I just threw up in my mouth a little.

On scat play. A quote.

“Shit, like food from a fine restaurant, will be very different in all these ways, depending on what the feeder has been eating. In that respect, she/he can be thought of as a fine chef who is capable making fare that is vile, sweet, spicy, bland, bitter, aromatic, hard, soft,….

Why wouldn’t 2 lovers want to experiment with a lot of different types?

I think it would be terrific if this group compiled a set of “recipes”…”

Well.

I can’t say that I have any poop recipes. Other than, yanno, corn and peanuts.

*gag*

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The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I’ve been getting my rocks off to Master’s quiet control lately. We’ve exchanged those big scenes where he hammered nails through my flesh for more subtle dominance.

And I LIKE it.

It’s not really anything new, maybe it’s just that I notice and focus on it more because none of the other stuff is distracting me from it. Or maybe I’m desperate.

I mean, I’ve turned the fact that he picked out my new eyeglass frames, a set that I wouldn’t have chosen myself, into new masturbatory material.

LOL. Desperate. *nods*

Here’s something completely weird. As you all know, there’s been a wonderful lack of vulgar-kaya photos here at Under His Hand lately. (You may send Thank You cards to the email address listed to the left …hehe) That’s not because he’s suddenly decided that I don’t have to post them anymore, it’s because we just aren’t playing like we used to.

Not because we’re done with it or anything, but because of a lack of time, energy, privacy, blah blah blah.

So, as is typical of The Way of Things™… the less you do, the less you want. As we’ve been doing way less, I really hardly think about it. I certainly don’t pine away for it and, to be honest, if he were to throw all the toys away right this very minute, I’d help him bag them up.

Well, except for the glass dildos. I really like those.

And my bullet vibe.

Maybe keep one set of clamps cuz sometimes I still clamp my own nipples when I masturbate and that’s really dang frustrating to not have the super-owie clamps when you’re in the mood for super-owie and all you can find is a stupid set of clothespins that you can’t even FEEL, ffs!

So there. Clovers, Bullet and Glass. That’s all I need.

And the whip.

But that’s all.

Well, okay, maybe I’d ask him to keep the toys but that’s not even pertinent to where I’m trying to go with this entry. So nevermind all of that.

My point is– we don’t post pictures of that nature hardly ever anymore and I don’t miss that. Like, at all.

I kept waiting and waiting for my stats to fall when we kind of moved away from the more in-your-face posts but they never did. So now, sometimes we’ll be doing something and I’ll think “man, this would make a great shot for the blog!” and then I’ll just dismiss it completely. So the weird thing is that you all still read and now I’m worried that if I do have to start posting pictures of my nasty hairy cunt (and it is. Oh-Em-Gee! is it ever), then you’ll all run screaming into the night never to return.

It’s like I’ve come full circle. I used to be all, if I don’t post pictures they won’t read! and now I’m all, if I post pictures, they won’t read! Hee.

I think if he ever does get back into taking pictures and posting them, I’ll probably be back at square one with the “but I don’t wannaaaaa!” Lucy Ricardo-wail.

I’m really good at that, btw. The wail. My grandma and I spent many many hours watching Lucy. You know what’s funny about it? There was a pretty darn strong D/s theme that ran through them shows and even way back then, it made me squirmy in my seat. Lucy even got turned over Ricky’s knee a time or two. I knew I was going to marry Ricky and then I was going to throw flour around the kitchen and stomp my feet until he spanked me back into obedience.

*nods*

I had a life plan.

Anyway.

Speaking of life plans. Here’s a doozy. Maybe y’all can help us figure this one out.

Master’s got a job promotion on the table right now.

Not here. Same company- different town.

The town we just moved from.

Oy.

So here’s the pros and cons list that I’ve got so far:

Pros:

1. It’s mostly a desk job which is safer and easier for him. Gets him out of the elements.

2. Pay raise.

3. Going to the store for groceries is not a major event, requiring that we pack emergency camping gear in the trunk.

4. The kids REALLY miss living there. They are doing fine here and have made a decent circle of friends- but given the choice to “go home”? They’d jump at it. They’d cry tears of happiness.

5. Closer to family, both mine and his.

6. Closer to friends that I really miss. (waves to Carrie! w00t!)

7. HUGE, huge advancement opportunities for him within the company.

8. The economy scares me bunches in this area.

9. Because we wouldn’t see each other all the time, we’ll play and fuck more when we do. That’s how it works! That’s how it’s always worked.

10. In a few years, we’d be sitting pretty. Fer realz.

Cons:

1. We really like this house. Omg. I kiss the walls I love it so much.

2. We really like this yard.

3. We LOVE the people we’ve met up here. We’ve made some terrific friends who are kinky and sexy and everything.

4. If he doesn’t take the offer, nothing changes with his current position. He’s not in danger of a layoff or a paycut or anything.

5. He likes his current position and the people he works with.

6. He’d lose his company vehicle.

7. Moving. Ugh.

8. The economy is bad everywhere.

9. We’d be living seperate during the week again, he’d come home on weekends (or I’d go there). It’s temporary- if 4 years can be considered temporary.

10. In a few years, we’ll have the isolation we’ve wanted.

I could probably add more but… pffft. I just go in circles anyway. Ultimately it’s his decision to make and I’ll support it, but even he’s on the fence.

He doesn’t want to move but he knows there are opportunities…

I, of course, want both. I want to pick up this house and our sexy kinky friends and move them back to Wisconsin with us.

What? It could happen. Dream big!

~cunt

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Is it real or is it memorex?

There was an interesting thread on Fetlife (where else!?) that I was following before I went out of town. And since I had a total of 16 hours of driving time packed into 4 days, I had lots of time to think about it.

Here’s the question: Slavery? For real or playing?

Pretty much everyone was falling all over themselves to reassure themselves anyone reading that they were REAL. No playing for them, nuh uh, no way Jose, they are teh serious slabes!

And so, yanno, I disagreed.

Sort of. I did and I didn’t.

Here’s what I said on the thead.

It’s an illusion that only works because the two people involved believe in it enough to make it their own personal “reality”.

Nobody is really a slave, bound and held in the same manners that real-life slaves are. Nobody is owned. Nobody is property.

It’s mindgames and headfucks and brainwashing- and it works because we make it work. Because we’re dedicated to making it work and because we put equal effort into making it “real” for us. I am a slave, he is my owner and that’s how we live. That’s our reality, our day to day life and it’s how we choose to live.

But it isn’t real. None of y’all are. Stand in a police station one time and tell an officer that you’re an owned slave and your owner won’t let you leave. Face it, the only people believing in your “reality”, is the pair of you.

Well that went over like a fart in church.

One person said that in her definition of ‘real’, if it influenced how she behaved everday, then it was real.

Interestingly enough, that same person in that same comment slammed Goreans by referring to their chosen lifestyle as “gorean games”. I was amused. Even after I pointed it out she failed to see the irony. Hee.

I mean, what better case is there for people who are influenced to behave a certain way by something other than Gorean folk? And why are they playing games but she is A Real Boy Slave?

But to answer this question, “what better case is there for people who are influenced to behave a certain way by something other than Gorean folk?” even better-

I immediately thought of the bible. Religion.

Does just believing in it make it real, though? What does define ‘real’ and ‘reality’?

It’s real to them, I assume. And I’m certainly not up for barging into church and challenging their reality.

Except for when they lose sight of.. well.. of reality.

For instance, the woman whose daughter died of diabetes last year. According to her religious beliefs, prayer was going to save her child.

She is now in prison. Convicted of reckless homicide, possible 25 years.

So is it the law that defines what is real? Society? Society makes the laws, the laws dictate reality?

Later in that thread I said:

There are things that are real. I am human. I am a female. I am a mother.

I choose to live as a slave and conduct my life as closely as possibly to those ideals and practicies. But no amount of wanting it to be so is going to make me become owned property.

None of that is to say that I wake up every morning and prepare to play the game of M/s. I don’t see it that way at all, and I don’t think thats what you or anyone else does. It is a way of life and there is little thought behind it anymore. It just IS. Slavery, Mastery, ownership. It’s just there. It exists within us.

But one can’t pretend that the law and society support my lifestyle. Or yours. That is the reality.

It was argued then that society and the law aren’t what decides what can or cannot be real. That I give them too much credit.

Blacks, women, homosexuality. Examples of where society, and the law, have been wrong. Failed.

Same sex couples aren’t recognized by the law- are they not real then? An illusion?

So I’m confused. Perplexed.

What defines reality? It HAS to be something more than what one believes. There has to be something more definitive than that.

Wordnet.web defines reality in two opposing ways. It says:

reality: all of your experiences that determine how things appear to you.

And then it says:

reality: the state of the world as it really is rather than as you might want it to be.

That website didn’t help a bit.

6 or 7 months ago I decided I was going to leave this relationship. I remember still how shockingly easy it was to pull my head out of the clouds and know that I could leave. That for all the words, the scars, the brainwashing, all I had to do was open the door and-

Go.

Just. go.

He could not stop me. I was a free thinking independent adult with all of the rights and privileges offered as such.

I am not owned property outside of Master’s and my tiny little world.

I am not a slave outside of our world.

I am not a cunt – (Hush out there in the peanut gallery!)

It is not real.

Except I couldn’t go. I didn’t go. I wanted to go and I was set to go and I was ready to go and I couldn’t go.

I am still, all these months later, unsure of what is reality and what isn’t.

I know what I know.

Yet I live what I live.

Maybe I don’t know what I think I know.

Bah.

Maybe I just need beat and fucked.

*nods*

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Home Sweet Home

I’m home. I got in late Monday evening and, in keeping with the God-Hates-Me theme of my life, Master had to leave early Tuesday morning for 3 days. So we fucked and he left.

C’est la vie.

The trip was a great success though. The ex and his family were there (I half hoped they wouldn’t come) and I was so sweet and sugary that had it rained, I’d have melted.

There was one moment where I damn near bit my tongue in half. B-man was opening cards and reading the names of who they were from and two times right in row, he opened cards from members of his dad’s family who hadn’t come and asked “Who are they?”

Of course, his Aunt on that side retorted rather snottily, “Your mom should bring you around more often and you’d know these people.” and I almost, ALMOST said “Well now. Isn’t THAT a two-way street, you fat fucking bitch.”

But I didn’t. I opened my mouth, closed it, and just smiled. Told B-man to open the next card.

Other than that, I had an enjoyable visit with my family.

Am got her tongue pierced. Now she wants to get a tattoo. Oy. Piercings I don’t really care about. Tattoos? I dunno. I told her I’d think about it.

I have another pic of Jes’s tummy. She’s huge. I’m wondering if there might be more than one child in there.

So that’s the update on the fam.

I’m including this next picture just because it shows a pretty little snippet of my parent’s yard. I wished I’d have taken more pictures of it, it’s so beautiful. That pond in the picture flows down into a little stream under the bridge and empties into another bigger pond. I think they have more flower beds, fountains and other yard things than grass.

Anyway, I’m working on another post in my noggin. I might be back yet today.

~cunt

ps. All of you wimmin-folk leaving those sweet little messages of torture ideas on that last post? I’m watching you. Oh yes. I know where you live!

Well. Okay. I don’t know where you live. But I have your email addresses!

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

:-P

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Last night…

…we had phenomenal sex.

Like, eye-crossing kind of phenomenal.

Having awesome sex isn’t the newsworthy part because we always have awesome sex. But this time was omfg-fantastic. What makes it newsworthy (to me) is that, like, neither one of us really even moved.

It has to qualify for Laziest Sex Ever, if there is a competition for these things, and if there isn’t, then I’m starting it and we just won.

It was the strangest thing really. He shoved it in and did this little how-deep-can-I-get-it kind of lunge that he does where he just keeps pushing and pushing like he’s drilling for oil up in there and I was sliding off the edge of the bed until my head was hanging off the side and it just felt so fucking good that I started coming and coming around his cock while he just held it there and then he’s like “Jesus that feels good, cunt. God. Jesus. Holy- I’m gonna come. Now.”

And boom.

Done.

Weird!

But Oh. So. GOOD.

So then he lays back and says, “See. I told you I wasn’t going to do all the work.” Like he planned it that way or summin’.

Smug bastard, idn’t he?

I told him I make it way too easy for him.

We had a bet one time (or maybe it was a challenge) where I said that there was NO way he could make me come if I didn’t want to- without stooping to cheating by using the hitachi- but just by fucking, if I didn’t wanna orgasm, I wouldn’t.

See how I try and snatch control wherever I can? I’m such a dork.

Anyway, we had a terrific time proving me wrong. Over and over and over again. The fact is, I am a prisoner inside my own orgasmic needs because, try as I might to think of my mother naked and to count ceiling tiles, I lost.

So the next challenge was that if I wanted to come, he couldn’t stop me from it.

Again, HE had a terrific time proving me wrong. Me? Not so much. That sucked ass. He came and came and came and fucked me and fucked me and fucked me and knew *exactly* when to pull out or stop or move so that I’d only hover right there on the edge and not once fall over it.

Smug bastard! I told you!

Personally, I’m just glad that he’s not the kind of dom that restricts orgasms or doles them out like candy treats cuz there is nothing I like better than coming until my ears bleed. I used to think he was “doing it wrong!” because he didn’t make those orgasm rules like others do.

Now I think that if it’s wrong, by God, I don’t wanna be right!

Orgasms are fun.

~cunt

p.s. This will probably be my last post until sometime next week. I’ll be in Illinois being nice to my ex (puke) and visiting my family (squee!). I’m looking forward to seeing them for a change. I haven’t seen them for a long time and I kinda miss them. It should be a fun time (minus the ex).

Master can’t come all the way with me because I won’t be back before he has to go back to work. He’s coming halfway and then spending the day with his family before heading home again. I was going to try and arrange a slut-visit for him while I was gone because I didn’t figure it was fair that he have to go without having his cock serviced just because I was going to be gone, but, alas, he’d rather enjoy his time alone.

I can’t blame him. He never ever has time away from everyone all at once. But to turn down a slut-visit? That’s some serious jonesin for peace and quiet.

Enjoy it, Master. :-)

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10 Things I Hate About You

I hate my ex-husband.

Blah blah blah loser blah blah blah hate him blah blah blah die blah blah blah fiery death blah blah blah waste blah blah fucker blah.

And I hate that I’m the bigger person (hee. No really. I AM!) and invite him to shindigs of his childrens’ that he hasn’t ever earned the privilege of being invited to and I hate that he jumps at these opportunities to play daddy when other people are there to see it but fucking ignores them when no one is observing and I hate that the kids don’t ever say “Don’t invite him, Mom, cuz I hate him, too” cuz they don’t hate him even though they should.

AND. I hate that my husband, the one who makes it possible to even HAVE these shindigs, the one who pays for it all, can’t come because HE has to WORK, a concept that is entirely foreign to the Loser who will be sitting there soaking up the glory and I hate hate hate him so bad that it makes my mouth taste sour.

And I hate that I have to sit there and smile and can’t tell him what a fucking joke of a human he is because I love my kids more than I hate him and I won’t ruin their time just to make myself feel better even though I want to with almost every cell in my being. I’d like to scream it in front of all those people who believe the lies he spreads about paying child support and how I’m the one who keeps his kids from him and cashes the checks that he doesn’t send and won’t answer the phone that never rings and that doesn’t tell him about school functions that he doesn’t care about.

I want to. And I won’t. I’ll smile and make small talk and be polite to his family who all hate me now and I’ll talk to him about the weather and it’ll be a grand old time.

All the while that I’m 8 hours away from Master. Because he has to work. And I’ll miss him. And I’ll think of him and I’ll tell myself that he’d be proud and he’d tell me to hold my head high and behave myself- and I will.

But I hate my ex-husband. Blah blah fucking-blah.

~cunt

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“Only me and God have all the facts about myself…”

- But you can have seven.

Chloe and Lexi tagged me so here goes:

Rules:
1. Link to your original tagger and list these rules in your post
2. Share 7 facts about yourself in the post
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post, leave their names & links to their blogs
4. Let them know they’ve been tagged

1. When I was a young teen, like that awkward age of 14/15 when you’re trying to fit in as a freshman in high school, I had the summer job of detassling corn- the worst job ever, I might add- along with 90% of the rest of my fellow high schooler’s. (We lived in corn country. We ALL detassled.)

One particular stretch of days in July brought high temps and high humidity and people were “dropping like flies” (to quote the crew leader on that day) from heat exhaustion. One of those “flies” was me.

I semi-fainted in the middle of the corn field and was scooped up and hauled out by the high school football star. Not only did my shirt ride up as he carried me, revealing my ugly sweat stained support bra and half of one tit, he laid me down in the ditch in front of *everybody*, bare tit and all, where a cricket hopped right into my mouth. So I promptly rolled over and puked down his shirt- essence of cricket and orange gatorade.

He was the gorgeous senior class football hero. I was the geeky, pimpled, glasses-wearing loser freshman.

It was the single most mortifying experience of all of my high school years.

(Years and years later, when my kids were smaller, I ran into him again when he signed on to be my kid’s T-ball coach. He was about 60lbs overweight and balding. I was still a bar-hopping hottie. Silly as it is, I felt better.)

(He remembered me. I was mortified all over again.)

(That wasn’t a fact so much as a memory but whatever. It’s my blog and I can do what I want! :P )

2. I am afraid of the dark. When Master is away, I leave the bedroom light on. And I hop onto the bed from a few feet away because the under-the-bed boogey man might grab my feets.

But all monsters are gone when he is home. :)

3. I’m a fast reader. Probably not a speed reader, but close. I don’t read like I used to though. I’m less enamored with fantasy I think.

4. I came very very close to falling over the edge into alcoholism. Almost everyone else in my family IS an alcoholic and they have serious life-affecting problems due to drinking. When I was in my early 20′s, I drank like they do and I found comfort in being drunk. I had a drunk driving charge when I was 21. Entire bottles of liquor to myself, puking blood, going to work still drunk/hungover, losing jobs because I couldn’t go to work, too sick to take care of my kids.. etc. etc.

There was one night sitting in a bar with my friends, talking with one friend very matter of factly about “if I go home with that guy (whom I didn’t know), will you pick me up in the morning and take me home?” and I thought to myself “this just isnt fun anymore. I’m better than this.”

I didn’t quit just like that, but I started cutting back and watching other people (family, friends) getting drunk more than joining them- and I realized how fucking stupid they are. Soon enough I wasn’t drinking at all, found some stability in my job and in my life, enjoyed my kids more.

I think I could have gone to the other side pretty easily though. I think I may have already been there.

5. I love romantic comedies. They make me cry. Like, bawl-cry, but happy tears. I couldn’t wacth them before Master though. I was so miserable in my private life that to watch other people, even actors in a fake setting, being so happy made me angry. Now, I’m on a “twat twitcher” movie kick. I want to watch all of them because, for a change, I can identify with the feelings. I walk away from watching those movies feeling lucky and happy and very much in love with mah man.

6. I carry a stupid amount of pride for having gone through two natural childbirths without so much as a Tylenol, by my choice. And not a single scream. I know, it’s silly and it proves nothing, except, yes it does! I am woman, hear me roar! Check out my massive pain tolerance. I can shove a watermelon out of my vagina with nary a tear. Grrs!

With the third though, I was just tired. So I opted for an epidural and, omg, it was heavenly. There was no pain whatsoever. In fact, I was actually birthing him (head crowning) while chit chatting idly with my mother when the nurse came in to do a check. She squealed and ran out to find a doctor. “Your baby is coming!” Hee.

But then I had my tubes tied right after and I came out of the anesthesia crying. That fucking hurt. Boo.

7. For years and years I resented that my parents were too poor to afford to let me join band and learn how to play an instrument. I love music and was terribly jealous of my friends when they carried around their instrument cases and when they had to practice at home. I can’t read music or play anything now and I consider that to be a tragedy. I always wanted to learn how to play the piano. ~wistful sigh~

So that two of my three kids can play instruments makes me insanely happy. Jes is moderately decent on the flute and B-man is picking up the guitar pretty quickly. Am started the violin several years ago but lost interest in a short time. (What she should do is sing but she’s too shy. She’d be good though.)

I’m tagging:

1. You.
2. Yes you.
3. You! The one reading this right now.
4. And you over there in the corner!
5. Oh, yes, you guessed it. You!
6. You too.
7. No I don’t care if you’re shy or don’t have a blog. I’m tagging you anyway! Deal!

Do eeeet!

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Ick Factor

Remember that serously-part-time job that I mentioned months ago, the one where I go clean a house when someone moves out of it? The one that is SO part time that I’ve done 2 houses and one apartment in the last 8 months? The one that Master volunteered me for because he gets to do those things with my time? That one?

Yeah. So that’s what I’ve been doing the last two days. Cleaning someone else’s filth. (at the detriment of my own house I might add. I honestly do not recall how I ever used to work and keep my house clean. Those of you who do? Hats off. You rock.)

Anyway, this house? Is DISGUSTING. Oh my fucking God. I don’t know how people live in such grody-ness.

Not that my own house is spotless all the time because it isn’t. It’s not like I’m some elite cleaning fanatic.

But you will not find mildew on my toilet. My floors are not a new color after mopping. You won’t have to throw away the cleaning rags when you’re done.

~shudder~

Srsly. Filth like you would not believe.

I have 13 hours in so far at this house and I’ve cleaned the master bedroom/bath, a half bath and about 3/4 of the kitchen.

That’s it.

There is still another full bath, 2 bedrooms, a laundry room, living room, stairway and hall, entry way, 3 big closets, the rest of the kitchen, and the kitchen floor (which I’ve mopped twice already and I’m still rinsing mud out of the mop. I honestly don’t know what color the floor is supposed to be.)

And it stinks. Smoke, pets, rotten food, dirt- blech. I want to shower in bleach. Blech I say.

Anyway, my husband, who is the bestest husband in the history of EVAR, is buying Subway for dinner because I am too pooped to pop. I luffs him bunches and bunches. I do.

Bye!

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Baby Bump

By request- my granddaughter. :-)

She’s 32 weeks today.

~~*~~

The setting: Dinner table, last night, I made pasta with zucchini in it. Am was doing a taste test by nibbling a micrscopic bite of “something green”.

Am: I don’t even taste anything!
Jes: Put the whole thing in your mouth.
B-man, without missing a beat: That’s what she said.

~~*~~

The setting: Discussing our upcoming trip to Illinois.

B-man: Why do we have to go there next week?
Me: Because if we wait, Jes won’t be able to travel.
B-man: Why can’t she travel?
Am, deadpans: Because she’s a land-whale.

~~*~~

I had more but now I gotta go. Later!

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Wife vs. Slave- The Cage Match

For once, this isn’t my internal battle. Not that I don’t ever find myself confusing the roles, that’s just not my post for today.

There’s an interesting debate going on over at Fet. about marriage proposals. The original question was about the idea of a slave being ordered to marry their Master rather than being asked and given the option of refusing.

The replies were a mixed bag as they usually are, though it seemed to lean more heavily toward the Master having to ask and the slave having the option of saying no.

And that seriously, seriously confuses me.

It just highlights the extreme differences in how people view M/s. Which doesn’t surprise me, except… Yeah. It does. Every time I’m confronted with how differently M/s is viewed, I’m surprised all over again. I can’t help it. I’m naive or stupid or whatever.

To me, it just seems very backwards to be M/s and then see a marriage proposal as optional.

I guess I see the commitment to being his slave as an already binding and permanent role so the very concept of having the option of refusing marriage- or refusing anything for that matter- is.. weird.

As I said over there: I take my commitment as his slave far more serously than marriage. I’ve been married before- it didn’t work. I have not been anyone else’s slave. That only works with him, so, for me, that’s a much deeper commitment.

Dissolve the marriage and we’d still be Master and slave. Dissolve the M/s- and we’d not be together. It’s not the marriage that binds us.

It’s almost like first birthing a kid and then later asking him if you can be his parent. You’re already the parent, there is no choosing after the fact.

Likewise, he already owned me. On what basis could I have possibly refused a marriage proposal??

I don’t know. Another case of me coming from Mars or something. Very very odd.

So what do you think?

Would you find an order to get married to be hot or not? (It’s hot in my book. A-fucking-men. Take my ass! Own it! Rawr!)

Do you see M/s as more of a partnership or, hmm, something less “extreme” as a marriage? Because that was the impression I was getting through reading the thread; that while accepting him/her as your Master was one thing, marriage was something else entirely and should not be entered into “lightly”– whereas I come from the complete opposite direction, that M/s should not be entered into “lightly”.

Of course, it was all ruined for me anyway as soon as the words “true” and “gift” entered into the convo. Gah. Stoopid romanticizing of M/s anyway. Leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Pa-tooey!

~cunt

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