Victim head vs. Slave head

One day last week, after Master had left for work, I went back into the bedroom, shut the door and let the kids fend for themselves for the morning. Usually in the morning, I cook breakfast, pack lunches, help with hair and makeup, bustle around making sure each one has homework papers and milk money and book bags. I ask if they’ve had enough to eat, if they want more, fuss over them. You know, all of that fun mommy stuff.

I don’t do it because I have to; at their ages they are certainly capable of doing all of that stuff for themselves. In fact, when I was working they DID do that stuff by themselves. But they do want me to do it, like that I do it, and now have a better appreciation for me for doing it. Which was entirely the reason why I didn’t do it that one day last week.

They’d not just stopped appreciating it, they’d gone beyond expectation and far into entitlement, accompanied by indignation and rudeness. I may be the slave around here, but it’s not to them. Best to nip that behavior right in the bud, I think.

When they came home that afternoon and began to complain about the lack of “doing my job” that morning, we had a nice long talk about what my responsibility as a parent is- and is not – and what parts of it I do based soley on what they deserve and earn, as well as what I do because I enjoy it, and how my enjoyment of it is dependent on their response to it. It seems a pretty simple concept that should they label me as a bitch, I damn well better be on my best bitch behavior and earn that label.

Shortly after that day I read the phrase “You’re in victim head…you need to get into slave head.” from Just_W on Fetlife in response to another poster (not me) and about a totally different situation (not mine) , along with the another comment from julietsierra, also from Fetlife, from the same thread that said “I’d also say that the notion of “victim head” is an interesting concept. It implies that you’re owed something, that your trust has earned you something and that if it doesn’t work out the way you perceive it should that somehow your own personal balance sheet is kind of out of balance.” that it occured to me that that is exactly what I was thinking that morning when I deliberately went back to bed and forced myself not to care what, or if, they ate or if they forgot some vital homework page. Because the exchange between myself and the kids *is* based on a system of checks and balances, beyond what it is that I’m required to do as a mom, and it had gotten way off balance. I felt “victimized”; used and taken advantage of.

I do not have to provide a car so they can skip the hour and a half bus ride to and from school. I do not have to provide the three of them with cell phones. I do not have to cook eggs and bacon at 6a.m. or make baloney sandwiches or show them how to put on eye shadow or chase them down when homework papers are left on the table or a hundred other things I could list. And if those things aren’t wanted, appreciated, or needed, there are other things I can do with my time. At their age, it’s not too early for them to understand that the world works this way, based upon a balance sheet and a somewhat even exchange of services.

What I’ve been thinking about since then though, is how the balance sheet simply does not apply to my relationship with Master. Though we do indeed have an “exchange of services”, to put it clinically, it’s not a balanced exchanged. It’s certainly not one where I can refuse to do something based on the notion that He’s not appreciative enough of what I do, all in order to teach Him a lesson.

But that is something He could do. And has done.

It’s also something I have tried to do, tried to rationalize, tried to make my reality. I was stuck in “victim head”, not yet fully understanding or accepting just what it is that my submission meant when it came to detaching myself from the concepts that I had previously lived under for my entire life.

It seemed logical to me for a very long time that if I do A, He then has to do B. And if He does not do B after I have done A, then I get to stop doing A until He does B based soley on the fact that the balance sheet was no longer balanced. I know, though I’m too lazy to go look, that I’ve made several posts on this very concept. The post about “getting paid” comes to mind.

I’m not taking back what I said then, or contradicting myself. I think I very much believed what I wrote then. But I also know that that is not what I believe anymore. All of this is a growth process, just as most everything is. You have to learn to walk before you can run.

I’ve watched now, the balance sheet between Master and I become so far unbalanced that it finally fell apart. And I did not die. The earth did not shake on it’s axis. I have not sunk into a hole of misery and despair. What I sank into was “slave head”.

I’ve realized how much work it was trying to keep that sheet balanced. I’ve discovered how much less stressful my day is when I’m not constantly tallying up my list of A’s against His list of B’s. I’ve found a very deep pleasure in submitting without getting paid, without expectation or want of getting paid. And I’ve found something extremely giddy, something that was previously missing, when I DO get paid. It’s no longer something that I feel I deserve or have earned, something that before I think I felt rather righteously justified in receiving. Submission now feels very pure.

But it wasn’t easy to get here, it really wasn’t. What it looks like from the other side, what I remember it looking like before I let myself get here, was a very bleak, martyr-ish existence. One where I could never be happy again, where I’d be nothing more than a glorified maid-for-free, because after all, if I didn’t stand up for myself and demand that I get what I had coming, who would?? I went into it kicking and screaming. Master is a patient man, but He’s not a saint. Goodness no. He has His limits, and I certainly tested this one.

I wish I could accurately explain the blinding, crippling fear that is so often involved when you have to take these leaps of faith along the M/s path. I am not ashamed of my resistance because I believe it to be an entirely rational fear, worthy of hesitation. Of course I wish I could go back and tell my old self that what’s on the other side is actually pretty good and to stop being such a twit, but really, would I have this amount of joy and appreciation had I not struggled so hard with it?

I see other people I know, friends and enemies alike, still frantically trying to balance the accountant’s sheet. I’m quietly rooting for you.

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Fast, cheap, and easy!

No, I’m not talking me – though I could easily wear those labels after Master zipped home just 2 hours after He left this morning, bent me over the end of the bed – pinning me there by my nipples – and fucked me silly. But this time I’m talking about fast, cheap, and easy food.

I don’t know if the rest of you are suffering from sticker shock at the grocery store but I sure am. (The increase in prices seemed to coincide with the move so I’m half blaming the economy in general and half blaming the U.P. itself for being expensive.) Anyway, I’m going to share the occasional recipe here, because it’s my blog and I can, and because I know lots of people working hard to cut costs.

Here’s my cheap and easy meal for today:

Au Gratin or Scalloped Potatoes with Smoked Sausage

I’ve never made au gratin or scalloped potatoes from scratch, mainly because the boxed mix is so darn easy, but possibly savings would increase if made from scratch? (not sure, what with the price of cheese!)

3 boxes, or less, of au gratin potato mix. (3 boxes feeds my family of 5 with enough leftover for Master’s lunch the next day)
One smoked ring sausage, sliced.

You can bake it in the oven per the boxes directions, or, if time allows, I prefer to make it in the crockpot. It comes out moister and the flavor is *much* better. Simply mix it according the directions on the package for the oven method, but throw it all in the crockpot. Stir in the sausage. Cook on low for a few hours or until potatoes are tender.

Price:
Box of generic au gratin potato mix $0.97 x 3 = $2.91
One ring sausage $3.38
Add in a can/bag of veggies for another $1.00

A meal for five people, plus next day lunch, for $7.29.

~cunt

Bragger’s note: Anyone whose mother ruled the kitchen at home will understand my glee over this. My mother has asked me for a copy of the recipe for every single dish I cooked while my parents were here. Do you know how huge that is!? It’s damn near unheard of! Squee!

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Ah, romance!

Master took me out on a date last night. I got all prettied up and He got all handsome, and we went out, adults only.

We went to a cute little Italian place, with checkered tablecloths and Italian songs like “O Sole Mio” crooning through the speakers, and had pasta and bread and wine. Master made cheesy little toasts like “To us, forever and ever” which made me giggle (or maybe the wine made me giggly) and we chatted and held hands across the table.

We walked around town for a few hours, doing some window shopping and some actual shopping, before heading home.

He then proceded to take me to bed where He rearranged my internal organs. I’d had no clue they’d drifted out of place, but no worries, He hammered them out of the way in a most brutal and painful manner that left me quite loopy (or maybe that was the wine still).

Today brings a return to the scullery maid as there is a brand spanking new shed outside that needs loaded with Master’s manly stuff, but I’ll be humming “That’s Amore” as I work. ;-)

~cunt

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Time is (not) on my side.

I posted this on Fetlife just now.

This is really just a general whine. Maybe a rant. Maybe a bitch. I’m good at all of them.

~sigh~ Back to it I guess. Y’all have a great day.

In all seriousness, I DON’T get how people do it. I know how my day goes, how much general time it takes to do things, and the only way someone is sitting there and posting as much as one does is at the expense of something else.

Which is all fine and dandy, really. Obviously some Owners don’t expect or want a clean house or a hot meal or whatever it is that’s being left out to make up for the time spent online. To each their own and it’s no skin off my nose either way.

But. Cuz there is always a but. I can’t help but wonder if, when they call themselves a slave, what exactly are they a slave TO? The computer? Yahoo groups? Eljay? Myspace?

I don’t know. There are never going to be any agreed upon universal standards for what makes or breaks an M/s relationship, but I certainly do have my own personal standards and anyone who spends more time talking about it than doing it?

Well. Yeah.

~cunt

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Dear State of Illinois,

While I realize the great strides that are being made in collecting child support, some of us are still slipping through the cracks. Our deadbeat exes are beating the system.

My ex-husband, with whom I have 3 children, is in arrears, according to your Child Support Division’s calculations, of $130,000.00 as of today. ( My own calculations would be much higher, considering that he is also court ordered to pay medical bills that I have personally paid myself.)  In the 14 years that we’ve been divorced, he’s made exactly one child support payment. One single payment of $500.00 that was not made with any intention of paying child support but posted as bond money to keep his own ass out of jail, that somehow, miraculously, was not funneled into the deeply greedy pockets of the Illinois courthouse and instead, mailed to me. Glory be.

Nor has he been held accountable for non-payment. Nor has any sort of consequence been applied for this serious non-compliance with an Illinois court order, even though he’s been in court several times for other instances of non-compliance. You can bet the state of Illinois has received it’s money from him, in terms of fines paid or taxes owed, while my children do without. 

You can also bet that the state of Illinois did not hesitate to collect state taxes from me while I worked there. Certainly there was not the option of allowing me to become $130,000 behind in Illinois taxes owed with the excuse that man-power and resources were too limited to enforce the tax law. Somehow I think if it were YOUR income being held up, Gov. Blagojevich, that you’d find the man-power and resources to address the issue.  But since I, and other parents in my shoes, are far removed from your plate, it’s all too easy to brush us away.

It’s always astounded me that if I were the one to choose gambling and drinking over parenting, if I were to choose not to see to their nutritional, housing, clothing needs, if I were to ignore their medical needs, someone from your wonderful state would have promptly been at my door removing my parental rights from me. But he’s made those same choices with zero consequences. And still they claim that Illinois “favors” mothers in divorce cases. Apparently, we differ on what the word “favors” means.

My children are not small anymore. Wiser than they should be to the ways of the world, they’ve formed their own conclusions about fathers and responsibility. Unfortunately, they are not pretty conclusions, and that comes with partial thanks to your wonderful state’s policies on child support.

My ex-husband is not on the run, not hiding, not avoiding. He is perfectly safe and secure, not the least bit concerned about being caught. He’s been beating the system for years and he, and sadly I as well, have no reason not to believe that he will continue to get away with ignoring his parental responsibilities forever.

He does not have a drivers license to threaten, having lost that some years ago due to driving drunk. He doesn’t collect a paycheck, nor does he, to my knowledge, file federal taxes where a refund could be intercepted. He works for cash, content to not own anything of value or advance anywhere in life beyond gambling boats and taverns.

He’s had the same address and phone number for years. While it’s been reported several times to the Child Support Enforcement Division, it seems a useless venture as nothing beyond threatening letters seems to occur. (Except for that one time when Illinois was looking for him for failure to comply over his most recent DWI and they took the information I provided to them for child support to arrest him and collect money over the DWI charges. Remember that? Thank you for that, Governor Blagojevich. )

I had high hopes over this last summer, as letters and court dates were set. For the first time in years, my case had finally come up on the docket. Nevermind that my kids are out of diapers, don’t need formula anymore and that I no longer have to pay for child care; you know, all of those really important necessities when you have toddlers and really REALLY need money? And nevermind the fact that I’m no longer busting my ass working overtime and double shifts just to buy groceries. Forget that it’s way too late for college funds, that the majority of the kids medical needs are over and don’t even *mention* how there is actually only a few years left that he’d even be required to PAY child support. Just forget all those minor details. Srsly. 14 years after the fact my case was going to court.

Halle-fucking-lujah.

I guess I should have savored the moment. It didn’t last long. Rather than actually making progress, all that was accomplished was another round of undeserved extensions, making new court dates, sending more letters, etc. I suppose in another 14 years, we can once again establish that, golly gee! He’s not paying child support? But darn it all, I told him to!

He’s playing your Child Support Division like a cheap fiddle, and laughing as he does it.

I know there are thousands of parents like me and I know resources are limited. I know more important and pressing matters need resolving. But please understand that in my world, nothing is more important or more pressing than my children, who remain the only ones suffering from the incredibly inept child support system.

Thank you for your time,
Ex-Illinois Resident.

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“Men should be like coffee; hot, sweet and strong.”

Master made coffee this morning, sneaking out of bed before I was awake. Seeing that we were out of milk and knowing that I hate coffee without milk, He zipped off to the store. He then “flavored” it for me, jerking off into the cup, spewing semen that floats around in pretty little spirals in the coffee.

He woke me up with gentle caresses to my shoulder, steaming coffee cup in hand. He held the cup, smiling down at me while I scrubbed the sleep out of my eyes, stretched and propped myself up.

“Mmmmm. I could get used to this.” I said, smiling sleepily at Him.

He smartly cracked me across the face with His free hand. “Awake now?” He retorted.

Heh. I could get used to that, too.

Coffee was good though.

~cunt

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Don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone.

This pic came through on a yahoo mailing list I’m on. It seemed to apply to my life right about now. ;-)

The last couple of weeks have been really good for us. They’ve been busy and stressful but under (over? around?) all the stress we’ve been reestablishing some basics on the M/s front.

Some of it is the natural ebb and flow of life. Sometimes things are hot and heavy, sometimes it wans, but never does it change the core of our relationship. But there for a little while it seemed things were seriously wonky for us. I know it showed here, and while I’m not even coming close to trying to excuse anything I’ve said because I continue to stand behind my words – and mean them when I say them- I know the delivery was pretty snarky. Even Master was shocked (disappointed? Definintely not pleased) with some of what I said. Some of the comments pointing out things like boredom, dissatisfaction, etc., weren’t so far off the mark.

Master and I had gotten into a rut of sorts. There was a lot of talk and not a lot of action – from either of us. It was too easy to put things off, to give in to the tired and the sore and the television and why-do-today-what-you-can-put-off-until-tomorrow mindset. Probably we were somewhat aware of the damage it was doing, but too far in the rut to fix it.

The really stupid thing about it all is that the fixes are so simple, so easy. The last little while we’ve both been kinda dumbstruck with the sheer simplicity that we so thoroughly missed. We’re looking at each other and going “that was it??”

For the first time in very close to a year I’ve had a slight return of the desire and hope and expectation. All of those things I had buried and turned off, things I would pull out maybe one at a time, but never together, I can feel swimming around under the surface. It’s a little scary yet to let them all come out at once, once burned twice shy and all of that nonsense, but to know it’s not dead is pretty spectacular.

Basically all we did was remove the distractions and make a few purchases.

Maybe all of you do this, maybe none of you do, but you know how when you’re kinky and you’re walking through a store, you look at things differently? Instead of only focusing on the intended purpose of an object, you cock your head and wonder how it can be perverted? Clamps are picked up and pinched experimentally on the webbing between your thumb and finger, rope is fondled, instruments are whacked against palms and always there are the secret looks and waggled eyebrows and grins and giggles between the two of you?

Yeah, we’d stopped doing that. Completely. He would try and I would just shake my head, not engage in the banter. Because there were (are) about 100 items sitting at home that had never been touched. Bought in the same manner, the same “oh this looks fun! I could pervert this!”, taken home and sat on a shelf and never used. There would be plans, talk, diagrams, discussions.. and no delivery.

No delivery = no hope = no interest = boredom.

I’m certainly not laying the blame at Master’s feet. I was just as apathetic as He was. I was tired, and while I was perfectly happy to complain about what HE wasn’t doing, I took zero initiative to do anything myself.

Part of what has helped, believe it or not, was removing the possibility of certain things. When it’s not there mocking me with it’s un-use, I can’t long for it. I don’t have to tamp down the desire. I don’t have disappointment because I don’t have expectation for specific activities. Because they can’t happen. It’s not His choice not to do it, it’s not the kids or time or too tired or any of the 800 excuses that were used. It simply cannot happen.

I’m not lying in bed staring up at dusty eyebolts in the ceiling. I’m not walking past the unopened cunt cupboard 20 times a day. The toy closet is not here. I’m not reminded in a thousand different ways of what I *could* have.

There is no television in our bedroom now. I think having a t.v. in a bedroom is the worst thing for a relationship. It was a distraction, something else to pay attention to instead of each other. We’ve fucked more since we’ve moved here than we did in the last month or two before. It was too easy to crawl in bed, flip on the tv and get interested in a program or a movie and not get interested in each other.

There is no computer in the bedroom. We have an office and the computer is very much removed now from the rest of our house. You know what would happen when the comp was in the bedroom? One of us would pop on “just to check mail!” when the other would be getting into bed. And we all know what happens with internet time, right? The one in bed, usually me, would already be sawing logs before the other had finished. And then! To make matters worse, rather than wake the sleeping one up for satisfaction? Masturbation. We were just so *kind* to each other, you know? The “aww, she’s sleeping. She has to work tomorrow so I’ll just take care of myself. I love her too much to wake her up for a quick fuck. Poor precious sleepy-head”.

I cannot even detail with any accuracy the chasm that was forming. The disconnect.

I’m not even sure it’s fully felt when you’re in it. Not until later, like now, when it’s not there and you realize just how much you’ve missed, how far apart you drifted.

The purchase that made the other huge difference was a new bed. I’m not going to say what the whole bedroom set cost because there is this other blogger that I read now and then and she’s always talking about how much money they make or what they spent on this or that and I find that really tacky (imagine that. Me finding something tacky. Heh.) so all I will say is that it cost a lot. But it was totally worth it.

The other bed that we had, that I loved purely for it’s bondage opportunities, was an old iron-barred thing. And it was small, just a standard double sized bed. Master is 6’4″ tall. He didn’t even FIT on the bed. Plus it was so. noisy. It creaked like a rusty swing set. Anyone in the house knew what we were doing on that bed. More often than not we’d move to the floor just to avoid the “ummmmm.. I know what you two were doing last night!” comments from the peanut gallery in the morning. But being old and tired with achy joints made the floor not-so-appealing sometimes. :-( And the new bed also has bars for bondage purposes. *beams*

When we went to the furniture store, Master flat out told the salesman that He wanted a bed that was absolutely silent, AND told him why(!), while I hid my face behind the newspaper advertisement. Srsly. The man has no shame. How embarrassing.

He bought a king-size bed. Besides His size and wanting to actually fit on it, there was another reason why He went big. He’s always had a preference for me to sleep inbetween His legs, using His cock as a perverted pacifier. It’s something that we’ve previously only been able to do when we’d spend the night in a hotel because they always have the big beds there. In our old bed, try as we might, there was just no way to arrange ourselves with any comfort (for Him) for me to lay between His legs. This bed? Could have 3 sluts between His legs with room to spare I think. The bed is ginormous. I can lay across it sideways and still not be off either edge. Master laughs at me when He sees me lying in it alone. He says it swallows me. Feels like it too! I feel like I could get lost in it.

(Master said I couldn’t ‘girlify’ His stuff. :-( )

(tee hee. We has a peeping tom-cat)

Needless to say, the return to the ritual of nightly blow jobs while He relaxes with a book, curling up with my head on His thigh and His cock in my mouth, focusing not on grocery lists or work stuff, but only on how to fall asleep without biting – major improvement in head space, lemme tell ya. My jaw is sore! But I’d rather have that than the inner turmoil I was in before.

Speaking of work, now that I’m not working, it’s pretty clear how much that affected what we had going on, too. It wasn’t just having a job because clearly people work and maintain relationships. It’s not that I think M/s can’t be done when combined with a job at all. But the specific hours of the job I had when combined with the service portion of what it is that He wants, it was literally a death sentence to OUR M/s style. There are two times of the day when my service to Him is personal, meaningful, and important. The early morning when I make His breakfast, serve Him coffee, pack His lunch and be generally available for whatever He wants/needs, and at the end of the day when He’s going to bed. He likes His feet lotioned and massaged, His back rubbed, and His cock sucked at night.

Both of those times of the day were shot with the job I had. I was at work before He even got up and I was snoring before He was even ready for bed. That’s not to say that I won’t have a job here, if the right one comes along, it just won’t be one that can interfere as that one did. And He’s said that me working is not a necessity nor a priority. He wants me to focus on Him and on improving service. No more tired and cranky, no more feeling imposed upon, no more falling asleep before He’s satisfied, no more distractions.

He moved here with a clear plan in mind and it appears to be working out considerably well. I’m sure there will be ebbs and flows here too. I’m sure we’ll be revisiting things as we always seem to do. It’s just nice to be in a semi-stable and comforting place. I’m going to work on staying here for a while.

I’m off to mud drywall. Is there a more tedious and messy task than that? Ugh.

~cunt

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“… or else it gets the hose again.”

Master has always had an interest in controlling my bathroom needs. Not only controlling them, which He thoroughly enjoys, but in making it difficult. I fondly remember the days when having to pee was as simple as just.. peeing. These days, needing the bathroom can be an event.

He’s told me probably a hundred times or more that someday I’ll be peeing outside. Not that I’ve never peed outside – I have. Many times, on drunken road trips where actually finding a bathroom was too much work, copping a squat while clinging to the car bumper so I didn’t totter over into my own puddle – yeah, I’ve done that a time or two. But even that was done because I wanted to, not because I HAD to. The idea of being inside my own house, with access to three bathrooms in perfect working order and to still be told to squat in the backyard like a dog? That’s a little difficult to wrap my head around.

It was easy for me to just nod and smile when He’d say those things. Where we lived before, we were surrounded by people. There was zero outdoor privacy and with all the city regulations on fences and stuff, there was zero chance of ever having outdoor privacy. So I dismissed His outdoor piddling threats. We were never going to *move*, for goodness sake! He owned the house, and He’d done work to it and He’d built the bedroom/dungeon/cunt cupboard. I was so safe from the outside!

*ahem*

I stand corrected.

I haven’t yet had to pee outside. But it’s coming. I’m resistant and I figured I could continue to be resistant because, seriously, I have pride and I have ego and I have been potty trained for years and years. One does not slide backward in mere seconds.

I should know better than to think I can “fight” Master on anything that He wants. But I rather think He enjoys this sort of battle. Oh it could be as simple as Him saying “do it NOW, cunt” and I’d drop and squirt like a frightened squid, but this is much more fun (for Him). I genuinely do not think pissing outside is hot or erotic or depraved or anything that would make me want it even on a darker, as-yet-unrealized level. So I’m digging in my heels and dodging and bargaining and avoiding and and and – so far, I’ve been on a toilet every time.

But yesterday – yesterday was close. Oh so close. I almost broke because He found a tool, a weapon, that is far more sadistic than anything I’ve experienced to date.

The ice-cold spray from the garden hose.

I’d asked to pee and He’d denied my request. (*More on that down below) So I held it, of course, because arguing or begging only seems to encourage Him with the outside stuff.

But then a bit later He took me outside anyway.

And tied me to the deck.

He said He was going to whip me until I pissed myself.

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Naked Domestic Diva

~cunt

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