P. S.

I forgot to mention that I went and had my hair trimmed (per Master’s order. I didn’t want to do it. Because-) and she completely fucked up my bangs.

Nothing like a bad hair cut to make the neurotically self-conscious feel just that much more anxious before meeting new people.

You know what else makes the neurotically self-conscious person’s self-consciouness go through the roof?

A nice big pimple right on their face.

Oh wait! I have one of those, too!

~grumblemuttercurse~

So, Master comes home in just a bit over 9 hours. I don’t suppose there is a magical miracle zit-zapper that works in 9 hours or less?

On the bright side Master comes home in just a bit over 9 hours. I’m totally getting laid.

And you know he’s gonna poke the pimple. “Does that thing have it’s own zipcode?”

Gah.

Stoopid hormones. Stoopid girl.

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More Nervous Than A Whore In Church

I probably won’t be back here until next week. Today and tomorrow I have to get the last minute things ready for camp (if anyone has any ideas for easy camp cooking, I’m all ears!), wash sleeping bags, pack toys, etc.

Jes and Babygirl leave today to spend a week with baby-daddy and the other grandma. The Boy is still at my parent’s house and won’t be back until the 1st. And Wednesday, Am will go to a friends house here in town for the time we are gone, and she’ll be the cat-checker-upper-girl. At least the kids are taken care of.

I have to make rolls for sandwiches, about 4 dozen of them I think.

I have to go to the grocery store.

I still have to make a new tack bra. Srsly? Ridiculous difficulties finding the right kind of bra. I dunno what happened to my boobs, but this will be the third trip to return a bra and try and find another. So irritated.

He keeps telling me to buy goggles and a snorkel for some wicked piss play and I keep telling myself that he’s just fucking with me and talking myself out of buying them.

He also told me to stop and pick up some stainless steel nails.

*gulp*

I have reached the nauseous stage of nervousness. The paralyzing kind. The kind that finds me staring off into space for minutes at a time and thinking I have to pee all the time.

Performance anxiety. I have it.

Or, I just know that for four whole days I have to be social. I don’t know which is more terrifying.

Tomorrow evening Master comes home. Well, he’s trying to get in tomorrow evening if he can catch an earlier flight. Otherwise, he won’t be in until Wednesday afternoon- which would suck balls. Then we have to get everything loaded in the truck and ready to go.

Wednesday evening, we’re picking Dweaver up at the airport. He’ll stay here on Wednesday night and is going to camp with us.

Early Thursday morning we leave for Spankfest.

Oy.

Nerves.

I don’t feel so good.

What if I wimp out? What if I embarrass him by whining like a girl?

What if I have a meltdown and and… and

What if I can’t take any of it! Do you have any idea how out of practice I am!?!?!?!?

What if he doesn’t play at all.

I hate being a stoopid girl.

It’ll be great. *nods*

No matter what. No expectations. Except to have fun.

The End.

Now s’cuse me while I go puke the butterflies out of my tummy.

~cunt

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Selective Memory

Flashback: A play party. Master grinding my panties into my cunt after giving me a spanking that left me hot and juicy. Then him pulling them off and tossing them around the room for anyone to sniff. Comments about the scent, laughter, more tossing, while I hid my red face behind my hair and tried to die on the spot.

You know. There is a reason why your brain blocks humiliating and degrading moments out of your memory. It’s called survival.

What is the reason why it unblocks them at random, unrelated moments? Innocently filling the car up with gas and a picture pops into my head. The mental image of a man who is not Master, wadding my damp and odiferous panties up and holding them to his nose, inhaling, laughing, saying “if only you could bottle that” and then my panties flying through the air to the next set of hands and nostrils.

So if blocking it is survival then this random unblocking must mean…

I am dying?

;-)

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“You know I read it in a magazine”

Quite awhile ago Master was contacted by a journalist and photographer, Tommy. He wanted to know if Master would be interested in having some photos published in an adult magazine in Europe.

As you can imagine, being the shy, private and reserved fellow that Master is, he pooh-poohed the idea immediately.

And then I woke up.

Har-de-har-har!

Well, I don’t know if any of you have picked up on this, but Master is a bit of an exhibitionist. And I’m his exhibit.

Of course he said yes. I mean, of course he said yes.

I don’t know what I thought about it at the time. It was as simple as, well, he said it’s going to happen so it’s going to happen. No different than making the videos for clips4sale or posting the raunchy pictures here, right?

At that time, it all felt the same.

The logistics of us getting the time to take photos good enough to publish, sending them from America to Europe, the time it took for Tommy to do what he does on his end, for the magazine people’s to do what they do, and then for us to get a copy of the magazine?

I kinda sorta forgot about it all. Once we’d done the photos, I pushed it out of my mind.

We got the magazine in the mail a couple of weeks ago. I’ve sat on it since then because… it’s fucked with my head more than I expected it would.

The pictures in the magazine are raunchy. And.. it’s a magazine! It’s not a fickle internet webpage that I can (conceivably) delete anytime I want to. It’s not something that’s going to fade away when Google clears its cache. It’s not something that scrolls off my web page in a day or two.

It’s a freakin’ magazine. Full color, two page spread of my naked bits that… that… seem so permanent! And when I say spread, I mean spread. As in one of the pictures plastered there in technicolor is of my obscenely spread pussy and.. O. M. G.

I’ve never so much as had my picture in the newspaper, not even when I won the school spelling bee in the 8th grade.

This magazine could potentially reside in some pervert’s bathroom for years! You KNOW that whoever buys this kind of magazine buys it for one single purpose, and he’s ejaculating all over it right-freakin-now. And he’ll do it again tomorrow. And the next day, and the next…

The permanence of this is just about doing me in. It’s just surreal. Freaky. The objectification has reached new heights.

I mean, I know that I’m not going to be consulted about things. I know he gets to do what he wants. I know I’m here for his amusement, blah blah blah. I KNOW.

Except, you just don’t KNOW until it smacks you in the face. And then you’re left sitting on the floor with a handprint on your cheek and stars bursting behind your eyes, going, wtf just happened? Is THIS what I signed up for?

Yes. Yes it is.

I have no idea what the readership is of this magazine. 1, 100, 1000- makes no difference.

And there isn’t a single word in the whole magazine that I can translate. Not that that matters. Who reads the words??? No, I am not buying that “I get it for the articles, honey!” nonsense. Besides, there really aren’t any articles in this magazine. Just lots and lots of flesh.

Funnily enough, what the little article on the page actually says isn’t even about us! Either we weren’t exciting enough or the editor of the magazine fucked up because somehow, we’ve been renamed to Pavel and Marie and we’re Czech rather than American. Hee. I find that to be quite humorous.

Enough with the babble. The magazine photos already, cunt!

The front page of the smut magazine. See my ickle picture way down there at the bottom?

Front Page

The Index page. We are on page 4!

Two page spread:

Spread

If you’ve seen me on Fet, then some of the pictures in the magazine should look familiar. After all, they are our pictures! It’s still not the same. I could yank those pics off Fet any time I want to.

Well, okay, I could if Master tells me I can, but you get what I’m saying right?

What I can’t do is delete a magazine.

I know I’m getting redundant, but it’s warranted, right? I can freak if I want to? You would, wouldn’t you??

~cunt

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Babygirl

You should go [link removed]

And then to [link removed]

I’m in that everything-she-does-is-precious phase even when she is doing nothing but staring at the wall.

I hear this phase is permanent. That probably sucks for y’all.

:D

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Not your typical 80′s hair scrunchy

I forget that not everybody knows wtf I’m talking about.

The Scrunchy, in all of its bdsm trailer-park style glory. :D

I have no idea why I started calling it a scrunchy. Maybe cuz it scrunches up my poor pussy.

Anyway. It doesn’t get inserted like a tampon. A small portion of it is inserted, really just as much as Master can push in to secure it in place and stretch the tissue and make it hurt as much as possible.

The rest of it scrunches up (ha! that’s why!) between the lips.

(I had to go back two YEARS to find a picture of the scrunchy. Have we really gotten that far away from posting vulgar kaya-porn?? That’s sad.)

(And doesn’t that look purdy all smooth and clean and not hairy and gross? *wistful sigh*)

Oh yes. Scrunchy.

It’s pinchy and pokey and scratchy and stabby. Wear it long enough, and be forced to move while wearing it, and the tender pink flesh inside my folds is rubbed raw, abraded and bloody.

Y’all are right. No way could I do the scrunchy for 7 hours.

Tack bra it is.

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With Choices Like These, Who Needs Enemies?

Whoever said slaves don’t have choices is full of shit.

For instance: It’s just about a 7 hour drive to Spankfest.

“Tack bra or scrunchy, cunt? I need amusement on the way there.”

Well wtf kind of choice is THAT?

The scrunchy is way way WAY worse on a drive than the tack bra. The constant bumps while sitting on it with it stuffed so fucking hard into the pussy folds are just excruciating.

So, tack bra right?

Except… he really really delights in squeezing my tits in the tack bra. So, seven hours of tacks embedding themselves into my poor ickle boobs, exascerbated by his frequent smacks, squeezes and Oh-oops-my-elbow-flew-into-your-tits!, only to be followed up by several more hours of “omg! Hi! Gimme a hug!” from the people at camp.

And you KNOW he’s gonna encourage people to hug me really really hard. He does that, with a big old shit-eating grin on his face.

So, scrunchy right?

But just how sore, bloody and abraded do I want my pussy to be BEFORE he has several days of nothing but time and inspiration to further torture it?

Argh! I came into this so I wouldn’t HAVE to make choices! He’s totally not doing this my way.

/foot stomping girly whine

You know what’s going to happen? I’m going to agonize over which one to pick, right? I’ll put the bra on, decide it hurts too much, run and take it off, shove the scrunchy in, take one step and decide THAT hurts WAY too much, yank it out and put the bra back on… right up until we’re getting in the truck to leave and he’s gonna get irritated and then tell me to put both of the fuckers on, now STFU and get in the damn truck. Then I’ll be completely fucked.

He is so doing it wrong.

/glaring pout aimed at his picture

~cunt

ps. I have to make a new tack bra before camp either way. Mine’s looking pretty sad and ratty. I realize that a bra full of tacks is hardly the height of fashion even by fetwear standards but still. It doesn’t need to look like I plucked it out of the bag lady’s wardrobe. No self-respecting kinky crafting slave can be caught dead in that thing!

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Coming Apart At The Seams

This is the worst I’ve been during one of his absences in a long time.

Of course, he hardly travels anymore either so I’m all out of practice.

I’m completely manic. Unfocused. Insecure. On the verge of tears. I pace in circles, flop on the couch, hop back up, pop on Fet, pace again, go outside, come back in.

The lawn needs mowed, the flowers need watered, the house is messy, I haven’t showed (eww!), I haven’t cooked a thing, literally have not turned the stove on, since he left. We’re eating sandwiches or chips or whatever else the kids can find.

I’ve about flooded Fetlife to death. It appeals to me because I can flit from one topic to the next without really having to think about it for longer than a few minutes. I tried a couple of times to make a post here because I have a couple of neat-o topics, but the drafts are about the most jumbled messes of nonsense I’ve ever written.

It’s not pms either. That was last week.

So I talked to Master on the phone and I’m whining about all this stuff and he listens for awhile and then he goes, “Stop it.”

“Huh?”

“Stop it. Just knock it off.”

“But M-”

“No. I mean it. Get the shit done and stop it. Now.”

Well. Fine then. Jeez. Way to ruin my awesome train wreck, ya big heartless bastard.

Hmmph.

I can already feeling it draining away though. So, I’m going to bed and tomorrow I’m mowing the lawn, staying off of Fet (maybe), cleaning the house and-

Starting to pack for SPANKFEST! w00t!

He said he might nail me to a tree.

*swoon*

He’s such a sweet talker. He knows just what to say to calm me down. ;-)

I am such a lucky cunt.

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Home Sweet Home

I *hated* being away from home. Even without Master here, I hated it.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to have to sleep in pajamas when you’ve been sleeping naked for 5 years? It’s impossible. I felt strangled all night long. I was so. fooking. tired. by the time I got home.

And THEN, I couldn’t poop. The whole time I was gone, all 6 days, no pooping. I can only poop at home. *sigh* Spankfest should be fun. With Master’s plans to poke things up my ass, I’m thinkin’ I’ll be poopin’ somewhere on someonething.

That’s gross. Hee.

By the third night with my family, they’d all decided that I must have been adopted. I mean, that’s always pleasant to hear, right? “You just aren’t like the rest of us. You musta been adopted!”

Wanna know why I’m an apparent adoptee?

Because in those entire three days, I hadn’t had one single alcoholic beverage. Not one. For THREE WHOLE DAYS!

~le gasp~

I know I come from a family of hardcore drinker. But really, until you get to see it for days in a row, you just don’t even realize what hardcore drinking IS.

I have no idea how any of ‘em have a functioning liver left in their bodies.

And then my sister, who’s three sheets to the wind, gets this *hilarious* idea that she’s going to take a picture of me with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in another and text it to Master with the message “See what your wife gets up to when you aren’t around?!”

She has no idea (I don’t think?) of the nature of our relationship, so she’s just cackling away at how FUNNY it’s going to be and I’m thinking oh fuck me running. Master will. not. be. amused. and at the same time, I don’t want to TELL her he won’t think it’s funny cuz then she’ll think he’s a controlling ass or something, so she sticks her cigarette in my one hand (and golly it felt good there. Boy howdy) and her beer can in my other-

And it took her, literally, SEVEN tries to text the photo and the message to him. She was THAT plastered. And it wasn’t even dinner time yet. Oy.

Anyway, he laughed it off to her and not 60 seconds later I get a text that says “Nice picture of you with a cigarette.”

Can you just HEAR The Look™ in that text? I could. I near about peed my panties right there.

So I’m all shaking fingers trying to text back that I wasn’t smoking, I swear to GOD I wasn’t smoking, that my sister thought she was funny and just wishing I had fucking stayed HOME.

But it was okay. He believes me.

I think.

By the fourth night there I left them all to their drinking and curled up on the couch with a book, just waiting for time to come home. My sister came in and made some comment about how they’d have to leave soon to go back to Texas and how she wished I’d come out and sit with them and I’m all just.. blah. You suck. I wanna go home.

It wasn’t all bad though. I actually enjoyed my mother this visit. She’s far too preoccupied with her health to give a shit about what I’m doing. Plus, Babygirl was there being all sweet and cute. So that part was great.

I even made her a 5 gallon bucket of laundry soap and left her ingredient to make a couple more buckets. Anything to help save a dime when you’re hurting, yanno?

And, one night for dinner I grilled out chicken using that marinade I posted awhile back and that was a HUGE hit. Everyone loved it. My dad had mouthgasms. He may have even drooled.

The highlight of the trip though, was getting to see my BFF. We always seem to be able to reconnect seamlessly when we get the chance to see each other. As if it hadn’t been a year or two since the last time we talked or got to have coffee together. She’s just so bloody happy these days, too. She pert near oozes contentment.

Plus, I think her and I both have secret wishes for our kids to hook up..lol. They’ve been in love with each other since the first grade, why do they try and deny it? ;)

Anyway, now I’m home and I’m missing Master ridiculously. I’m all kinds of pathetic and sad and mopey. I think it was a mistake to think that I could do a visit and be social and be around groups of people for days on end while also dealing with his absence. It was too much.

I like isolation. Have I mentioned?

~cunt

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BBL

So. He left.

*sniffle*

After he left, I had this period of oh-my-god-i’m-FREE kind of euphoria. Seriously. Like, I hopped in and out of the bathroom and I ate some chocolate chips (the only chocolate in the house) and I didn’t clean the kitchen cuz I was lazying on the couch for a couple of hours.

Then it was bedtime and I had to get in that giant cold empty bed and he wasn’t there and I was too scared to shut the light off and it sucked balls.

Cuz I didn’t have to suck balls. You know what I mean?

So I curled up with his pillow like a love-sick teenager. Now it’s morning and the house is too quiet without him here and I miss him something awful.

It’s going to be a long, long couple of weeks. :-(

But! Part of his time away will zip by because I’m packing up the kids and heading off to my mother’s for a week. It really wasn’t a planned trip, and I’m not looking forward to an 8 hour drive with a newborn, but it’s really the best time to go.

One- with Master away, I don’t have any guilt about leaving. Otherwise, I really can’t stomach the thought of going somewhere and leaving him home alone. He’d starve or something. *nods*

Two- My sister who lives in Texas is coming up this week to see my mom. She’s my oldest sister, 10 years my senior, and her youngest daughter is the same age as Jes. I figured out that the last time we all saw each other, the two girls were in the 5th grade. Now they’re almost 18, and Jes with a baby. So I’m really looking forward to that. (Of course, she’s the skinny sister. You know the type? She’s 48, has 4 kids with not a single stretch mark and still wears a bikini. Bitch.) Anyway… I’m sure I miss her and will be happy to see her. Right?

Three- and the main reason I’m going right now- My mom’s health is unstable. She’s a walking stroke/heart attack waiting to happen. She’s been working with the Mayo Clinic, trying to get her medication right, trying to get stable. Originally, she was going to come here at some point so she could see Babygirl, but with the money they’re shelling out to Mayo and the time my dad is missing from work to go to Mayo, coming here isn’t an option for them anymore. And if something were to happen to her before she got a chance to lay eyes on her favorite granddaughter’s new baby, I’d never forgive myself.

So with Master away anyway, and with my sister in town, even though we really don’t have the extra money for me to take off for a week, Master told me to shut up, get in the car, and git to gittin’.

Speaking of new baby goodness, I got a great big giant ear-to-ear grin out of her yesterday. She likes grandma the bestest. *nods*

There is no internet access at my mother’s. She still believes the devil lurks amongst the tubes. So! God knows the spam I’ll come home to, and the excitment I’ll miss out of y’all.

Be good- or good at it!

~cunt

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