“I keep clicking these damn shoes, but nothing happens”

(my response to a comment a few posts back)

I think, possibly, the phrase of ” all day fantasizing about something” has been taken literally when, for me at least, it’s not. I understand what you mean, and should it actually be the case where I were sitting here all day building up fantasies, then the let-down would indeed be understandable, and my own fault to boot.

But I see it, I mean it, as a more abstract idea of “all day fantasizing”. In that, this is the situation that He created, the focus that He wanted and fostered and sacrificed to make. He systematically eliminated, with great skill and determination, the outside distractions that prevented me from focusing on slavery and service and usefulness (etc. etc.) He demanded, still demands, that my number one priority is being His slave, of always being mindful that what I do is in service to Him. I don’t *just* clean the house because I’m a housewife. I clean it the way He wants it cleaned because He wants it cleaned on the day He wants it cleaned. Which may sound like I’m trying to romanticize the simple fact of cleaning the fucking house like every other person has to do, but it’s not meant to be that way at all. It has been beaten, sometimes literally, into me that every act, every move is done for Him or because of Him, or because He allows it.

The very existence of my day IS focusing on slavery. Not hours spent daydreaming about it, hours spent doing it. So yeah, I focus and focus and focus on the mean, awful, rotten but lively things about it because I cannot NOT do so anymore.

Maybe that makes no sense. I don’t know up from down anymore.

You’ve hit something right on the head though. And that’s the manipulation, the topping from the bottom, the bargaining.

I well remember the bratting, and I think we’ve moved far past that. Except in instances where we both know it’s happening and it’s actually happening in a teasing, enjoyable manner, we’ve conquered that beast.

However, to lay this particular beast open for Him feels much, MUCH the same way. Here I am saying “Look, if you don’t beat me/use me as I need to be beaten and used, I’m left to fall down this rabbit hole of angst and depression and self-denial” is it not exactly the same thing? Am I not saying “do it my way, as I need it, or else”? It feels like I am, when in fact, I do not mean to be. I’m merely acknowledging the problem without expectation that He can or will do diddly squat about it. In fact, I’m more searching for ways that *I* can “fix” it because I dare say that whether He acknowledges it as a “problem” for Him, I do not anticipate that He’s going to change or alter what He does with me anymore than He ever has.

~~*~~

There are still a lot of comments to explore and absorb and try on for size and either reject or embrace as usuable, applicable, advice. I’m also trying not to systematically reject each one based on “nobody gets it, nobody gets ME, because I am special and unique and blah blah blah…” because I am not even though I wish I were. ;-)

The thing is, this isn’t a new “problem”, not something that’s plaguing me now out of the blue. It’s not even a new topic of conversation between Master and I, nor is it a subject of heated debate. It’s just something that is, something that happens. Which is nobody’s fault and I’m not looking to lay blame, unless of course I can demand a refund from the Universe.

What brought it up so poignantly for me was, though I try really hard to bury even the lack of desire that comes from burying the expectations (I have a literal graveyard in my head I think), on this occasion I was not able to. When Master pulled me to Him at one point, either Friday or Saturday, and began the dirty talk of what He wished to do to me, I reacted. By not reacting.

Kinda threw Him for a loop, to be honest. Of course I have times where I’m not in the mood but these moments of being in the dead zone, which are a far cry different than a “mood” are not only happening more frequently, but stronger. It is disturbing.

I remained in that dead zone throughout an entire session. I felt.. nothing.

I was cut and I was whipped and I was flogged and I was fucked and I was clamped and I was spit on, slapped, paddled and pissed on.

And I felt nothing.

Nothing.

I felt dead.

Never before has that feeling persisted throughout an entire scene. I may feel it going in, that familiar lack of desire, but always before it’s been tapped and opened and I am not able to resist the pull of masochism and slavery and use. I did not try to resist it this time either. I waited for it to come as it always has, the endorphins, the adrenaline, whatever it is that makes me tick – I waited for it, until it was over and I was showered and bandaged and left silently crying and telling Him that it was gone.

It was quite the emotionally disturbing scene for me.

But there is more and is not all so doom-n-gloom as this was. Unfortunately, work awaits me as it is my ‘two-for-Tuesday’ workday where I do both the morning and afternoon shift. So off I go to be a productive and responsible member of society!

~cunt

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Bah.

Scratch that whole smoking post. Doesn’t fit.

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“If you must play, decide on three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time”

(First, I want to apologize for not being present sometimes when the conversation in the comments gets as interesting as it often does. Well, I don’t apologize for not being here when I’m off being where He’s told me to be, but I do feel like I sometimes put something out there and then sort of “abandon” the topic when He pulls me away. I hope any of you who comment know that I never intend to be rude, and that I do read, and appreciate, all of your words. Since Master is leaving ~sob~ I hope I can catch up with what’s been said. I don’t always like having to choose between comment or post, but such is life and in this short amount of time that I have right now, I want to post. So get on with it then, right? :D )

Three and a half years ago I quit smoking. I was a wonderful smoker too. Extremely dedicated to the art of it. I’d been smoking since I was quite young, 13 or so, back when you could buy cigarettes without an ID and when a pack was a mere $0.75. Quite often my little group of ‘homies’ would pool our change, buy a pack at the gas station and then smoke the entire thing between us. Of course back then, smoking was still cool, the Marlboro Man was a sex symbol, cigarettes weren’t addictive and cancer wasn’t caused by tobacco. By the time “they” admitted that it did, I was well and truly addicted.

By the time I was 16 and able to finance my habit on my own, I smoked a pack, sometimes two packs a day – for the next 18 years. I smoked when I was pregnant, I smoked in front of my kids,(go on and beat me up for it, you cannot possibly beat me up more than I have myself. I was blessedly lucky that none of my kids, so far, suffered any ill-effects from my selfishness) I smoked all the time. I chain-smoked. Buying cigarettes, as the price began to rise, came first out of each paycheck. Before rent, before groceries, before anything, was cigarettes.

I enjoyed smoking. I liked it. I liked the taste, the feel, the smell. I liked holding it, I liked inhaling it and exhaling it. I liked having one (or six) with coffee. I liked having one after a meal. I liked getting that first deep drag on that first break at work. I loved having one after sex, and I liked to smoke while I was driving. Having the window down, radio on, arm out the window and a good tasting cigarette made a summer afternoon drive pleasant. But the best, the very very best cigarette of all, was with a drink, in a bar, hanging with some friends.

I look back on my smoking years with some fondness. Obviously. I know that for all the bad that surrounds smoking, that doesn’t subtract from the genuine enjoyment I got out of it, an enjoyment that I still miss.

You know what I didn’t enjoy, not one stinking tiny little iota? Quitting. Quitting smoking was without a doubt the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life. Smoking was(is) a horrific physical addiction, as well as a horrific mental addiction. People who want to say it’s “just a habit” are full o’ shit, because while part of kicking it IS kicking the habit of the ritual of smoking, there is a LOT more to it than breaking a simple habit.

Quitting smoking, and anyone who does smoke and who has ever tried, and either failed or succeeded in quitting, will likely agree, is a bitch. A big, fat, smelly, rotten bitch.

It sucked, from the very second I crushed out that last cigarette – the very. second. that I knew I would never have another one, was the very second I started craving one.

And it’s never stopped.

Sometimes it’s nothing more than a low buzz, like constant background noise, almost forgettable until I see someone with one, or catch a pleasant whiff and then that low, buzzing, background noise kicks up into a quick, high-frequency beep for a time.

Other times it’s a deep and stong pull. A heart-thumping, palm-sweating need where I can picture myself going through the motions of tapping one from the pack, settling it between my lips, the quick flash of the lighter and the harsh burn that I imagine that first puff will be. The sweet heaven of filled lungs, and the rush of nicotine coursing through me– light-headed euphoria.

There are two reasons why I have not smoked since Master handed me that last cigarette three and a half years ago. The first reason, and what should be the more important reason, is because Master has forbidden it. I say it *should be* because, well, because it should be – but it isn’t.

Not so long ago, a few short weeks, my friend from Illinois came to visit. She smokes. She and I used to smoke together. In fact, I dare say that our friendship’s roots can be traced to a smoking hut, where we met at work and took our breaks together. Over countless cups of coffee and hurriedly puffed cigarettes, in 15 minute intervals, we became, officially, BFF’s. (though she has not gotten me the cool BFF necklace. *pout*)

During her stay here, for one afternoon, Master left us alone together for several hours. We sat outside and she chain-smoked. And I craved, in that heart-thumping, palm-sweating-need kinda way, I drooled over her cigarettes. I wanted one. I needed one.

I got the shakes.

It wasn’t Master’s order that I would never smoke again that stopped me from begging one, just one quick puff from her. I’d already considered, and already knew, that I could do it and I could get away with it with relative ease, and probably relatively little guilt. (spoken like a true addict. rationalize and excuse.) I knew that she would give me one if I asked, and I also knew that for all her teasing about tattling (as she’s well aware of what our relationship entails), that she would not. Probably would not. And if she did, well.. it is easier to beg forgiveness than to ask for permission.

But what stopped me, what has stopped me every single time I’m face to face with the possibility of smoking a cigarette, is knowing that once it’s over and I’ve snubbed it out – I’ll have to quit again.

I have not forgotten, nor romanticized, the absolute hell that those first few weeks were. I do not ever, ever, ever, want to have to do that again. When I’m standing there, with my hands shaking and my mouth drying and my lips quivering with the possibility of one more cigarette and I think for just a moment about going through the process of quitting again? No thank you. I’d rather deal with that brief moment, and stuff that craving down, than feed it, awaken it, bring it back alive – and have to slay it again.

Count me out. I won once and once was hard enough.

Imagine for a moment, if once every 2 or 3 months, Master sat me down and handed me a couple of smokes. Imagine that He lit me up, poured me a drink, and sat with me, laughing and joking and creating this jolly good time around those smokes. And when I’d finished a couple, or even finished a day or two of indulging in chain-smoking, imagine that He crushed up the rest of the pack, tossed it in the garbage, forbid me from smoking again – and left me, once more, to quit.

On my own, no help, no support, no sympathy. No listening to complaints, no excuse for being cranky or crabby. To just quit – again.

Only to do it again some couple of weeks, or months, or days, later. Hand me cigarettes, create the setting where smoking is fun and glorious and indulgent – and then take it away. To quit again and again and again.

I would think, and perhaps I’m wrong, but I believe that no matter how badly I might crave that cigarette, no matter how much I may want to feed that desire, knowing the hell of quitting that will follow would make me shy away from each smoking session. To begin to see smoking, even given with His permission and without having coerced Him into it, to see it, know it, as the enemy. The prequel to having to quit, to stuff it down and kill it again.

And that is exactly how I have begun to approach scenes. It’s not about having unrealized expectations or about disappointment or about finding happiness in what I get. It’s not that AT ALL. I am, I HAVE accepted what He gives, no more and no less. I do not manipulate or coerce or beg or whine or plead for something more or even for something different.

What I can’t figure out, what I can’t seem to DO, is to be that happy, laughing masochist, or that happy smoker trotting out with the ashtray, joyfully accepting the process of quitting that I know is to follow.

Maybe there is no way. I know I cannot “fake it”, I know that I wear my emotions on my sleeve and that He knows, sees, feels, breathes my reluctance and my fear. I know that it’s difficult for Him to understand it. Here He is, giving me that which I crave and need, and I’m mentally sidling away, trying to find a corner of my mind to hide in because I know that if I hold a bit of me back, it’s easier to get back to where I’m safe. It’s easier to stuff it down and shut if off when life takes over again.

I’m not asking how to deal with the expectations. I’ve done that. I’m not asking how to deal with being disappointed as I’ve done that too. I’m not asking about fairness or needs or how to manipulate or how to behave or whose fault it is or if I should leave. None of that.

Maybe I don’t even know what I’m asking. Maybe I’m not asking anything because it’s unanswerable. Maybe it just IS. Maybe I’m just acknowledging that a piece of me is dying and it saddens me, scares me a little and maybe I’m fighting to hold on to something that I shouldn’t.

As always, when I let it be, something better usually awaits.

… to be continued…

~cunt

ps. I’m not sure that the smoking example fits. I thought it did when I was babbling away to Master earlier, but now it’s all fuzzy and has holes and… bah. I should not be allowed to post when He’s just driven off and left me alone. I’m quite…. unstable. Unstable but really wide awake, which sucks butt considering I have to be to work in 4 hours. Bugger. ;-)

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My thoughts exactly

From Carrie –

For me (and we’ve talked about this before, you and I) it’s kind of like…
We sit around half the day thinking about what we’d like to do and all the nasty, wonderful things we’d like our guys to do to us when they get home. We fantasize and devote a ton of our attention to anticipating these things…
And then Dude gets home and he just wants dinner and a quick blowjob and a good nights sleep.
So we bury the want for the night and move on.
This goes on for days, weeks, months sometimes…
We get agitated, whiny, bitchy, out of our proper “place” because we’re, while happy and content in general, perhaps not getting all the s/m and direct, in your face control and displays of power we crave.

So we get to a place where you bury it down deep and stop thinking about it all day, stop letting that desire be at the front of our minds.
Cuz that’s what we “should” do, right? Sit and patiently wait, serving and being in our proper places until our Dude has the time, the desire, the energy, whatever, to give us what he wants to.
I mean, it’s not the same if we force or guilt them into it, right?
And, besides, being a slave isn’t about us, right?

So we bury, and bury, and bury…
We modify our expectations…

And next thing you know…
Even though a part of you, deep inside, is aching for the things you’re not getting, another part of you can’t seem to let that ache, that need, that desire free anymore.
Even when you GET what you’ve been needing it’s not quite the same, not quite enough or something.
Because you’ve shoved that shit so deep inside to prevent the pain of not getting, to prevent being a whiny, needy, high maintenance bitch that it’s just not possible to free it.

I mean, you can.
But it’s dusty. It’s rusty. It’s cautious. It’s scared.

It knows it’s going to have to go back to being buried, that it’s only being let out for a little bit and that’s kind of like asking a flower to grow, bud and bloom all in a single day.
It just doesn’t work that way.
The wild, uninhibited, craving response we give when our need, our desire, has been nurtured and fed regularly simply doesn’t happen when we’ve been burying that desire.

At least for me.
When I consciously let go of my expectations I have to smother the desire. Otherwise I get resentful. I get disappointed. Things don’t work right when I get disappointed and resentful.
I dunno.
I’m not making a lick of sense.

I know some folks manage to retain that sense of being a writhing, needing, aching thing despite having no expectations. Manage to want while still staying in their patient place.
I can’t.
When I drop my expectations the desire slowly but surely drops, as well.
I think it’s self protection.
It hurts less to wait if I make myself not really want it, if I’m not feeling rejected every time I don’t get it.

=============================

Word for word I couldn’t have said it any better, she said exactly what I was thinking.

I guess the next question is – then what?

(btw folks, if you’re in the market for some seriously hot and rough bdsm clips, check out Carrie’s clip store. I promise it’s worth it. They play hard, and since I know them, I can vouch for it being genuine. There ain’t no playing for the camera there.)

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“The quality of expectations determines the quality of our action.”

Does letting go of the expectation also mean letting go of the desire?

How do you lose one without losing the other?

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“Maturity is achieved when a person postpones immediate pleasures for long-term values.”

I’m not a grammar-nazi, I’m not even a spelling nazi. I don’t have a spellcheck feature (or if I do, I haven’t found it) and I do very little proof-reading so I know I fuddle things up and misspell or misuse words. When I’m reading someone and I see the occasional missed word or improperly used word, I overlook it. Usually.

But. It seems to me that when you’re trying to convey an air of domliness, it’s REALLY hard to take you seriously when you type like this: “id like 2 dom u. call me b4 its 2 l8. any ???s”

I dunno. It just looks so…. childish. It doesn’t, for me, invite an air of power or control. It makes me wonder when your mommy is coming home and if I’ll have to sneak out the back door.

So how important is maturity and evidence of maturity to you when Dom-seeking? Financial stability? Career? Is age important at all? Is ‘having their life together’ a requirement or do you rely on attraction and lust and let the rest fall into place?

Is it more important that the Dom be stable than the submissive? I’m thinking it is. That’s most unfair, I know, and I’m sure a lot of people will disagree with me, but I see the Dom as the one who should be in control.

There’s this one guy, a self-proclaimed dom, who I run into now and then on a board or in a comment, and I’ll read a little bit – he’s single, and looking, and makes several snarky comments about not being able to find anyone.

He’s also unemployed, asks his readers for money, has never had a relationship beyond a few-week flings, admits to being a thief and being ostracized from his family for stealing from them, doesn’t have a driver’s license and has hopped from one friend’s house to another, often admitting to being asked to leave because he cannot/does not help out financially. And he has a tendency to blame everyone else for his problems – utilities were disconnected because the bank closed early, can’t get his license because the system is corrupt, can’t keep a job because he doesn’t have a car… blah blah blah.

And I’m thinking to myself – and you wonder WHY you can’t “get” a submissive? Are you for serious??

That’s an extreme example and sometimes I read him merely so I can go run and give Master a big ol hug for being who He is but that’s not my point.

What is important to you when it comes to finding a potential mate and do you think that some people’s standards are too high and that’s why they’re still single? CAN standards be too high?

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Bored.

Very. Very. Bored.

Sooooo… whatcha all doing?

:-)

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Karma is a cruel Mistress.

I started my period this morning.

Master is going out of town, if not by tomorrow, then by Monday.

……..

In my past life I must have pissed off the Gods something awful.

~cunt

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Take Your Passion and Make It Happen

Master and I are having a ball with our 2 week dip into empty nest syndrome.

Last night I made spinach manicotti for dinner, something the kids wouldn’t eat if they were starving to death, and it was YUMMY. Fattening – but yummy.

We ate in the living room, on the couch, in front of the tv – which we don’t allow the kids to do because to them couch = napkin, so we never eat there either.

We watched a movie that a) did not contain the word ‘fart’, b) was not animated, and c) nobody in it was stoned, trying to get stoned, or trying to find a hamburger because they were stoned. We also did not have to compete for volume with another TV, a stereo, or Guitar Hero. We heard every word, up until -

We fell asleep on the couch. And nobody woke us up.

We fucked with the bedroom door unlocked. (not open as Master originally suggested. Cats like dangly bits that jiggle too much.)

We watched a porno (thanks pais!) with the sound on. (and we both almost puked when two girls began a spit-swapping session, slurping up thick, long strings of each other’s saliva *gag* I fail to see the eroticy in that. Srsly.)

Hold on. My gag reflex is going to town at the memory. Ugh.

Okay.

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Spoiled Rotten Little Bitch

Things Master has bought for me in the last two weeks.

Rock Chick Vibrator (My advice? Buy one. Now. :D)

Bondage Rope (works better than Home Depots rope selection, but I’m still lusting over some Twisted Monk.)

Glass Dildo (It came with this gloriously luxuriously padded, velvet sleeve. And it has a twirly pattern on the dildo part that feels fucking incredible.)

Thumb cuffs (not yet used. I’m sure I will love/hate them.)

Corset (umm.. *really* hard to breathe in this.)

Leather and Chain set (I’m wearing this tonight (I think). I was supposed to wear it to last weekend’s play party but it didn’t come in the mail in time. I was disappointed because He wanted me to wear it, but I wasn’t disappointed that I didn’t have to walk around in front of relative strangers in it. No matter though, because He made me get naked and tied up anyway.)

Leather Bra (Haven’t worn it yet)

Lightweight Leather Collar (love it. It’s so much better than the thick, heavy rubber one and ’classier’ than the dog choker chain that is usually padlocked around my neck, yet more visible than my everyday slave bell necklace. Perfect for a night out at the play party)

A new crop, heartshaped (It has a wicked metal rod that should be illegal to make crops from). He replaced the black nipple clamps that were broken during one rough fuck a few weeks ago (the ones that He brainwashed me into believing are my favorite clamps), and a drool-encouraging, hole-filled, purple plastic bit gag. (He has a gag fetish. I dont get it. I’m quiet as a church mouse!)

And these three things from lingeriediva.com (that won’t make a link for some reason).

(Sadly, I do not look like those girls when I wear them.)

I shall not, from this moment on, ever say that He does not spoil me rotten. Clearly He does.

And I love it. *beams*

So last weekend was the play party, as I said. I just cannot stress enough how much I enjoy this group.

I watched an incredibly erotic scene between two men and two women where the one girl was bound and then suspended while the two men simultaneously fucked her mouth and pussy and the other woman worked her nipples and manned the Hitachi.

It was fucking HOT. H-O-T. It’s so rare to bring the sexual, sensual aspect out, especially in a living room with spectators sitting around. I couldn’t take my eyes off. And jealous? You betcha!

A bit later, when they’d finished and another scene had finished, I got to be suspended for the first time. It was pretty great, I have to say. Scary and a bit painful, and nobody stuck a dick in my mouth (sad face), but I did have a beautiful girl sucking on my nipples and making me orgasm in front of everyone with the Hitachi. (blush – I tend to keep my orgasms rather private affairs, but there is no resisting a Hitachi, not even with an audience.)

I think I might have even drooled a bit but I was too spaced out to care. :D

When I’d been let down (and Taylor put that fucking paddle away), Master took me back to one of the bedrooms and we fucked monkey-style on the floor. There was no waiting til we got back to the hotel, it had to be done right then.

The whole thing, the scene I watched and the scene I was in, has awakened my slutty side. I told Master I easily could have fucked every single person in that room, and would have had He’d allowed it and had any of them been willing. All I could think about was fucking and sucking cock and licking pussy. I haven’t felt that slutty around other people in a LONG time.

We’re monogamous. Or- we were. Now? I dunno. It’s all up to Him of course, but I just had to let it be known that I’m game for some polyfucking.

Plus I think it would be hot as fuck to be told to go service some guy. Whether He ever allows that given that He doesn’t typically share His toys remains to be seen. I think the idea appeals to Him, but the reality of it may not.

We’ll see I guess.

~cunt

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