Putting it in words

Putting it in words can be difficult. But melly did it rather effortlessly for me.

First, she explains how it would work in her own dynamic, which differs from mine somewhat. (okay, maybe a lot.)

"if i felt i was not being listened to, if i felt that my owner was not taking me into consideration, i f i felt i was no longer a priority, and my needs and desires were not being handled at least in some small manner, i would have a
long discussion outside the dynamic, and voice my concerns. i would ask if He had a plan, and that if He did, i wasn’t seeing it, and that i was having some serious issues. and if ultimately, i discovered there was no greater plan, that
i was simply being forgotten, or pushed aside, or made unimportant, i would leave."

Then she succinctly sums up what should be my position in our dynamic.

"on the other hand if you are maintaining that you are a slave without choice [...] you might want to consider not thinking about how to get what you feel you should be getting, and instead, figure how you are going to deal with things as they are. you need to figure out how to live with your life, and accept what you’ve got, whatever it is, whether you feel happy right now or not. you are your Master’s slave, and that is just the end of it. he will use you or not however he wishes. whatever he’s doing is of no concern to you, and moreover, you can’t do anything about it. [...]suck it up, buttercup."

And that is *exactly* where I am. I have parts of the first paragraph because, choices or not, I am a person with all manner of emotions and thoughts and such things that plague humans. In spite of the objectification process that continues on here, maybe what I need to know is, even as just an object-human, that I have value. That I’m of value and use to him. That whatever it is I am doing for service, or not doing as the case may be, is still in following with the master plan, and that it *matters* to him one way or the other. And THAT, in spite of periods of play and in spite of continued great sex, has been missing for months.

Yet, I exist under the ’rules’ of the second paragraph. A slave without choice. I can’t do anything about what he’s doing or not doing. I can’t change it or direct it and so I’ve been desperately trying to figure out HOW to deal with it in a manner that *doesn’t* make it more work for him. That doesn’t become unintentionally manipulative. I tried to find satisfaction in simple, quiet service. I tried to make housework and laundry be all that I need. But I can’t make something be what it isn’t.

I tried to convince myself that when he stopped asking for massages and foot rubs and nightly blow jobs, stopped chaining me in, stopped requesting my shower-assisting services, etc., that it was all fine, that he gets to decide on the level and purpose of service, that I don’t get to dictate what I NEED to perform as that all overrides the whole point of being in service to HIS wants, and not to mine. Yet, how do I pretend that I don’t miss them. How do I ignore that those things DO define me as a slave, that not getting to BE a slave throws everything into a tizzy. I *get* that him allowing me to do those things is his right, his choice, it’s a gift, a privilege to me. So, isn’t it logical that when he takes them away, it has all the connotations of being a punishment for an unknown transgression?

I tried to put my all into the services that he did still seem to want and expect. But they amounted to very few. And I wasn’t able to keep myself from letting the negativity fall over those as well as time went on. The thinking of, well, if he doesn’t need or want me for THAT, maybe he doesn’t want me for THIS either and I went into a roller coaster of despair and determination. One day hating the bits of service and doing a lackluster job of them and the next, trying to make them be all they could be and pouring my heart and soul into them. Only to find them unnoticed, unappreciated… unwanted.

And so.. I’ve just existed. Taking what he offered when he offered it. That’s my purpose, yes? To take what I get and make it be enough.

Which is precisely where the troubles start. How do I make it be enough, when it just isn’t?

Do I find other things? Other things that make a poor substitute for what I’m missing, a substandard fill-in that will probably only lead me down another path of failure and depression. And isn’t that a sign of losing faith, redirecting my attentions to things that I KNOW he’s not interested in or concerned about. Scheduling my time doing something else that will only further pull us away from what was once the original goal.

Or do I hang on, clinging to scraps and simply be grateful to get them.

It feels like we’re standing on the edge of something huge. It really does. But I’m not sure either of us know what it is or which way to go. One way seems to be the beginning of the end. Though it offers short-term "fixes" I sense long-term failure that way. Like slapping a Snoopy band-aid over a severed artery.

Another way means a continuation of things exactly as they are, that perhaps, maybe, if we (I) can stick it out, there is something at the end. Some bigger realization of slavery and service. Some days I think there is something, just right there, just out of reach… but if there isn’t, if I’m wrong, then continuation this way is … a very bleak thought.

But he does have an interest in making me happy. He does *want* to give me what I need – provided that it doesn’t clash with what HE ultimately wants. It’s imperative that pleasing ME does not become the focus, because how fucked up would that be?

Gah. It’s such a mess in my head.

We’re talking though. It’s all getting laid out on the table. At the very least, this has forced us to re-evaluate the goals and the process. We know that change is inevitable and there are no hard feelings toward each other for that change. It’s simply going to be a matter of figuring it all out.

*sigh* I need a cigarette. Does that craving EVER go away?

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Look…

You know, I have a tendency to blame myself when things start to get FUBAR-ed. Maybe that’s a submissive characteristic, or maybe it’s just me. But in spite of my smart-ass “It’s all Maser’s fault!” sarcasm here, in my personal life, and especially when it’s a serious problem, I do not look for the most convenient person to blame. I shoulder it. Because I don’t know what else to do.

Master tends to let me. It makes his life easier.

But, fact is, if I’m not going to be steering the way, my hands are tied. I can only point out that we’re heading for the ditch, as politely and respectfully as I can. What are my options? Grab the wheel and yank it? That’s not so successful. Scream and demand that he turn? Just as successful as yanking, don’t you think? Brace myself for the impact… and hope we come out relatively unscathed? Yeah. That’s about what I do.

But ditch after ditch after ditch? Bracing for the impact gets exhausting. It gets tiresome. And the self-loathing that follows the self-blame – the constant “where did I make him take a wrong turn?” and “what am I doing wrong?” while he just lets me sit in the dirty ditch because the God-complex has gone to his head? *shrug* I’m not a saint. It begins to feel futile and forced and resentful and all kinds of black and ugly things.

I appreciate the advice and the support. But you know what? You don’t know the half of it. You get about a 10 minute journal post of my entire life, and even at that, it’s only a piece of what I feel like sharing. Which lately? Has been tainted bullshit fluff because I’m not able to put all of THIS into accurate words that aren’t filled with self-loathing venom.

That link to the “When It Stops Being Fun” article? Here’s the part that is relevant to me: “The same applies to the Master. There are times (more than just a few) that life would be so much easier to kick back, enjoy a beverage served by a lovely slave, and channel surf away the day’s cares instead of being the “active Master” the relationship demands. More than one relationship with incredible potential has gone by the wayside due to this “abdication” of responsibility by the one in charge.”

Sometimes, it’s really not my fault and my hands are tied and I’m stuck until HE pulls his head out of his ass and decides what he wants and where he wants to take it. I AM NOT IN CHARGE. I don’t want to be. And if he doesn’t want to be either, then I NEED something else to focus on and think about and care for. Because being the only one interested in a dying BDSM relationship sucks fucking monkey ass. So I either get *permission*, which may or may not be the last thing I need to ask permission for, to find other hobbies and activities to occupy my time.. or he watches me go batshit insane, which is not a far travel right now. Not at all.

We’re not talking about a week of nothing here.. or a month… or whatever. You think what you want about my demands or my high maintenance behavior, but none of you know. You know what I’ve fluffed up because maybe I wasn’t even ready to face it. That’s all. I don’t care if it is my “fault” for only giving you a glimpse but a glimpse is all you can ever have with a blog. Anyone who feels like they know more, or knows me better than I know myself or knows more about my relationship than Master and I do, is delusional. And out of line. And can fuck right off.

Tell you something else, too. We are not, and never have been, anywhere close to ending our relationship. The bdsm? Yes, possibly, sometimes I’m sure of it. But us? No. We’re in love, nothing is changing that. If saving us means backing off the bdsm for now or for forever, then so be it. Contrary to popular opinion, there is more to us than perversion.

~~*~~

That’s what I had written yesterday, in a fit of disgust over it being alluded that I’m to blame, that I’m missing something, that I’m doing something wrong, that I’m blah blah blah… whatever.

I wasn’t going to post it. I’m sure it will piss lots of people off and cost me some readers. But you know what? I don’t care. Not one fucking bit. Sometimes I think some people need to be reminded that what you are reading on a blog is not ever the full story. Do not presume to think that you KNOW me because I write a journal. You don’t. You can’t. You get a one dimensional slice of one facet of my life of a short snippet of my day. That’s all. You want to come camp out in my living room for a few weeks, you can then tell me what I’m doing wrong.

I’ve spent the last 6 months blaming myself for something that I can’t fix or control or change. I do not need it here, too. Not today.

As it happens, Master hasn’t even read yesterday’s post. Nor will he probably be too happy when he does. This one either. But yesterday I did ask for permission to move on in my personal space. To let go of cunthood or slavery or whatever label is kosher these days. I told him I was tired of myself, fed up with my own unhappiness. That it isn’t fair the pressure it puts on him to be responsible for me and himself and the kids. That I can’t, won’t, ask him to be Superman. But that I also can’t keep doing *this*. The waiting, the expectations, the want and need… it’s too hard. Too sad. There is no blame to lay on either of us. It just happened that life intruded and though we’ve tried to hang on to it, it’s not making either of us happy right now.

He had no idea. Well.. that’s not entirely true. Unhappiness doesn’t go unnoticed in a shared bed, but the extent that I’ve hidden it and accepted responsibility for the ditch driving sugar-coated things. There is a fine line between “Oh I must communicate ev-er-y-thing to my Master!” and nagging, bitching behavior. I do not nag and/or bitch. Draw your own conclusions from that.

He didn’t try to look deeper, for his own reasons, whatever. Maybe the sand felt good around both our heads. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is he didn’t realize, or didn’t want to see, just how badly it had gotten. He is not testing me or doing it on purpose. I am not failing some “master plan”, He’s not punishing me or steering us in a different direction. I am not throwing a fit over nothing. And I certainly am not balking because it “stopped being fun”. We went south, and didn’t want to admit it. The end.

So. What now?

I don’t know. That’s the God’s honest truth. I don’t know.

He’s still driving. I’m still the passenger. The rest is up to him.

Sometimes Masters make mistakes. Maybe the litmus test for that so-called “true” Master is one who can admit it. If so? I have one.

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“Faith isn’t faith until it’s all you’re holding on to”

There was a man whose farm was located on the banks of a flood-swollen river. As the water rose, a neighbor drove up in a Jeep, urging him to leave before the farm was flooded.

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Just a swingin’

He always says that he’ll give me just enough rope to hang myself with. Yesterday he mimed swinging a lasso around his head, going "wheeeeee! wheeeeeeee! wheeeeeee!"

Point taken. I’m dangling.

He’s said that I’ve been possessed by an uppity bitch and he’s relishing the opportunity to beat her out of me. Honestly? So am I. It won’t erase my "epiphanies" (that he has yet to be impressed with, the Bastard) (probably because to him, they aren’t epiphanies at all. Merely long known facts that I’m too dim-witted to catch and hang on to.) but it will, once again, realign what matters.

So! I’ll be taking a few days off and when I come back, Master says to expect a return to our regularly scheduled blog.

Before I go though, I wanted to real quickly address a comment about my happiness. Or more specifically, my satisfaction with this life.

I am sure that there are times when I come across as being insanely miserable. Unhappy, dissatisfied, utterly bummed, etc., etc. Well. Who doesn’t?

Who is always 100% ecstatic about life? Who doesn’t get the blues or have moments when what is normally a pleasure becomes draining or tiresome? Everyone does and I’m no different. And I’m just not about sugar-coating things. If I’m not particularly pleased with something, I say so. It should be okay to talk about the ugly side of something without that meaning that I dislike the entire thing. Sometimes I complain about my kids too, but that shouldn’t translate into me being an unhappy mother. Just sometimes, it isn’t perfect. Means nothing more, and nothing less.

If there weren’t lows, the highs wouldn’t be so fucking incredible. ;-)

I’ll be back if Master wants a picture posted but otherwise I’m out of here for bit.

Beam me up, Scotty.

~cunt

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I feel a bad moon rising.

That last post is not sitting well. It’s “off” somehow.

I don’t think Master is going to like it either.

I don’t think he’s cared much for any of the last few posts I’ve made.

Oy. You know that restless whiny thing that dogs do when thunderheads start to build on the horizon? That’s how I’m feeling. And the sky is clear.

I’ve taken a very LARGE misstep somewhere I think.

Oy oy oy. cunt intuition tells me sumpin’ bad is coming.

~ cunt slave cunt! idontknowanymore

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Quid pro quo, Clarice

I’ve been thinking about the notion of ’quid pro quo’ as was mentioned in the comment section a few posts ago. In a way, that’s definitely how things work for me. For us.

It’s not *exactly* how we work though. ’Quid pro quo’ generally refers to an equal exchange and things here certainly are not always equal, but there is an exchange of services. It’s not always perfectly balanced. And it’s not as simple as “well, okay Master, now that I’ve sucked your dick, you have to give me my reward.” because that sort of direct approach might earn me something all right, but it sure as fuck would not be a reward. ;-)

It’s much more subtle than that. It *is* an expectation. I expect to get some payback for the “services” that I provide, even if the payback is nothing more than a pat on the head and a “good girl”. What I don’t expect is nothing. What I don’t ACCEPT is nothing.

Maybe it’s because I value myself more than I should for being just a lowly cunt object. Maybe I have an over-inflated sense of entitlement. But regardless of the reason, I’m in it with the expectation of getting something in return.

I’ve likened this before to getting paid. You wouldn’t continue to work for your boss if he neglected to pay you. That’s a very non-romantic way to look at the quid pro quo-ness of O/c (Owner/cunt instead of M/s :D ) but it’s easily understood I think. I don’t draw a paycheck from Master but I do get “paid” all the same.

I get attention. I get pain. I get random acts of depravity. I also get love and companionship and friendship. Intermittent periods of being ignored, being left to wallow in want and need, moments of isolation and moments of more ’attention’ than I really bargained for (grin). I get sex and lots of orgasms balanced out with times of being used as a sex object without regard to my sexual needs.

All of that, plus more, is my payback for providing services for Him. I don’t do those services with a pure heart or out of some bottomless well of kindness. I don’t do them because they make ME feel good. I do them, generally with a grin and a beating heart, because I know I’m *earning* something nasty. Something wicked this way comes.

Lots of times that balance leans heavily on my part (I think). I provide much more service than I get paid for. We don’t have a pay scale set up. Nothing as cut and dried as getting two swats for doing the dishes or anything like that. It’s definitely done entirely at his want and discretion. There might be a month of no pay at all while I continue on with my merry maid service (and merry slut service), and then perhaps a weekend of reward. Or, he might spread the reward out evenly for several days. What I can bank on (pun intended) is knowing that at some point in time, he will balance the scale out. One night of intense play can very well carry me for two months of service.

There are times, though, when the well runs dry. When service is no longer this well-oiled machine, but begins to grate and clang and scrape on dry bearings. Payout can be few and far between when the mood strikes him (or doesn’t strike him, as the case may be) and I react to that. I am not expected to timelessly carry on as if I am still getting paid. I am not expected to draw on some internal sense of submission to continue on without his input. Though I understand that the scales tip heavily on me, at some point it will topple over and come crashing down if he doesn’t provide some counter balance.

The important thing is that he understands that too. He knows I’m not built to run on nothing. So whatever it is that he wants from me in terms in service depend entirely on what he is willing to pay out.

That seems at odds with my other strongly held belief that a Master is not required or obligated to provide any sort of service for his property. It’s not though. I don’t, for one second, think that Master is obligated to pay me or use me or reward me for anything. And there are times, many many many times, when he doesn’t. When he watches me hit bottom, and enjoys it. Because I don’t promptly demand my quid pro quo. I do my best to get it when it’s doled out and to make do with whatever reserves I have. I will spin on rusty gears for a long time before imploding.. and he likes that. A lot.

So what would happen should he choose to let me continue working on a dry well? If he chose to never reward me again? I don’t know. Maybe I would find that elusive place of creating happiness out of nothing. Maybe I would sink into a chemical depression due to sudden withdrawal of endorphins and adrenaline. Maybe I would lose all inclinations for power exchange and masochism. Maybe someday I’ll find out. Some days I think I’m very close to finding out. We go through some wicked dry spells now and then.

But I keep the faith that we’re still operating under the quid pro quo guidelines. I perform my services and he’ll give me my reward for doing so. I expect it to continue in this vein for quite some time. I’m involved with someone who is invested in my future, forever. What we do together has to please both of us. For now.

I don’t think that will last forever though. Keeping the balance now is necessary, one day it won’t be. We’ll see what I think of quid pro quo then. :D

~cunt

Edit: I almost forgot. Master read my quitting post.

Sometimes, I think I write something really profound and I hop around impatiently waiting for him to read it and I just know he’s going to get all excited and agree with my profoundedness.. and then he just doesn’t. He just… doesn’t. At all. He just says “you didn’t quit.. so quit THIS… and you’ll still call me Master or Sir. Understand?”  and that’s it. Like.. I feel so dismissed. *pathetic sigh*

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Cold. We has it.

I’ll give you one guess as to who the snow shovel bitch is. Who needs Curves when you have snow!

I look like a heffalump with a head in my winter garb though huh? :D Like that kid in A Christmas Story.

It’s only -14F (-25C) with the wind chill today! Purt near having a heat wave. Must be why Am went to school wearing capris and sandals. She said “you can’t let the cold interrupt fashion, Mom” and rolled her eyes like I was retarded. Silly me, worried about frostbite and hypothermia. Damn overprotective mothers anyway.

So I got my message from the Universe this morning and it just cracked me the fuck up. It said, among other things, “Gabriel, did you register kaya’s epiphany yesterday?” Hee hee! I love it when it’s spot on with something. It makes me giggle.

Master is still sick, though on the mend I think. He’s done nothing more than go to work and go to bed and hasn’t read anything lately. So I’m still quitting but it’s still not an approved quit. I wonder, do I need to come up with a different name for him? If I’m not a slave, then I shouldn’t call him Master, right? I had some ideas for a new title. Maybe you can help me pick.

Satan.

The Grand Poobah of Cuntville.

Mofo.

Billy Bad Ass.

Demon Sadist of Cunt Street.

Teh Boss

Zorro

Beelzebub.

or Babycakes.

One of the commenters on that last post (Fyre) left a hilarious list of slogans for my new-found cunthood. I picked out my favorites to choose from.

“Have it your way.” Burger King

“Just do it.” Nike

I gotta say, the Nike slogan is one that Master The Grand Poobah of Cuntville (I’ll just try them all on for size) says to me fairly often. “Be like Nike, cunt. Just do it.” So that’s got strong possibilities.

Although I really like the Burger King message since that IS what I am preaching.

I suppose I should come up with my own anyway. “Just do it your way”? *snicker*

Acronyms are harder than I thought. I’ll have to remember this for a cunt cupboard activity.

COHIP (Cunt Ownership Has It’s Privileges)

FOSIM (Fuck Off, She Is Mine; or FOHIM – fuck off he is mine)

ACWA – (A Cunt With Attitude)

CUT – (Cunt Under Torture)

Anyway… time is up. Later gaters.

~cunt

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I quit.

So here is something that’s been rolling around in my noggin for a bit.

I had a lightbulb moment. It started as a flicker but it’s grown into a steadily burning fact. I’m gonna go with it.

I quit. I quit the whole BDSM, Master/slave, dom/sub … thing. I quit.

I don’t GET it. I mean, really, it’s so simple now that I see it. All this time that I’ve struggled and argued and confronted and and and.. just.. gone on and on about this, that and the other, trying my god-damndest to GET it.. and I don’t.

But now I know WHY I don’t.

I’m not doing it! I am not doing what the BDSM’ers are doing. Nope. Not at all. I don’t even understand what they’re doing anymore.

I’ve been a square peg trying to shove my way into a round hole for ages and ages. I’m like the Rabbi at the Catholic convention, not quite understanding why he’s drawing conflict every time he opens his mouth. Because he doesn’t know he’s a Rabbi and not a Catholic.

So.

I am not a slave. I sure as fuck am not a submissive. I may have certain aspects of my personality that mimic those of your stellar slaves and subs. But on the checklist of BDSM-defined slaves and subs? Nope. Ain’t working.

I am a cunt. Nothing more and nothing less. As far as I know, there are no rules or guidelines or right or wrongs to cunthood. I think that I get that Master gets to define my cuntness.

See, I am in this state of cunthood for a reason. I came into this relationship wanting some very specific things. And, to top it all off, I not only think I deserve them, I demand that I get them. I demand that I get them OR I retaliate by witholding my own contributions to the relationship. Apparently, that does not mesh well with the slave board of ethics.

I’ve just gone round and round with it. I don’t GET how someone gets nothing out of a relationship. I don’t get why in the hell they would even sign up for that! Nor do I understand how it is that they *create* happiness out of it. Happy with nothing? Say huh? What the fuck does that mean!?

I’m really unclear on how to maintain friendships with people who don’t see it like I do. I don’t mean that everyone has to agree with me because *obviously* people do not. And I can be friends with someone who doesn’t agree with me. It’s simply a matter of you do your thing and I’ll do mine, right?

Except.. no. I don’t know how that works really. Because being around someone who sees what I am doing as *wrong* has a certain effect on me. And that effect is not conducive to a zen state of cunthood. Sure, we could tiptoe around a conversation, careful not to step on a trigger button that might offend the other.. but that seems like a lot of work. Work that is perhaps doomed to failure?

Religion and politics, with power&money coming in a close third, are the root cause of the wars being fought. Religion and politics are a way of life. A value structure. Morals and ethics, your belief system, your reasons for getting out of bed every day. It’s all wrapped up in the way you LIVE. It’s because those on one side think their way of living is right and better and more just than the other side that they strive to either force their way on the other or, worse, to eliminate the other. That’s maybe how I view the approach to living this sort of deviant lifestyle, too. This is my way of life, it’s my reason for living, it has far-reaching, long-term effects on myself and those around me, yet, inevitably either I or someone doing it differently, tries to push that on to the other. It’s impossible, when you feel  strongly about what you do, to keep your opinions to yourself. Sincerity leads one to want to convert another. “Just listen to me. I am right! I am happy! And you will be too once you do it my way!”

So how does that work then, to have friends who feel just as strongly as I do about how they are doing what they are doing? How can they not attempt to convert me? How can I not attempt to convert them?

I know that some of y’all find extreme satisfaction in service. Me? Not so much. It really depends on the situation and what prompted the service, but service all by itself sucks ass. I get to say that because I am not a slave and I don’t *have* to either pretend I like it or turn it into something I like. I DO it because I am a cunt and I am an owned cunt, and my owner/ruler has told me to. But I also get to grump and complain while I do it because he doesn’t give a fuck HOW I do it, only that I get it done.

But I can’t talk about how I grump and complain and stomp my feet and sigh and throw my hands in the air.. because in the land of slaves, that’s shameful behavior. Best case scenario- it’s frowned on, worst case scenario- it’s grounds for ‘release’. And.. not only am I not free to talk about it, neither is Master! The judgments surrounding the type of Master who would tolerate such behaviors? Profoundly ridiculously insulting. Honestly. Not even Master can admit that he enjoys it. Not even if he explains that knowing that I don’t want to serve, but do it anyway, is so much more of a turn on for him than happy-happy joy-joy, thank-you-for-letting-me-serve-you-Sir, can-I-kiss-your-feet stuff.

I am possibly maybe a masochist. I do not eroticize pain unless I do the paining to myself. Pain… hurts. A lot sometimes. It makes me squeal and beg and cry and try my damndest to get away from it. That’s generally why he ties me up first. Because I’ll bolt, given the chance. He likes that too. He also likes that I crave and need and want and beg for exactly the sort of beating that I hate. Makes his job easier I guess. He’s not reduced to having to kidnap unwilling girlies from the street to scratch his itch. He has me. A willing participant to torture. A cunt.

Stoic, calm, submissive behavior during a beating bores him to tears. He wants reaction. He wants panic. He wants tears and snot and begging for mercy. Any attempt on my part to withold such reactions only results in a harder beating and a very unhappy sadist. I’m not so sure that my fighting during a scene qualifies me for slavery. It seems like I should be graceful and silently grateful to be getting it. And um.. fuck that. It hurts. But it does qualify me for cunthood according to my made-up rules.

You know what else I don’t get? The whole spiritual movement in BDSM. I am not one of the cool kids who has reached that level I guess. To be honest I think y’all are making it up but I won’t tell you that because “just because I don’t have it doesn’t mean it isn’t real” and all. I know that so I generally extend the benefit of the doubt to you all. But in my secret bitchy place (which is not so secret but very bitchy) I think y’all are full o’ shit. (grins)

But that’s okay! Because as a cunt, I don’t have to be spiritual. I don’t have to be anything but what he tells me to be. The only worship I have to do is to a cock and the occasional stinky set of feet. And even at that I won’t be reveling in the privilege. I’ll be wrinkling my nose and telling him his tootsies are rotten.

I don’t have to find joy where there isn’t any. I get to frolic in the things that I hate with a passion. I get to have my “force fetish” scratched without it having hidden meanings of anything bad. I get to dance out of reach and sing “make me” and then run like hell, because he will make me and it will hurt.. and I love it. I get to say ‘no’ and ‘fuck you’ and ‘kiss my ass’ and I get to be stubborn and willful and difficult. I get to cry and I get to say how much I hate it and I get to ask for something more and I get to tell him that he is wrong sometimes.

I get all of that, and more, because I am not a slave. I am a cunt. And cunts have different rules. So there.

So you see? Bitchy opinionated cunts have no place in the world of BDSM. What I want, where I’m going, how I’m getting there.. it’s all at odds with the way the rest of the BDSM culture is going about their business. This should mean that I’m no longer going to be told how I’m doing it wrong because I’m not doing it. Make sense? You can’t tell me I’m a bad slave anymore because.. hahaha! I’m not a slave. Not even a sub.

I don’t submit. I don’t acquiesce. I don’t do anything of the sort. I offer myself up to be conquered. Overpowered, crushed, beaten, reduced and trampled. Repeatedly. It’s how we do it. It’s what floats our boat. A constant and ongoing process of trampling, up until, once and for all, it’s done.

When it’s done… you won’t have to listen to me babble about it. I’ll be squirreled away, taken out to be beaten and used and put away. Those are not the obvious slave aspirations, but they ARE cunt aspirations.

I am reinventing the wheel. *beams*

I don’t fit in, and more importantly, I don’t WANT to anymore. Y’all do your bdsm thing. We’re gonna do our thing. Now I just gotta come up with some cool acronyms and catch phrases.   ;-)

~cunt

(I suppose I should add in here that I’ve not yet informed Master of my decision to reject all things BDSM and possibly, maybe, tonight or tomorrow or whenever he reads this, I will be retracting my statements. But until then, I quit.)

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Another cool find.

I’m rocking on JT’s today.

Things like this make me have penis envy. Not for the purpose of torturing some man, but to have one ON me so I can FEEL the torture.

Damn. I’m beginning to marinate in my own juices and I’m on a masturbation ban.

*sob*

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Best Ballgag Ever.

Jawbreaker Ballgag

I’ve anxiously been waiting for this to come out. I think it is so very cool.

Of course I’m a candy lover, so maybe I’m a bit biased.

But, seriously, for me the worst thing about a gag is the taste. And the ball gag that we have makes my mouth and throat burn for hours afterward. Whatever it’s made out of tastes like CRAP. So this… THIS = WANT.

Picture the copious amounts of drooling a jawbreaker gag would make. I hate to drool! So of course I want to really really badly!

If I had this, I’d be begging to be gagged. That would be win-win for us!

I wonder if they sell refills.

~cunt

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