The Damn Yankee Workshop

The Damn Yankee Workshop is a new wooden paddle store. There is no such thing as having too many wooden paddles.

Having been on the receiving end of one of those waffle paddles, I highly recommend them for a well-spanked booty. My butt-cheeks are twitching just thinking about it.

And look. How perfect is this as a Valentine’s Day gift for a special spanko?

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Bamboo Bondage

This was a lot harder than it looks. I’m awfully uncoordinated and there were rubber bands and bamboo skewers *everywhere*. It was a lot more painful than it looks too considering that I’m currently sporting pms boobies.

But damn was it fun. :D

More pictures behind the cut.

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Death Sentence

So I was sitting on the bed folding a load of clothes and watching the television. Some show about criminals or something.

 Master walked over and said “Are you watching this?” and without waiting for an answer, flipped the channel.

 ”Well, I was.” I said, shrugging.

He looked at me, said “Only because I love you so much.”, turned the channel back to my show and walked away.

It’s official. He loves me too much.

 Being loved too much is an absolute death sentence to M/s. At least to my type of M/s it is.

 I know I shouldn’t read so much into one simple gesture. But I wouldn’t be the drama queen I am if I didn’t overreac-

Wait. Forget all that.

Yesterday I promised an easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy post today. With pictures.

 Check back in a bit. ;-)

~cunt

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What say you?

“slaves cannot meaningfully consent since they have no veto.”

(yanked from a TSR thread, in a comment by Tanos.)

That line keeps rolling around in my head, like there is something of great importance attached to it.

If one doesn’t have the power to refuse, then they also never had the power to accept.

This seems to blow the whole concept of “consent” right out of the water.

My brain has siezed. Any thoughts?

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Better hurry!

I’m pretty sure that Married Man’s Fucktoy and I shared many of the same readers. I’m also pretty sure that we’ve all missed her delectable posts.

But pout no more! She is back!

Her new link is The Fucktoy Memoirs.

It will be a password protected blog.

The reason that I am announcing this is because she is, right now and only for a short amount of time (like one more day), giving the password/invitation out upon request. After that, the response time for new readers will be slow. So hurry. You know she’s worth the read. ;-)

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Killjoy

I’ve developed a blister on the very tippy-top of my inner labia.

Master has suggested that I put the vibrator down.

He’s such a partypooper.

Well. Peeing should be fun the next few days. He can’t take that away from me!

Some people are cutters. I am a vibrater.

*snicker*

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Ambivalence

I used to use the word “ambivalent” incorrectly. I thought it meant to not care one way or the other; to be apathetic about a decision or choice. Of course it doesn’t mean that at all. It means much the opposite in fact.

Latin in origin, from ambi meaning “both” and valentia meaning “strength”, ambivalence means having strong feelings, simultaneous and contradictory attitudes, toward an object or certain path.

I am ambivalent about slavery, I’ve decided. It is not a love-hate thing. A love-hate relationship would mean that I love being a slave but hate myself for doing it. That is not the case at all.

But this line right here fits me to a T: “a heightened ambivalence which is expressed in behavior by alternating obedience and rebellion, followed by self-reproach”.

See? I’m ambivalent.

While that bears further thought, there is something else that I am ambivalent about and that’s my real reason for posting today. The vocabulary lesson wasn’t in vain. ;)

I am ambivalent about the whip. About being whipped. About asking to be whipped or told I’m going to be whipped.

It’s different than, say, spanking. Getting a spanking is almost normal. It used to be a standard part of childhood back in the day (still is I suppose), and I even remember it being used in schools as a youngster (Not that I ever was spanked by the principal! I was much too good). I seem to recall, when my own children were just entering elementary school, signing a paper forbidding the use of corporal punishment on them should they misbehave in class. So my guess is that using paddles in school has only recently been done away with.

And spanking wasn’t unheard of between a husband and wife either. A “naughty” wife was dealt with, by some husbands, in much the same way a naughty child was. So spanking feels, to me, like a much more acceptable practice. The history of spanking is presentable.

But the history of whipping is not so presentable. It’s not a clouded memory for most people. It’s not something that’s ever been shown in anything other than an extremely negative and unattractive way, bringing up feelings of revulsion and anger. Pictures of men and women, tied to posts and whipped to bloody ribbons. People strapped to machines or tools, whipped into working harder and faster. In movies, doesn’t the “slavedriver” *always* have a whip in hand, and isn’t he always quick to use it upon a slow worker?

Whipping is all wrapped up in shame and disgrace. That bleeds over into my enjoyment of it.

When I am enjoying it, that is.

It’s very strange, the things that pop into my head in the midst of a scene.

Master does not whip me to bloody ribbons. Yet. I know that he can, I know that he is capable of it. I’ve seen him flick a whip at a sturdy cardboard box and leave a 3 inch gash so I know that when it’s me on the receiving end and not a box, he’s holding back something awful.

I do not know if he will always hold back though. Nor do I know at what point he’ll “let loose” once I’ve been secured to the ceiling. There is a lot of fear coursing through me during a whipping… until the whip has been hung UP, and I have been hung DOWN.

Anywho, so I know I’m not taking anything over the top when he’s whipping me. I get some welts, sometimes they last days, sometimes only hours. Sometimes there is a little breaking of the skin, sometimes not. Sometimes it feels good, sometimes I’d like to set the whip on fire in the backyard and do a happy dance while it burns.

Sometimes he does it rather lightly (but still hurting!), but repetitively, over and over and over, quick little snaps, moving from spot to spot to spot, without pause and it drives me batshit crazy. It’s not even the pain so much as the constant flick, the never-ending bite.

I’d make the comparison between being stung once by a wasp, or being bitten by 300 fire ants, one at a time.

I am ambivalent on whether I’d choose the wasp or the ants. Both and neither, thank you.

My fear is the day when it becomes being stung by a wasp 300 times, one at a time.

I’ve never been stung by a wasp. Not even by a bee. I’ve built it up into epically painful proportions in my mind.

This particular occasion was a “300 ants, one at a time” type of whipping. Honestly, by the end of it, I’m whimpering like I’ve been skinned merely because I can’t catch my fucking breath. It’s insanity I tell you.

Pictures are behind the cut. And a clip is up at the Clip Store.

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“It is the nature of the ego to take, and the nature of the spirit to share.”

Master has another.

I’ve not been ready to share that here before now. I needed to come to terms with my own jealousy.

Even though it’s always been clear who owns who in this house, I wasn’t able to stop the growing feeling of possessiveness that I had toward him. I know he owns me. I wanted to own him.

I don’t.

Along with the jealousy that I did not expect to feel, that blindsided me with it’s viciousness and ferocity, was rejection.

You see, she was supposed to be mine. She wasn’t supposed to fall for him.

She does care for me. But not with the same affection she feels for him. I’m… an acceptable alternative for company. His presence renders me invisible to her.

I’m not entirely sure of the depth of Master’s feelings for her. Are they really that strong or does he merely enjoy watching the play of emotions cross my face as he sits with her and snuggles her and enjoys her in tender ways that aren’t for me?

I think he likes watching the venom in my eyes, knowing that I’m biting my tongue from lashing out and saying “He’s mine, bitch!” I think he likes watching the fire flare… and then fade to nothingness as I, once again, remind myself that he is not mine, that I am his, and that he can do whatever, with whomever, he pleases.

It’s very debasing, that process of thought.

Over the last few months I’ve accepted, though not without struggle or tantrum, that what he does feel for her is a much more gentle emotion than what he feels for me. I know he loves me, and it’s not that he loves her more. Just differently. She is soft.. where I am hard. She is easy where I am difficult. She is cute and young and dainty, where I am plump, aged, and clumsy.

She snuggles into his lap, a place I hold in high regard. A place that embodies all of the gentle romance that I sometimes feel for this man who owns me. A place where I’m allowed only by invite, only when his view of me pauses in seeing me as “object” and, for a small amount of time, sees me as wife and lover and all things tender. Yet, she climbs on at will, without hesitation, without invite, and is never, ever rebuked. He laughs, and he pets her, and he watches me with glinting eyes, waiting…

I don’t think that she’s full of malice in her exploits in his lap. I don’t suspect that she’s aware of how coveted that spot is. She’s utterly confident, and irritatingly innocent, of her cuteness. She simply enjoys him.

Though sometimes, when she is sitting there, she looks over at me and I can see the haughtiness in her pose. She taunts me, just a little.

It’s been months of turmoil. But I’m good now. I’m better. I can smile back at her, seated upon his lap, with genuine affection and pleasure.

And so I’m ready to share her here.

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When in doubt, add more rope.

I have the most uncooperative boobs when it comes to boobie bondage. They’re teardrop shaped, and small, so Master spends forever tying them up… and the rope simply slides down and pops off.

Which is a shame because I LOVE boobie bondage something awful. :-(

He still tries though, yanking me around by my tit, wrapping and tying and wrapping and tying, until, finally, some hundred feet of rope later, my boobs are subdued into submission. Provided that I don’t move or breathe, that is. ;-)

Look at the ridiculous amount of rope he used. Even with all that it was falling off before we were done.

Several months ago we received a gift in the mail from Mandy and her Husband/Dom. They sent us the infamous cheesegrater paddle.

It’s sat in the closet for a long time. I was am afraid of it. It’s skeery looking. And sharp. And BIG.

And I’m a pussy. So you know, I avoided it. Actually I was avoiding everything painful there for a while, but since I (thought I) was “back” and embracing pain again, Master felt it was high time to try this paddle out.

So he did. And so.. it hurts. It (surprise surprise) grates your ass cheeks!

This is a light spanking. Nevertheless, I was complaining that he was hitting too hard!

I would like to call a truce to this mailing of the painful stuff. I will stop if you will stop. ;-)

My ass feels like it’s on fire actually. Not in that deep-tissue pain that a spanking usually brings on, but that “oh man, I feel like I just went ten rounds with a cheesegrater” way. It just burns, like a papercut. A million papercuts.

But then there was some really, really awesome fucking, and some nipple tweaking and some bullet vibing and some dirty talk and lots o’ gasms…

Good times, my friends, good times.

~cunt

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Annoying the world, one offense at a time.

So I think we’ve all read this by now “Pet” girl kicked off bus for wearing leash. I’m seeing it linked just about everywhere.

It was an amusing little story, and my sympathies initially went with the couple in question. Certainly they weren’t breaking any laws or doing anything that called for that sort of reaction from the bus driver.

I think the driver had a big ol’ bowl of bitchflakes for breakfast that morning.

The girl, the pet of the couple, is quoted in the story as saying “”I am a pet [...] It might seem strange but it makes us both happy. It’s my culture and my choice. It isn’t hurting anyone.”

So it’s not hurting anyone. And it is their choice. I would be completely outraged had someone walked into their home and said the things that the bus driver said. But, they brought it public. They took it outside their home. Do the same rules of tolerance apply?

I’m strongly opposed to PDK’s (public displays of kink). I think kink belongs in your home, not in Wal-mart or the Chinese buffet line. When I go out in public, I expect a modicum of appropriate behavior, from myself and everyone else.

I don’t necessarily think that this couple stepped over that line, at least not in any blatantly disrespectful way. Especially in this day and age where “goth wear” typically includes spiked collars and chains dangling from various places. I’m so accustomed to seeing goth styles that I don’t even suspect a person is into kink if I see a collar or a leash. I actually tend to look for more subtle clues these days. That flaunting style, in my opinion, rules out a serious interest in kink. (which is my opinion only. I think people who flaunt are making up for some other insecurity perhaps. But thats another entry.)

That’s why there are events and get-togethers, you know? There are appropriate places to let it all hang out and show off your interest in bdsm.

This couple wants to play Owner and pet. That’s wonderful. Who doesn’t? Yet, they clearly suspend the “play” when they have to. The “pet” was walking on two feet, wearing clothes, and was quoted with an articulate response in the newspaper. She wasn’t listed as saying “Arf! Arf!” (or whatever animal she’s playing) so why can’t they also suspend the roleplaying and leave the leash off when they get on the bus? People do outrageous things precisely to get that sort of shocked reaction and then whine when they get it.

But culture and choice is her defense. Fine. There are cultures where nudity is the choice but they wouldn’t be allowed on the bus either. What if the next person chooses to wear his adult Huggies, his baby bonnet, and suck on his “mommy’s” breast?

Where do you draw the line for public exposure? When did the public consent to being pulled into *your* kink?

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