Validation

Let’s see if we can’t scroll that picture down a tad, huh? Talk about an “up close and personal” view. Whew.

 It’s interesting to me, sometimes, the reaction that I get concerning the pictures. The pictures and the comments can be a real stickler for people. I see these little barbs, either left for me in a comment or put in a post, things like “I don’t need that kind of attention” or “I don’t need 100 people leaving me comments every day!”, “I don’t need people to agree with me all day.”

 Of course the insinuation there is that I do need that. Which isn’t true. I don’t need it. I just get it. And I like that I get it.  I like the readers that I have. I am, often, validated and agreed with. I’d be a liar to say I don’t enjoy that.

Why do I get it? I have no idea. I don’t think I’m anything special. I don’t think I’m “hot” or “extreme”, I can’t compare to some of the other things I see and read on the ‘net. Why 2 million visitors and 20,000 comments?

No clue. You tell me why. I’m not out soliciting comments or doctoring the stats. I don’t even know how. Ask my webslut..lol. I can’t do shit on here. But I think that’s what people suspect. That somehow I’m forcing this to happen.

I think the people who profess to NOT want it crave it far more than I do. One doth protest too much perhaps? We all blog for a reason, for connection, companionship, attention (of some sort and to varying degrees), validation. If those weren’t some of the reasons, we’d have paper diaries that nobody was aware of. We want people to read, and if your comments are open, you want to know what people think of what you said.

Why do I blog? Because Master says I have to. Luckily for me, I also happen to enjoy it. He’s made me quit before. And he made me start it back up. There have been times when I’ve felt like I’ve hit the end of the road, that I sound like a broken record and I’ve asked to be done with it, and he’s vetoed that. There have been times when HE’S been the one considering stopping it and I’ve been sitting here in agony thinking ‘no no no I don’t wanna stop yet!’

But it all falls under obedience. That’s the very basic foundation of being under someone else’s control, yes? He says, I do. He says go blog, he says post this picture, he says kiss my feet, suck my dick, write about this, show that, sell this, film that, do it, do it, do it. Why does it seem, for some people, that I should be picking and choosing which *thing* I don’t have to do?

 There are so many things that I do, or don’t do,  in the name of obedience and submission. Rules surround everything. For instance:

Hair.

Shaving.

Chocolate.

Shopping.

Food.

Blogging.

Pictures.

Sex.

Pain.

Yardwork.

Cooking.

Sleeping.

Dressing.

Housework.

Videos.

Speech.

Books.

Television.

Job.

Bathroom.

Privacy.

Freedom.

And you know, the list probably goes on and on. It’s just surprising to me, continuously, that people claim to “get” what submission and slavery and power exchange is all about. And then will turn around and say “why do you do x, y, or z??”

*head desk*

I made a blurb some time ago about the remote control. About how Master has the right to come into the room where I may have been watching something and turn the channel.

 That was apparently ”over the top”.

It’s not. It’s submission.

I post whatever picture he points to. Not because *I* want that picture up, but because HE does.

That’s submission.

Do I NEED it? Do I need this blog, the comments, the validation? No. I was doing exactly this way before I even had any readers or comments.

What I NEED is to obey, to exercise his will over mine, to see the results of his dominance. Whether that comes in the form of an in-your-face picture of my cunt, a dvd being mailed out to strangers or handing over the remote control, it doesn’t matter.

He says; I do.

The end.

~cunt

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Cum Coated Cunt

I do believe my sex drive is returning.

Halle-fucking-lujah. ;-)

~cunt

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Give credit where credit is due.

My case of Vanilla Pox continues to run rampant. (Maybe I need some calakinky lotion? kinkymine lotion? *snicker*) So, with no tales of debauchery to tell, I’ll continue to babble about stuff.

 I did, however, have a flash of something while working on crafts yesterday so perhaps there is an end in sight. I sure hope so because, I have to say, being vanilla while married to a horny sadist SUCKS ASS. Although he shows the utmost patience and support while I wallow in this mire, it’s in his nature to reach out and pinch, grab, smack, poke, pull, tug and flick which, quite frankly, pisses me off.

 My station in life or not, I don’t wannaaaaaaaaa!

(I’m still selling crafts, btw. I need to update the link but Im waiting until I finish the Christmas line.)

 Anyway, last night was parent-teacher conferences at the high school. Am openly admits that the reason she likes going to conferences is because the teachers stroke her ego. And they do! They lavish her with praise. It’s not only that she gets good grades because she does struggle in certain classes, but she’s just a good kid, nice, polite, pleasant. The teachers love her.

Unfortunately she inherited my math gene. The one that says that anything above grade level 4 is incomprehensible jibberish. Good thing math isn’t important in life, right? ;-) Oy.

Her speech teacher told me that he’s recruiting her for the Forensics Speech Team this year. He said that she’s a natural at public speaking and assured both of us that she’ll “win lots of trophies and medals” at the competitions. I wouldn’t doubt that this speech she’s preparing now on same-sex marriage will be one that she presents at Forensics. (and thank you all so much for the info. It’s been a HUGE help.)

It doesn’t hurt, either, that I also get lavished with praise for having reared such a wonderful child. Though I wish I could take the praise, I don’t. Not really.

I do for some things. Whenever it’s hinted that I’m a less-than desirable parent, I can’t help but reassure myself that the fact that my kids are as great as they are means I’m doing *something* right. But I’m also a pretty firm believer in nature over nurture.

Take Jes and Am for instance. They’re spawned from the same gene pool, only one year apart, raised by the same person, with identical rules, in identical environments, and up until the last year and a half, interacted with the same peer group, same teachers, same communities. Yet, they are polar opposites in personality, temperament, interests, goals, intelligence, moods.. you name it. Two strangers from opposite sides of the world couldn’t be more different than my two daughters.

How could that be attributed to anything other than nature? I believe that people are born with pre-set traits, and nurturing does nothing more than build on them.

Same with myself. If I was kinky because of nurturing, or because of my environment, why do I dip into these incredibly UN-kinky times? If my propensity to kink *isn’t* based upon a chemical or hormone that my body produces, then I would never experience these “lows”. If it were a result of my environment, I’d be steady because my desire for it wouldn’t be dependent upon whatever chemical it is that’s currently at a low dosage point.

There is a lot of speculation on how having an abusive childhood or an abusive past forces a person into kink. The theory is that it’s a continuation of abuse, a continuation of a “familiar comfort”. That one knows no other way to interact.

I don’t agree with that. Not entirely. If that were the case then ALL people into kink would be abuse victims, which is not true. All abuse victims would be drawn to kink, which is also not true. There are a certain amount of abuse victims in kink, just as there are a certain amount of abuse victims in ALL walks of life.

I used to work primarily with women, and occasionally we’d sit and gab and get on the subject of childhoods and pasts. A vast number of us had been abused in our pasts. A VAST number. I remember thinking to myself “wow. a huge number of abuse victims are drawn to healthcare careers!” But the truth is, there is simply a huge number of abuse victims, period. Everywhere.

The fact that I was abused in my past is no more consequential to who I am now, than is the fact that I’m a brunette with blue eyes. Or that I’m shorter than average. Or that I was a smoker. Or that I used to have a crush on Michael Jackson (way before he got really weird, mind you.) Point is, all of those things about me have shaped me in some ways, yes, but my hardwiring was determined at birth. I believe anyway.

Just as was my daughters’. I don’t know how much credit I can take for that.

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Can I quit?

Today, well hell, the last several days, a week maybe, I’d go vanilla I think. I’m just not feeling *anything* even remotely close to desiring kink. Nothing. Nada. Don’t want sex, don’t want pain, don’t want NUTHIN.

 But I know I’ve gone through this valley before so I’m not too worried. It ebbs and flows, right? And really, if it ebbed away forever, I still wouldn’t be worried. I could do vanilla.

 LIE! I couldn’t. That was a lie. I’m sorry.

I’m not even in the mood for Christmas. Now *that’s* worrisome. Maybe I need some St. John’s Wart, eh? (opinions on SJW? Good stuff or no?)

 Anyway, so Am’s gotten a couple of babysitting jobs lately and yesterday she asked me if she could take me out to dinner and shopping. Just me, some mom and daughter time. So of course the first thing I feel is guilt.

I’m hardwired for guilt I think.

 I felt guilty that she’d be spending her hard earned cash on me, I felt guilty that we’d be going out to eat without Master and B-man (and to our most fav-o-rite Chinese buffet place too. The one that snatches your plate out from under your nose.) But I had to just let it go. She wanted to do something nice for me, to spend some time together.. so guilt or not… I agreed and we went.

It was nice. I don’t do things like that without Master very often so it felt a little weird, but she’s a good kid and she’s good company. I like talking to her and listening to her prattle on about her friends and who’s saying what and sleeping with who and backstabbing who. She’s a good listener too, she loves to ask me questions about my teenage years and how things were back then.

After we ate, we walked around the store for a bit. She bought me a book, Brother Odd, the last (I think) of a 3 part series by Dean Koontz. We had a really pleasant evening together.

Before we left I had made sure that supper was ready for the men-folk, and we weren’t gone for very long, about 2 hours tops, yet I was still feeling guilty. I mean, my goodness, Master had to serve Himself! He had to entertain Himself! He was all alone without ME! *sob*

Truth be told, He probably enjoyed the break.

It was just weird. Or something. I’m so.. I don’t know what. Dependent? on him. He would never deny me the time spent with her anyway, but I hadn’t discussed it in fine detail with him so I wasn’t feeling like I had full permission either. It felt a little bit naughty, even though it wasn’t, and I felt sneaky, even though I wasn’t. He knew exactly where I was and with whom and why and for how long… but I was all alone! I felt very much like I’d been untethered. And I didn’t like it at all.

I just think I’m very strange.

But I didn’t let that affect my evening with Am either. She was doing something very nice for me and I didn’t let that internal angst show. She’s a good kid.

She’s giving a speech  pretty soon about homosexual’s right to marry. She’s tending to focus on the bible, because she says that’s what most people bring up when it comes to objections to gay marriage, but I don’t think  she should only focus on the bible. Yet when she asks me what the other objections are, I kind of draw a blank. So if anyone has any (more) information or links to help me help her with this, I’d appreciate that.

I guess that’s it for today. :-)

~cunt

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Porn Sale!

All of the clips currently hosted at the clip store burned on a cd and mailed to you for $35.00 (plus shipping). That’s a savings of… *mental math*… like.. over a hundred dollars! Email me if you’re interested: kaya at underhishand.com

I like being whored out for cash. Makes my naughty bits kinda tinglay! ;-)

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A Polite Request

Dear My Uterus,

 WOULD YOU BLEED ALREADY YOU WHORE!!!

Sincerely,

Libido and Masochism

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I’m not as young as I used to be.

I have a birthday coming up (in two months, but it IS coming). I’ll be turning 37. I’m not freaking out about it because I’ve thought I was 37 practically all year anyway.

You know what they say about forgetting your age? It’s absolutely true!

On my last birthday, I was feeling somewhat depressed. 35 years old. 35 is half of 70. 70 is time to plan your funeral. I just remember thinking that it was all downhill from 35. I didn’t want to be 35 AT ALL.

So I moped around and whined to anyone listening that I was going to be 35 and wah wah wah…. until one day, Am kind of sat up, counting on her fingers and said “Um, mom? You’re going to be 36 this year. You are already 35.”

She was right. I was already a whole year past halfway-dead. And forgetful to boot! So I turned 36 last January and promptly projected myself to be 37. I’ve written 37 on practically any form asking me my age all year. So I figure this birthday, when I actually turn 37, it should be fine. I’m used to being 37. 37 is good.

But it’s also old. I know, I know, a bunch of you that are older than that are going to want to slap me upside the head. But I’m just being honest here. We’re getting old. We’re aging. I’m trying to come to terms with that. I’m not saying that life is over or that we have to stop living and start dying! I’m just acknowledging the limitations that age is putting upon me.

Take yesterday for instance. Master came home for lunch. I always ask if he’s wanting a cunt-style lunch or if he just wants lunch. He just wanted lunch. Good deal then.

So he eats, we talk, we sit on the couch and pass the time pleasantly. He has an hour for lunch, he has to leave at 12:45 to make it back to the office on time. So at 12:44, the last thing I expected to hear was “Let’s fuck.”

Yet, that’s exactly what I heard. I admit I hemmed and hawed a little. I mean, you know how it is, women of our age don’t necessarily see the phrase “let’s fuck” as the erotic foreplay it may have been once upon a time. I was pretty comfortable there on the couch, kinda lounging, watching the tube, thinking about a nap… so I was all “are you serious?!”

He was. Of course he was! He asked me how fast I could make him come.

Well. On a good day with some preparation ahead of time, some forewarning, I’d be all over that challenge. But yesterday was not a good day and I was woefully unprepared. Mentally or physically. I’d been doing that once-a-year, everything out of the closets and drawers and shelves and corners and rearrange furniture, deep clean on the upstairs all morning. I was sweaty, stinky, un-showered, wearing dirty sweatpants and grungy t-shirt, all kinds of un-sexy. Sexual confidence begins with being confident of your appearance and approach. It does not begin with “But I stink! My pussy stinks! You can’t touch it!”

But he did. Of course he did!

And I didn’t “stink”, I just didn’t smell like peaches and cream. I smelled like pussy.

Anyway, I strip down as ordered, still doing that half-warning, half-protest that I’m not summer’s eve fresh (one of my weird neurosis is body odor) and he’s ignoring me, telling me to shut up and bend over (honestly, the romanticism!) and then he starts trying to acrobat me around the living room with his cock.

Now. I’m 37 36 years old. I’m slightly(cough) overweight. I want to be able to perform those moves, because, damn, they look like fun and I bet they feel great.. but.. I can’t. I’m OLD.

And you know what? So is HE. As much as I can’t contort myself in such a manner, neither can he hold me in such a manner. At least not without the added support of ropes and ceiling-mounted eyehooks!

But he tried. He gets an A for effort. He lifted me here and lifted me there. He bent me over this and that and put legs up and around and behind. He pounded me and it was enjoyable, don’t get me wrong. I was creaming in embarrassing amounts around his cock so something was going right.

Though I also ended up with a migraine headache from having my head repeatedly bonked against the arm of the couch.

Not to mention… Annie. Annie, that adorable kitten, God love her. She’s a bigger attention whore than I am (seriously. I wouldn’t have believed it possible either, but it is true, I swear!) Annie, who has learned to play fetch with her mini-blue-fuzzy-mice. Annie, who doesn’t give a rat’s ass that we were trying to fuck in a hurry. Annie, who continuously bounded, all claws and cuteness, upon our naked bodies, mouse in tow, waiting for one of us to throw it. So it kind of went – fuck for 30 seconds, pause, get the mouse, throw it as far and as hard as we could, then hurry up and fuck before she came back, scaling our bodies like a rock climber for another round.

When did fucking on the bed with the door closed go out of style, huh?

At one point, he had me up, straddling him while he was standing, my arms wrapped around his neck, hanging on for dear life, legs around his waist… and holy fuck, did it feel GOOD. So so good. But, I’m not a tiny girl and he’s not a body builder so that was a short and hurried position. He set me down on the arm of the couch when his arms gave out. Apparently his arms were completely done in for because in the process of dropping setting me down, I fell backwards, rolling to the side, into the coffee table, on top of the stack of lunch dishes.

I ended up with the edge of the coffee table making a rude and uncomfortable acquaintance with my asscrack, one leg over the spilled dishes, one under the table.. and Master standing over me, with His cock standing straight out and his jeans puddled around his ankles, staring down at me. Impatiently.

Man, I just cracked up. I’m too old for this shit! What the hell!

He was way late getting back to work. How fast can I make him come? 15 minutes – Three Stooges style.

;-)

~cunt

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“Poetry is the music of the soul….”

MAN’S POEM

I pray for a deaf-mute nymphomaniac with huge boobs
who owns a liquor store and a golf course. This
doesn’t rhyme and I don’t give a shit.

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Help

Some time ago I read somewhere a list of sins. The purpose was to illustrate how homosexuality is one of many MANY sins listed. Like eating meat, adultery, etc. etc. Anyone know what I’m talking about or where I can get a copy of that?

Thanks!

EDIT: Thanks for the help. Though that’s not what I was looking for, I can use the links for what I need. What I’m looking for is a list of “ridiculous” sins that highlight how people ignore other things listed as sins in the bible because they no longer suit the world today, yet continue to spout off that homosexuality is a sin. It was a somewhat humorous list. Sort of like this list here: Why gays shouldn’t marry, only about sins and not marriage. Anyway! Thank you. :-)

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Poop Cake. Or… Something deeper.

My eyes haven’t forgiven me yet. I’ve still not recovered from the chocolate-poop association. I could be traumatized forever!

I saw a poop cake in the bakery section of our local Piggly Wiggly. I’ve never considered myself to be prudish… but I gotta tell ya. Seeing a poop cake has had me gobsmacked ever since.

It was large, tall and fat, all swirled up tubes of chocolate frosting, with big plastic flies stuck on it. And peanuts scattered here and there. And corn kernels.

*blink blink blink*

I was torn between wanting to buy it (it was chocolate after all) and knowing that if I did, I’d not be able to eat it anyway. I may *know* it’s not poop, but it looked like poop. Scat is not my thing. No how no way. Not even pretend.

I’ve seen boob cakes and dick cakes and pussy cakes (in adult settings!) but never shit cakes. It seems wrong somehow to have a poop cake in a Piggly Wiggly.

(I found a picture of a similar cake here. Apparently, I had missed the entire poop cake phenomena until now.)

But that’s not really what I wanted to post about. I just had to get it out though because… gobsmacked I tell ya.

I wanted to talk about a comment that I got that really made a LOT of sense to me. Something that has put my mind at ease in a big way. From l{Fh}:

Part of surviving intact as ‘differently minded’ (IE not vanilla mentality) requires a certain degree of stubbornness. [...] That takes someone who isn’t going to compromise on life. [...]So why is it surprising that this fine honed survival skill has side effects and drifts into our slave life? It’s the natural residue, if you like, of getting this far intact as WHO YOU ARE. If we were all that submissive we would have given in to the social status quo years ago and not said boo to M/s.

I think that is the most profound thing I’ve heard in quite some time. It’s absolutely correct. The determination to get the life that I want is how I got here. What sense does it make that I would then roll over and play dead just because I’m (almost) here? I’m *still* fighting, determined to get what I came for.

If it weren’t important enough to me to fight for, to work for, I’d have given up a LONG time ago. Being different, in any capacity that goes against the grain of society, isn’t an easy road. Not for anyone. No matter what it is that makes one stand out against the crowd, the pressure to give in, to go with the flow, to be a sheeple is *huge*.

I don’t think that that drive is simply going to disappear, be nonexistent just because I’ve come this far. And she’s right. If I were THAT submissive, I’d have “submitted” to society long ago. I’d be one more closet submissive, masturbating to BDSM porn and fantasies or carrying on a hidden relationship.

But I’m not. I took chances and made things happen because I want what I want. I work for what I want. I’m not submissive. I’m determined.

‘Submissive’ would have led me to settling. Settling for those previous doms, those who may have been close to what I wanted… but not close enough. It’s not easy to end a relationship, especially when that relationship gives you some of what you’ve been looking for. When you don’t know if you’ll ever have anything even close to that again, when you’re facing being alone, again, and starting over, again.

So no. Being strong and driven and competent and determined does not mean that I can’t also be a slave. At least, not in my, or Master’s, opinion.

I do try to top from the bottom (try being the operative word here), and I try, I think, because I think I’m a smart girl. I think I know what’s good for me and I think I know what I want. But, I’m a slave because my topping from the bottom is thwarted consistently and constantly and in that process, I obey.

I talk about being in trouble and I discuss my punishments, but even in those instances, we’re talking about a flash of temper where I neglected to say ‘Sir’, or I got stubborn and took too long to serve him something. I’m not stomping around all day breaking rules and being a bitch. I’m not busting out of the cage (snicker) or chopping my hair off or chatting up other men or spending his money on a new wardrobe.

My basic approach is obedience because I do try and I know that obedience is the very foundation of being a slave… but none of that also requires that I forget, or ignore, the principle motivating factor that I came with. The determination to not let this path that we are on slip off into nowhere.

I don’t think it’s just Master’s responsibility to keep things moving forward and on the up and up. It’s both of ours. It’s his prerogative to steer it, but I’ll be god damned if that means I can’t speak up and say “where in Sam’s hill are you going???” and point out that a wrong turn seems to have been taken. We both know where we want to go. Sometimes He gets sidetracked or pulled away. Sometimes I do. It’s because we’re both wanting the same thing that we both get to yank the other one by the bootstraps.

Because I sure as fuck ain’t going to have made it this far to sit back and quietly and submissively watch it be ran into the ground.

I may not be as easily malleable as some. But you know, we’ve only been at this for a bit over 3 years. In 3 years, he’s changed me in some deeply profound ways. There are other people who have been at this for much longer than we have and who aren’t half as far along. So I don’t at all consider myself, or our relationship, a failure. It’s two steps forward, one step back, and anything easier would probably only be a surface change. I think we are doing it right, doing it in exactly the manner that we need to to satisfy ourselves. Y’all may not agree, but you’re also only getting snippets of the big picture. It’s impossible for me to accurately relay every little detail. I would if I could! But I can’t. Unless you want to move in? ;-)

As it stands right now, somewhere along the way in the not-so-distant past, a wrong turn was made. There is no fault or blame being assigned because it doesn’t matter a bit who detoured. Him or me? Who cares. What matters is that we are able to recognize it and work to fix it. Fixing a wrong turn requires backing up, finding where we deviated from the path and moving forward again. So that’s what we’re doing. We’re reversing until we identify the error.

“There are always two choices. Two paths to take. One is easy. And its only reward is that it’s easy.”

“There’s no thrill in easy sailing when the skies are clear and blue, there’s no joy in merely doing things which any one can do. But there is some satisfaction that is mighty sweet to take, when you reach a destination that you never thought you’d make.”

I could give up on my dreams. I could hush, keep my worries and thoughts to myself. I could… but what would he end up with? A lesser version of me.

He could bowl over my dreams. Ignore them, no longer make them a priority. At what cost though? A “nicer” journal? One of those perfect, fluffy ones? And still, a lesser version of me.

He wants to own me, to possess me. He doesn’t only want a robotic, yes-girl. Those are a dime a dozen. He’s going to take my dreams and he’s going to meld them with his own, until someday, there is no discernible difference. How’s he going to get there if I roll over and play dead??

~cunt

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