“You block your dream when you allow your fear to grow bigger than your faith.”

Everyone keeps bringing up the insurance. I get that, but at the same time, I’m not sure that’s what I mean.

I’m the beneficiary to Master’s life insurance. So I know I’ll be “taken care of”, financially at least, if something should happen to him. We’re also married, which would give me some amount of protection, by law, should he ever decide to leave.

I almost want to say those are the securities that I trusted him to provide for me. That’s the gamble I took when I sold everything I had, quit my job and entered this relationship.

He ensures that we have health insurance, homeowners insurance, automobile insurance, life insurance. He’s covered, as much as humanly possible, the bases of the unpredictable.

His asking me to leave the workforce was a big deal. I had my kids to consider, as well as my own self. I had all of the what-ifs to think about, too. It was a crossroads in our relationship. I could have said “look, I understand you want to take this relationship to another level, but I have to worry about our future (and by “our” I mean mine and my kids, away from your’s) so I’m sorry, but I cannot quit my job.” Which, to me, loosely translates into ‘I dont trust you to provide for our future so I’m keeping control of that, thank-you-very-much’. Or I could have, and did, say, “this is a big scary step and I may struggle with it some but I trust you. Implicitly.”

The same thing with the isolation. I could have fought it. I could have stated that I was not going to alienate myself from my friends or family because I needed to maintain that support system based on a what-if, which would have, without a doubt, been a seriously fatal blow to our relationship. Or.. I have faith. I trust that he knows what he’s doing, that he’s not going to shape me into something that he doesn’t want and then abandon me. And that if he does find out this isn’t going as he wanted/expected, he’ll take the necessary slow steps to reverse it or change it or fix it.

And he did do exactly that. He spent months, literally, pulling me back from a place where he had led me and then decided it wasn’t the healthiest place to be right then. How would that have worked if I had not “gone” there in the first place?

You can’t refuse to do it based on a what-if and then still tell me that you’re building a successful relationship! That makes no sense to me at all. You’d ruled by fear more than by your Dom, wouldn’t you?

What if it were reversed. What if, during the course of your relationship, you knew that your Dom had another slave waiting in the wings? Someone for him to “fall back on” should you not work out. His “submissive safety net”. To me it would be devastating, it would show an extreme lack of faith toward me from him, and it would without a doubt doom the relationship to failure. On that same note, if I had kept ahold of my own safety net, whether it was money, a friend, my job, or whatever… I just cannot see how that would have worked.

Obviously I can only come at this from my own personal angle. I do understand the “once burned, twice shy” aspect. Probably, if I had already been through an abandonment/death that left me unprepared and in a tough spot, I’d be preaching a different story. I suppose ‘prudence’ would be the name of my game instead of ‘faith’.

“if you plan for the end, you’re securing the end”

Maybe it’s more accurate to say that if you’re expecting the end, if you’re keeping your safety net because you believe the end will come – then the end will come. A self-fulfilling prophecy?

I don’t know. I just cannot see how keeping your safety net brings anything positive to the table. And it’s not a matter of sticking my head in the sand and thinking we’re above those tragedies. It’s just that I believe that he’s got the tragedies covered.

He’s prepared our safety net. I don’t need to make my own. Making my own communicates an extreme lack of faith in his. Extreme.

Gah. I should stick with posting porn..lol

~cunt

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So what happens after the fat lady sings?

I’ve been stealing Sharon’s stuff lately (with permission, of course). At one time, she was a constant source of amazing material on slavery, bdsm, the works. Oh, she still is an amazing source, but for awhile she went quiet.

Or maybe, more accurately, I avoided reading. She was dealing with something that none of us ever want to face. Her relationship with her Master had ended.

Reading about break-ups isn’t necessarily uncommon, but when it’s someone who was in deep, it kinda rocks your boat. I didn’t like my boat being rocked. It’s easy to tell yourself “gee, that sucks for her and I feel terrible, but that will never happen to us!” We like to think we’re immune to those tragedies.

He will never leave me, he will not fall in love with someone else, he will not grow tired of this thing we do, and, above all, he will never die. He can’t! … except…

What if?

She details some of the long and painful road she’s been on.

Ex-slavery.

We never talk about that dammit.
We never make people aware of what kind of hell they are gonna face.
We never have safety nets out there for them when they cannot think for themselves and won’t leave the house and are afraid to go out alone and don’t know how to take off the collar in their head.

Its going to be one of my ongoing themes this time around.

i haven’t been able to write at ALL for the last year (go ahead, look at the drivel more than a week old posted here and elsewhere— what crap!).
i used to write essays the way most people breathe.

i haven’t been able to write this one out because it is still in me, daily. i am walking some long path and there are no fucking maps. One friend suggested that i talk to the gay mens groups– they have more experience with released slaves (serious slaves– there’s nothing we need to do about the velcro collar girl that showed up in scene Monday, got a collar Thursday, and dumped him by the next month. She needs roller skates for that revolving door, not sympathy) and the horrors that we go through.

Yes, i know, my Owner went through them too. But He, like most men, did it alone, compartmentalized the whole affair, and moved forward like a shark in a small tank with blinders on. Men do that shit.
Us? We drown.
We scream, and cry, and commit suicide and homicide and pull away and leave the life and hate ourselves and make fast bad decisions to cover up the intensity of our losses.
We have *no where* to go… and ya know what’s worse? We have no place to learn!
When *i* had to create our uncollaring ceremony, do you know how many things about that i found on line?

ONE!!!!! Fifty fucking million pages about the joys of collars and rose ceremonies and burnings and cuttings and all kinds of hot shit. Want to know how to end something? Tough titty.

So that’s on my list as well, to write about the ceremony and what it was and why.

Some might ask, “what the hell are you writing all this for?”
i write for me. i write for the next- the LAST- Owner i will ever have, when He comes here to find out what kinds of tics i have going. i write for the next lost woman who howls for days on end until her vocal chords bleed and she can’t get out of bed and spends nights driving up and down the coast trying not to take a 90 degree turn into the waves and sleeps with the toy bag for 6 months and carries the whip in her purse and feels unable to take off the collar or the other tokens.

i write to make everyone else think about what they have, and what the hell they better have in place in case it gets lost— stolen— dies— before they are ready.
Because we all should know more than just the fun parts.

I did not come into this relationship with a safety net. I don’t have a squirreled away bank account, or friends on speed dial, ready to rescue me should I call. I gave him everything that I had, everything that I am, and trusted that he’d do right by me.

He has. He is. Every day. I’m one of the lucky ones.

So far.

I believed then, and I still believe, that if you plan for the end, you’re securing the end. Though I no longer kid myself into thinking that a tragedy cannot strike us, I am still not preparing a safety net to fall back on. And I won’t. I think doing so would demonstrate an extreme lack of faith. I think doing so would be the beginning of the end.

What does it really say?
I trust You… but not enough.
I have faith in You.. but not enough.
I pledge myself to You.. but not completely.

How can that possibly have a good outcome?

And of course, if you don’t have that plan, you are exactly where Sharon is. And that’s a suck-ass place to be, filled with a pain that I cannot even fathom. A place no one wants to hear about or look at.

Or experience.

But it exists.

I don’t know which is the right way to go. I don’t know if Sharon would have done it differently if she had known what the outcome was going to be. Would you have gone so deeply? Trusted so hard? Would you have prepared that safety net?

I guess the simple question is this: Do you have regrets?

We just never know what the right answer is going in to this life of serious slavery. It’s all balanced on so much trust and faith, very little to actually see and touch, nothing to hold on to as proof, no guarantees.

Maybe it has to be. Maybe anything else cheapens it, even knowing that sometimes – it crumbles.

~cunt

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A Must See

Hero, the Baby Beatle

“…remember to ret rer in to your heart…”

*dying of teh cute*

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Because I can easily imagine Master saying this to me during a “slave Diva” moment…

Again, thanks Sharon!

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“To know after absence the familiar street and road and village and house is to know again the satisfaction of home”

A random search (that I refuse to link to) netted this little gem.

“Survivors of abuse seek M/S relationships because they are only comfortable in a relationship that involves the dynamics of abuse they are familiar with. This is not a healthy place for them.”

How nice that someone, a stranger, has become the authoritative voice on what it is that is healthy for abuse “survivors”. Perhaps when they’ve finished dictating what is, and is not, acceptable in my intimate relationships, they can pick out the books I should be reading. Pre-program my television to acceptable entertainment. Choose my food.

Clearly they know more about what is healthy for me than I do. Odd of me to find that offensive.

First, I very much dislike the term “survivor”. I know other people use it and take pride (or something) in announcing that they “survived” past abuse. Personally, I think you survive a bad car accident or you survive a plane crash. And yes, I get that some people have survived horrific abuse that probably did put their lives in danger. But I was not in any danger of dying so I detest having that term applied to me.

I also reject the “victim” label. Though my past might fit the dictionary definition of being victimized, that particular word carries such a self-pitying atmosphere with it that it just makes my brain twitch. I hated being in therapy and hearing that word used for me. I did not feel like a victim until a doctor told me I was, and every time it was said I’d feel small and useless and sorry for myself all over again. I spent more time after therapy recovering from everything they told me I SHOULD be than I did working my way through the actual after-effects of the abuse.

I am not a survivor, nor am I a victim. I was an easy target for experimentation. That’s what I was. I was a little girl with little girl parts surrounded by bigger, stronger, older boys going through puberty and left unsupervised by adults. It was bad and it was ugly and blah blah blah.

I’m over it.

Sure, it had it’s traumatic moments. Losing my virginity at the age of 5 was a rotten deal. I learned all sorts of associations that people who aren’t abused probably don’t. I learned that kissing is an act of intimacy far surpassing any sex act. I learned the fine art of dissociation. I learned how to eroticize situations that aren’t. I learned how to take pain without a sound or a twitch. I learned that sex and pain go hand in hand, that one enhances the other and without both together, either one alone – sucks.

But those lessons haven’t been all bad. What happened to me during those formative years under the guise of being “victimized” also taught me valuable life lessons that I’ve used on many, many occasions. After all, if I made it through that for all those years in one piece, I can make it through *anything*. I have pulled that thought up more times than I can count when struggling through a rough situation.

I tell you what it didn’t do though. That abuse did NOT render me retarded. Or ignorant. Or stupid. Or incapable of rational thought. I am not, and never have been, unable to think for myself, to know myself, and to choose what I like. To KNOW what I like – and what I don’t.

The very idea that someone has the audacity to say that because I was abused I am incapable of making healthy decisions about my life infuriates me. I was incapable as a 5 year old, I am NOT incapable now. How was it that I was apparently fully able to birth and raise 3 children who are happy, healthy, intelligent, well-adjusted teens, manage my time and my money, hold down a job, have a house and a car, function on a day to day basis in society and FEEL normal, healthy and happy? Yet some self-proclaimed “expert” comes along and decides that I’m too damaged to make “healthy” decisions. Excuse me?

So I can function decently in all areas *except for* those areas that involve my personal, intimate relationships? That’s the brilliant conclusion they’ve come to?

How then do they rationalize that not all of the people seeking an M/s relationship are “survivors of abuse”? How do they explain away that not all “survivors of abuse” seek out an M/s relationship?

Even if – IF – I, as a “survivor”, am indeed seeking the safety of familarity, so what? So fucking what?

I fail to see why finding comfort in what is familiar automatically equals “unhealthy”. If it’s a relationship that makes me happy and fulfills my needs, WHY is it unhealthy? I’m past the magic age of 18. I’m not a drooling, blubbering, incoherent dolt. I’m not a simpleton, I’m fully capable in every other area of my life, by society’s standards, to make rational, adult decisions. So why does this one get the fish eye?

If I had used my past abuse as an excuse to abuse another child because that’s what was familiar to me, that would be an unhealthy way to deal with it. If I had chosen men who used me as an avenue to my own kids because those kinds of men were familiar to me, THAT would be an unhealthy choice. If I stayed drunk 20 hours out of the day so I didn’t have to *think* about my past, that would be unhealthy.

Some people never move more than a mile away from mom’s house. They live, raise their kids, and die in the same community they grew up in. Why? Because it’s familiar. It’s safe. They stay at the same job for 30 years, eat the same foods, watch the same tv shows, keep the same friends, frequent the same bowling alley, go to the same doctor, buy the same truck year after year after year. Because it’s comfortable. It’s familiar.

Finding comfort in what is familiar to you is not necessarily an unhealthy choice.

Everyone in the world finds some way to deal with the hand life dealt them. Ev-er-y-body. You, me, everyone. You don’t have to have had some hugely traumatic event(s) to require a coping mechanism. Life itself requires it. Some people shop, some people devote themselves to the church, some people avoid their own life, merely existing while “living” through some actor on a soap opera. Some people escape into books or video games – or an internet chat room. Second Life anyone? Sims?

I choose not to smoke crack as my coping mechanism. I choose not to drink a bottle of wine a day. I choose not to gamble away my husband’s paycheck. I choose not to beat my kids. I choose not to torture small animals. But as an intelligent, rational adult I choose to keep this “abuse” in my life. I am comfortable with my current relationship dynamics. I feel safe in this environment.

I don’t need you. Go save a whale or something. Sheesh.

~cunt

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“Expecting [Master] to be fair because you are a good person is like expecting the bull not to charge because you are a vegetarian.”

Last night I was tired. No, I was beyond tired. I was bone-weary, blurry-eyed, dead-ass exhausted. At the ungodly late hour of… 9pm.

Maybe I need vitamins. Maybe it’s that week of the month where pms sucks out every single bit of energy a woman has. Maybe I’m too old for mornings that start at 4-freaking-30. Or maybe I’m just lazy. Whatever the reason, at 9:00 last night, I begged to go to bed.

He allowed it, following me there. Given the insane hours he’s been working on a difficult project, he was probably as tired, if not more so, than I was. I took off his boots and then stumbled to the bed, stripped, got in and promptly began drifting off.

“I think you should give me a blow job.” He piped up from across the bed where he was still undressing.

“Ugh. ‘morrow.” I mumbled. “Tired.” Then, taking just a moment to think, I wearily pryed my eyes open and gave him a sleepy, cutesy smile. “Sorry I’m so lazy.” and then closed my eyes again.

Of course I knew he could make me give him a blow job but I also knew that he… wouldn’t.

I felt the bed shift as he climbed in. My skin started to crawl in that way that it does when you know someone is watching you. Closely watching you. Studying you.

Reluctantly I dragged my eyes open to find Master’s face just an inch or so from mine.

“I’m real busy at work.” He said softly. “This project’s deadline is looming, it’s giving me problems and it’s all I’m thinking about right now.” I smiled at the gentle tone of his voice. “When it’s done, you and I will sit down and have a talk.”

“About what?” I yawned, lulled by the insidiously mellow way he was speaking to me.

His tone hardened. “About being lazy and all the things you are not doing.”

Oh.

Oops.

I was no less tired after that little chat and I still drifted off to sleep fairly quickly, but it wasn’t a good sleep at all. Plagued with dreams of a dead body found hidden in the neighbor’s yard and the body’s ghost, sitting in my kitchen. Which, according to internet interpretation, signifies these lovely things:

1. To see the dead in your dream, forewarns that you are being influenced by negative people

2. These dreams are particularly troubling as we often see ourselves as unable to reverse or complete the necessary actions to salvage a situation

3. To dream of seeing a deceased person is normally a dream of warning, and it tells you that the influences around you at this time does not bode well for your affairs

And in the dream, I was wanting to call the police. The ghost, weirdly polite and patient, was saying that being properly laid to rest would be nice. Master told me no, worried for our safety from the person responsible. And as I was being woken up, I was calling the police anyway.

Lord only knows what the (very obvious) interpretation is when you DREAM of disobeying your Master!

So of course I’m ashamed. I don’t know if what he said last night was a warning or a promise, but I do know any ‘talk’ begun that way is going to involve not-so-much-of-the-talking on my part as listening and crying while HE talks.

And too, I was a tiny bit miffed in that ‘well, what did you expect?’ sort of way. When the decision was made for me to take this job, he had to have known there would be SOME amount of sacrifice somewhere. Working 4 hours in the morning is hardly overwhelming, but it’s that early morning that’s a killer. Coming home and napping to replenish that energy would mean taking me away from the housework or the cooking or the laundry. Clearly, something’s gotta give in some area, right?

I mean, aren’t I entitled to some amount of understanding? Aren’t I allowed some areas to slack in?

It’s only fair that if he can use work and stress as an excuse to slack in his ‘masterly’ duties, then I equally get to let things slide on my end.

I don’t think I should be held to a higher standard than he is. I shouldn’t have to put in more than he does. I thought this was a partnership!

Right?

I mean, jeez, he’s treating me like I’m some sort of… of… like I’m a slave!

*sigh* I hate my head sometimes.

I can hear it now. “Oh, cunt. Let’s count the errors in those sentences, shall we?”

what did you expect? – I expect you to do what you’re supposed to do.
there would be SOME amount of sacrfice – Yes. On your part, cunt.
something’s gotta give - Yes. YOU.
aren’t I entitled to – No.
Aren’t I allowed - No.
It’s only fair – do you SEE a ferris wheel in the living room, cunt? There is no ‘fair’ here.
to slack in his ‘masterly’ duties – Oh reeeeally?
I equally - I’ll show you the meaning of ‘equally’ when I ‘equally’ beat both ass cheeks.
get to – you get to do what you’re told. That’s what you get.
I don’t think – yes you do. Too much. This needs to be addressed.
held to a higher standard – exactly.
I shouldn’t have to – since when do you decide what you should or should not ‘have to’?
I thought – again with the thinking.
a partnership – a dictatorship, cunt. Where I’m the dictator and you – are not.
Right? - Wrong
I’m a slave! - then fucking act like one!

So, yeah. It’s not fair and I don’t get to slack. I don’t WANT to slack and I don’t want to be allowed that excuse. I’m glad he calls me on it. I need that.

It just sucks monkey butt when it happens.

~cunt

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World’s Shortest Fairytale

Once upon a time, a girl asked a guy, ’Will you marry me?’
The guy said ’No’ and the girl lived happily ever after and
went shopping, drank martinis with friends, always had a
clean house, never had to cook, had a closet full of shoes
and handbags, stayed skinny, and was never farted on.

The End

*snicker*

seen here. Thanks, Sharon!

~~*~~

A man kills a deer and takes it home to cook for dinner. Both he and his wife decide that they won’t tell the kids what kind of meat it is, but will give them a clue and let them guess.

The kids were eager to know what the meat was on their plates, so they begged their dad for the clue.

“Well,” he said, “It’s what mommy calls me sometimes.”

The little girl screams to her brother “Don’t eat it, it’s an asshole..”

~~*~~

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About those crafts…

I got a comment yesterday that didn’t even come close to my kindergarten-level requirement of politeness to make it past moderation, but it did remind me of something I’ve been meaning to post.

I’m retiring from selling the kinky crafts. Since I started working, I just don’t have time to paint clothespins and poke tacks through bra cups anymore. ;)

There are so many other things I need to spend my time on, and it seems like it’s been ages since I’ve sat down to make something just for Master. I miss that. A lot. I want to get back to it.

I had a good run with the craft business. I had a lot of orders and I sincerely thank each and every one of you who bought something. I know some of you didn’t even want the stuff, you bought it just because you like me, and that did not go unnoticed. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I think the tack bra was the most popular. Now I read about them on blogs everywhere! I keep that in mind when I’m wearing mine, too. A sort of shared-suffering mentality. I feel less alone in my pain. :D

I’m leaving the craft page up because I really do enjoy sharing the silly ideas I have for ways-to-help-Master-hurt-me. I’ll be adding to it (I hope) whenever I come up with anything else. Suggestions are always welcome, too. Anything to help get the creative juices flowing!

So again, thank you for the encouragement and the orders. Thank you for paying me to decorate a clothespin. Thank you for everything.

~cunt

p.s. There have been a couple of recent inquiries about the tack bra and I am not leaving anyone hanging. If you (and you know who you are!) are still interested, email me at kaya (at) underhishand.com. I’m more than happy to make it for you.

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Strong Man

“I want a man who is strong enough to take me,” she sighed dreamily. “Confident enough to own me and possess me. Who won’t be guided by society but by His own will!” She turned to look at him. “I want a man who will do exactly what he wants.”

“I’m doing exactly what I want.”

~~*~~

I wrote that over two years ago, when I’d come to accept, finally, that my life as a slave wasn’t ever going to mirror those early fantasies. I’d made the mistake, as so many often do, of taking those snippets that I read and those 2 minute video clips that I’d seen, and believing that to be how it works 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Accepting my limitations as a mother and as a flawed human, accepting his limitations as a man – wasn’t as easy or as obvious as one would expect. But even harder than that was accepting that what he wanted, what he would have from me, wasn’t the stuff porn sites are made of. He does not want an object with no brain, a silent fuckdoll, or robotic obedience all the time. He wants a partner, a wife, a family. He wants interaction and love and affection. The silent, objectified fuckdoll is the dessert. The partnership is the meal. And he isn’t always in the mood for dessert.

Harder, still, was admitting to myself that neither am I.

I tried, for a long time, to convince him that he wanted dessert every day, every meal, double portions. He remained firm though. Sometimes frustrated, sometimes angry, sometimes patient and understanding, but never did he do more than have dessert when he damn well felt like having dessert. There were occasions when dessert was heartily eaten, times when it was nibbled, times when it was no more than a finger-lick. But always, no matter how much I bounced around him with that tempting plate – He was a strong man.

Adding, too, to my own inordinately high ideals on what my slave life should be, was the pressure I felt from blogging. Brought on fully by myself, I might add.

One person hates the pictures, one wants more. One thinks I should post nothing but the bdsm stuff, another says no no no, I want to hear about your kids and your pets. Love the recipes, hate the recipes; it’s all porn, it’s not enough porn; from ‘too extreme to stomach’ to ‘we do that everyday, what’s makes you think you’re so special?’, It’s the everyday stuff that makes you *real*! No, it’s the scenes that make you *real*. You’re not real at all because you do a, b, and c! You’re not real at all because you don’t do a, b, and c!

It was tough accepting that there might be weeks on end where I’d have nothing of interest to post, no scenes to report, no clips to show. Not having that stuff had become, to me, public evidence that we were slipping, not living up to the ideal I’d manufactured in my head based on blogs and comments of what M/s is supposed to be. Weeks of no pain? Months, sometimes, of nothing? It was a strange paradox. I would feel like a failure here, in my small public venue, yet at home, I knew I wasn’t. I knew it was going his way and that he’d do “it” when and if he wanted.

So it was a long, hard lesson. Tough getting to a place where I can just follow his direction, regardless of how far off from my fantasy it is or of how it will be received here. There are times when it does match my fantasies, like having my boobs nailed to boards and spending hours contemplating life in a dark, cramped cupboard. Being that silent fuckdoll, offering my body up for whatever painful, or non-painful, activity he has in mind.

But there are more times when it is as simple as putting in new bootlaces because his are frayed, adjusting a recipe because he likes more garlic, giving a backrub when I’m so tired my eyes won’t even open. Or just being quiet, being a friend, a lover, a wife. Because that’s what he wants.

He got what he wanted, he does what he wants, and I’m happy with that. The trick was in making those shoelaces be as significant as sitting down for the hammer and nails. Because you know what? The feedback from him was the same for both.

It’s not the details of what I do, it’s the spirit in which I do it. What a fucking revelation that is. I’d accepted, but I hadn’t found exhilaration in that acceptance. Now I have.

(I kinda lost wherever I was going with this. Master’s had to work all weekend and that leaves me with far too much time alone to think of dumb stuff.)

I guess I’m just happy. Happy because Master is happy. We’re in a good place right now. I keep being told how I should be ashamed of this or that – the list of supposedly shameful things is endless – but.. jeez.. I’m just not ashamed. Of any of it.

Everybody has standards to live up to, expectations to meet. What your’s are is based entirely on your own experiences, the people in your life. I’m meeting Master’s and that’s all that matters. What’s shameful are those who open up their standards like some public service umbrella and try to force others under it. What is that all about? Is it a God complex? Megalomania?

It does kind of feel like I’ve stepped out from under an umbrella and into the sunlight. Things are clear and crisp and easy.

Of course that could be that I’m still riding the tail end of the endorphin rush from the other night. Though we didn’t do anything edgy or really painful or anything like that, what we did do was fucking hot and the sex was out of this world. So maybe, a few days or weeks from now, I’ll have cycled back into dreary life-sucks territory. But for now I’m leaving Pessy McPessimist Pants behind and enjoying the sun.

I hope you do, too. :-)

~cunt

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Oh yeah…

The Clip Store has been updated. :D

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