and they will be swollen for approximately 20 minutes.

5. Finish everything on your plate before you go up for seconds! If you don’t, you will be cursed out and told to keep your greedy ass home next year.

6. Bring your own Tupperware. Don’t let me catch you fixing yourself a plate in my stuff knowing damn well that I will never see it again. Furthermore, if you didn’t bring anything over, don’t let me catch you making a plate period or it will be a misunderstanding resulting in you getting smacked in the mouth.

7. Do not leave my house with anything that doesn’t belong to you. Everybody will be subjected to a body search coming and going out of my domain.

8. Do not leave your kids so you can go hopping from house to house. This is not a daycare center. There will be a kid-parent roll call every ten minutes. Any parent that is not present at the time of roll call, your child will be put outside in the garage until you come and get him or her. After 2 hours, I will call DSS on your ass and put your children up for adoption.

9. Book your hotel room before you come into town. There will be no sleeping over at my house. You are to come and eat dinner and take your happy ass home, or to your hotel room. Everybody gets kicked the hell out at 11:00 pm. You will get a 15 minute warning bell ring.

10. Last but not least, one plate per person. This is not a soup kitchen. I am not trying to feed your family until Christmas dinner. You will be supervised when you fix your plate.

Other than that, enjoy the day. :D

The next few days will be filled with food and family and food and fun and food and liquor and food… and no computer. I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving, or a wonderful Thursday, depending on where you live. :-)

(10 rules for T-day was yanked from buzzczar at LJ. Thanks!)

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Look Master! No Hands!

Master has an open mouth fetish. The sight of me with my mouth open wide, tongue wiggling in anticipation, will always, without fail, send him over that orgasmic edge.

So I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to make this sooner. It took toy, asking me to make one for her for it to occur to me to make one for me.

It took some work, I have to say. Many trial runs and toss out with the straps to get it secure enough that it will stay put, snug around the head. No escape. No closing the mouth.

So far it’s just been used for him to come into my open mouth. A not-unpleasant service, I might add. I’m quite partial to swallowing up his semen. His “essence”, if I were a flowery blogger. ;-)

It’s intended purpose, though, is for his piss.

I want it.

And I don’t.

I hate the taste of his urine. I love being used as his toilet. I hate swallowing it as rapidly as he lets it flow. I love being used as his toilet. I hate the smell, the aftertaste that never goes away, the way it works it’s way up my nose to choke me, the way my stomach feels full, bloated, hot and heavy.. and how I think I might puke it all back up if I think about it too long.

But.. I love being used as his toilet. I love it. It’s… insanely erotic.

He’s always allowed me the freedom to swallow it, or not, at my own pace. He likes how I struggle with it, likes how I fail and spit it out, and cough and gag and pull away so he can finish over my head, through my hair, down my body.

But there’s no escaping that funnel. Hence, I want/don’t want it to happen.

No matter. The universe (aka the kids and work and life) hasn’t allowed us the opportunity to cough and choke and make a wet smelly scene anywhere anyway. Soon though.

Next is the butt funnel. Now that’s going to be fun. I know it is. Taking his urine in my mouth is an active service that excites me in so many ways. But bending over with a funnel stuck in my ass purely because he has to pee and doesn’t feel like walking to the bathroom brings objectification to a different level.

I’m gonna work on that toy, asap. Yep.

~cunt

ps. You could check out the ones they have at Extreme Restraints too. :D

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“It is the little bits of things that fret and worry us. We can dodge an elephant, but we can’t a fly”

Last night I had an attack of no-fair-itis. Over the dog.

 See, the weather is getting crappy, as it’s prone to do this time of year in Wisconsin. It’s cold and windy, damp, gray. Cold. Did I mention cold already?

Taking the dog out falls on me 99% of the time. It’s not as simple as just opening the door and letting him out. I have to go out with him. And stand there while he sniffs every inch of the yard to find the perfect spot to do his business.

I’ve tried putting him on a chain, but he just stands there with his head down like I’ve tethered him two inches from the dirt. I’ve tried leaving him there, going back inside, trying to let him “get a feel” for the chain. I mean, heck fire, I’m chained sometimes! It’s not that difficult! But this dog… is dumb. I leave him, I come back to check, and he’s exactly where I left him with his head down and his bladder full.

It’s like he can’t go potty without an audience. So, whoever takes him out has to stand there and watch. Which is me, most of the time.

It’s not that Master never takes the dog out, he does. Sometimes. It’s just that the responsibility of the job is mine. Master will do it if he wants to, if he feels like it. Last night, Master went to bed. I was puttering around doing some last minute chores, and there sits the dog, doing the pee-pee dance at the door.

It’s cold outside, did I say? I didn’t WANT to go outside. Apparently neither did Master. So he didn’t have to. I did.

And that is just No Fair!

I was outside, shivering and sulking, glaring daggers at the bedroom window.

You know, when I was way back in the beginning stages of discovering BDSM, there were a LOT of fantasies. A lot of desires and dreams and wishes. I read a lot, watched a lot of porn (A LOT of porn), created my perfect slave life in my head.

I have most of that now. Or am well on the way to it anyway. But I never factored in the incredible amount of other stuff that would accompany getting that. Oh I am now. I do pretty well with accepting that no, I really can’t be in a cage all day and he really can’t beat me every hour on the hour and I really can’t be naked on a leash out in public.

But you just never are prepared for what it is that’s going to come along and trip you up. What is going to be the hardest pill to swallow. You think it’s going to be standing up for the whip, or sitting still when he picks up a hammer and takes aim at your tit. Or even the constant sex and blow jobs. You think it should be one of those things, but even the thought of that challenge kinda makes you tingly in the nether regions.

I never thought my personal difficult spot would be standing outside in the cold watching the dog poop. Among other things. Little things. The things nobody wants to consider when it comes to an M/s relationship.

The sex, the scenes, the sadism… that all carries it’s challenges. But they’re predictable challenges. If I struggle with a scene, nobody is surprised, least of all me. It hurts! I’m in pain, whatever the reason. But I stand outside sulking over having to take the dog out and I’m a little surprised.

Whether it’s your “fair share” of the apple cider, the tv remote, taking the dog out, or painting clothespins… it’s just not what you expected it to be. You know what’s funny about it, too? People seem less able to accept these small things. The beatings, the sexual escapades, that’s all par for the course. But you start talking about how being a slave includes these completely non-erotic aspects of daily life, and some people… I don’t know… it’s just too much.

Which is understandable, I guess. I mean, I’m IN the M/s relationship and I know that it means more than being a fucktoy and a painslut. I know it, and I still struggle over the small things, so it’s no surprise that  other people are completely thrown over them.

Being a slave is whole lot more vanilla than not. That’s the real struggle, don’t you think? Getting to be kinky is the easy stuff. Ain’t nothing kinky about watching the dog take a shit, believe you me. But it’s a part of the big picture. Maybe even a more important part of it. 

Which is a more forceful reminder of place? A hard and heavy spanking before bed, or watching as he gets all snuggly and comfy in bed, without a thought of you still up, still working and standing outside in the cold? A non-verbal, non-physical, non-erotic application of power.

I think it’s safe to say that I feel more satisfaction by overcoming no-fair-itis, and quietly and obediently doing these things, than I feel after a scene. Scenes are easy. I want scenes. Painful, yes. Difficult sometimes, yes. But this other process is… fascinating in it’s own way. Gratifying. I finally feel like we’re getting down into the meat of the matter.

Ah well. I had no real point I guess. Dog and poop. The glamour is overwhelming, eh? :D

 ~cunt

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