Topping From the Bottom

I used to go round and round with this. What it is, what it isn’t, do I do it, do I CARE if I do it, is it my job to stop it, is it HIS job to stop it…

Blah blah blah.

This is one of those terms that has no absolute clear meaning. Ask ten different people, get ten different answers. For some, it’s as strict as the sub mentioning something they like. For others, it has to include manipulation, among other nefarious practices.

I used to be so paranoid about doing this that I would refuse to suggest anything. Refuse to ask for anything. Refuse to give him feedback; wouldn’t tell him how it felt, if I liked it/didn’t like it. Nothing. Nada.

That was seriously exhausting. For me. For him. The worry of skating dangerously close to topping from the bottom is less stressful than trying so hard NOT to, you know what I mean?

He especially was frustrated with it/me. By trying not to top from the bottom, which is some other person’s preference for bdsm, I was ignoring HIS preference by not giving him the information he wanted.

It’d go something like this:

Him: I want you to tell me when you’re horny.
Me: No. Can’t.
Him: Why?
Me: That’s topping from the bottom. It’s against BDSM law. Can’t do it.
Him: *blinkblinkblink* Where the fuck do you GET this shit?

Or:

Him, after playing and in that post-scene high: So, what did you think of that?
Me: Good.
Him: Yeahbut, what did you THINK? Too hard? Too fast? Not enough? WHAT?
Me: Good. It was good.
Him: ARGH!!
Me, not topping from the bottom: *blink*

Or:

Him: Hey cunt, wanna get beat?
Me, careful to keep my face blank: If you wish, Master.
Him: I know that, cunt, but I’m asking for your input.
Me: My input is that if you want to beat me, then you should. If you don’t, you shouldn’t.
Him: Bitch, Imma fuck you up if you don’t start just answering the fucking questions. Jesus H. Christ. If I want to know what you think, then tell me what you think! God Damn!
Me: *lips sealed*
Him: I swear I’m not letting you get online anymore. EVAR!

Or:

Him, mid-spanking: Feel good, cunt?
Me: Maybe.
Him: What maybe shit? Does it feel good or not?
Me: Masterrrrrrrrrr, I can’t tell you because then I’m planting subconscious thoughts in your head and then I’m in charge and you AREN’T!
Him: Girl, honest to God. Do you really think you have so much control over me that the mere mention of your thoughts and feelings is enough to manipulate my hand? Christ Jesus, you need your ego checked!

Oh.

Well.

If you put it that way!

I mean, it really was quite disrespectful and egotistical to think that I had enough power to “lead” him into a scene or through a scene or in how to dom me or not dom me merely by answering questions or being honest about my feelings.

The thing is, it’s really hard to be a blank slate. It’s really hard to not have preferences. It’s really hard to not want something out of this lifestyle I’ve chosen. It’s really hard to not care what does, or does not happen.

It’s also dishonest.

I do care. I do have preferences and kinks and sensations and feelings and a whole fucking host of wants and don’t-wants.

Anyway, I’m well over all that. These days, I give all sorts of feedback, probably more than he ever wished for. But you know what? He really isn’t swayed by it.

He takes it for the information that it is, uses the parts of it that suit him and dismisses what doesn’t.

Besides, how can he even begin to make headway if I’m not forthright with how what he IS doing is affecting me. I’d turned it into a guessing game, all in the name of trying to do it right. It were crazy I tell ya!

Let’s take, for instance, the scenario I talked about in the last post.

I give him the reasons why I think it would be ‘way hot’ for him to do something. Or why I don’t want him to do something. Whatever.

He listens to those reasons.

Then he does whatever the fuck he wants anyway.

Is that topping from the bottom?

If he fucks another girl is it because I “topped” him? I think it might seem so because it happens to be a kink I’m interested in. For some, simply being agreeable and encouraging equals topping from the bottom. Like there has to be some sort of never ever giving the submissive what she wants or it’s not “real” or “true” or some such b.s.

For me, unless I were to say something like “You HAVE to go fuck that girl or I’ll never be satisfied!” or whatever… then it’s not. There has to be some attempt at making it happen *against* his preference in order for it to qualify as topping from the bottom.

And clearly, communicating my thoughts on it aren’t making it happen because he hasn’t done it yet and believe me, he’s had PLENTY of opportunity.

Just a matter of sharing thoughts is not attempting to manipulate. Not to him. And of course, his opinion is the only one that matters. ;-)

Also- he has a genuine interest in pleasing me. He’s awesome like that. It’s not an entirely one-sided relationship. Hot as that fantasy is, he knows I’m a person and he loves that person and he enjoys seeing that person happy.

Not always.

Not every second of every day.

Not at the expense of his own happiness. Not at the expense of putting my needs above his.

Of course, he has to know what my needs are in order to make those decisions. He can’t know what they are if, in some twisted attempt of mine to be uber-submissive, I refuse to tell him.

So he gets the pertinent information. He weighs that against his own agenda. Maybe he decides giving me a morsel now and then is beneficial to his end goal. Maybe I lap that morsel up like gold. Maybe I have a moment of “omg. I totally just topped from the bottom because he gave me something I want!”

And then I knock it off. Because getting whatever that thing may be is a gift. A gift that I’m throwing back in his face if I start looking for ulterior motives. If I start suspecting him.

He does what he does because it suits him to do so. Not for any other reason.

Even when it appears to be for my benefit, even if I’m getting huge benefits from it, make no mistake that somehow, he’s benefitting more.

So those are my thoughts on topping from the bottom. What’re yours?

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Tuesday With Kaya

I have pms. I realized it this morning when I started wondering if 14 years after giving birth is too late for an abortion.

My son had this bright idea that he needed to skip school today so he could catch up on the homework he’s behind on because he’s already missed 3 days since school started.

How does that EVEN make any sense? “I missed too much school and am behind so let me miss one more day. K, mom? K?”

Um. No. Jaysus.

I swear I can go from thinking my kids are at least of average intelligence to wondering if I should have them tested for disabilities.

Speaking of abortion-

No. Nevermind. Let’s not.

I had a long post typed up about abortion but I scrapped it. I’m just going to say this: Judging is not the same thing as condemning.

~~*~~

I really wanted to make a kink related post considering I have a kink related blog, but I’m hard pressed to find kink related material to blog about.

(Speaking of kink blogs, a while back I got an email from someone who said they were going to “review my blog in a podcast”.

So, yanno, whatever. I wanted to hear it because I find the whole blog reviewing thing to be curious. Curious and odd.. well, not odd so much as rather egotistical. Especially when it’s not been asked for. It’s one thing if I specifically ask, “hey, tell me what you think of my blog.” It’s another for someone else to say, “Hey! I’m going to tell you what’s wrong and/or right about your blog!” You know what I mean? Like, who are you?? (I don’t actually even know who they are. I’m sure they are Someone Important.)

Anyway. So I listened to it and it’s not a horrendous review. Not fan-girl fawning (sniffle) but not horrible either.

However.

This part was really, super clear.

They didn’t read much of it. Could not have.

Now… call me silly. But. If you’re going to give a review, shouldn’t you, like, read it? Maybe not ALL of it, or.. hell. Maybe ALL of it.

That’s like giving a movie review after only watching the opening scene. Or a book review off of one chapter. Am I off my rocker here?

I say they could not have because the one question they left with was easily and clearly answered simply by reading a couple of entries. I mean, I’ve only quit M/s about a hundred times, right?

“Why does she refer to herself as a cunt and make that distinction between a cunt and slave?” followed up by “Here is how they are doing the Master and slave thing incorrectly.”

Now, can anyone answer that first question by way of the second observation? I will give cookies for the correct answers. Virtual cookies, but cookies nonetheless.

Anyway. I digress.)

Back to kink-related material, or the lack thereof:

It’s not that it isn’t there. It’s just… so very much there every day that I can’t pick up any single bit to discuss anymore.

I feel like I’ve talked about it all six ways to Sunday. And then repeated it again.

It’s all just so routine, so normal, so… so everything that I’ve read in blogs that have been blogging for a long time and I used to say to myself, man, I’m NEVER going to think of this as routine and normal because it is WAY COOL, OMGZ KINK!!

Yet here I am.

I’m not bored with it. On the contrary, I LOVE my life. It just doesn’t make for kewl blogging material.

Maybe I’m approaching it all wrong though. Maybe I need to rethink the purpose of blogging and figure out what it is I want to get out of it.

So here’s something that I had totally dismissed as being worth blogging about:

Master left yesterday for a short business trip. The first thing I asked him was if he’s going to fuck/use another woman.

He shrugged. Said he didn’t know. Said maybe. Said it would depend. Blah blah blah.

I told him he should. In fact, I practically begged him to.

I’ve done that often actually. Encouraged it.

He’s never done it. Never. Oh, to play with another, yes. But fucking? Nope.

When he talks about it, he talks too much about my feelings. He wants me involved, he wants me there, he wants me to not feel cheated on. He thinks something like that should be a joint activity.

This frustrates me.

He’ll talk about threesomes, things like that, and I just shake my head. I don’t WANT to have a threesome (well. I mean, I DO. And I would. But that’s a separate thang.) What I want is to be at home while he’s off fucking another woman. Or to be in the room, but not allowed to participate while he fucks/uses another woman in front of me.

I want my face rubbed in it. I want to cry about it. I want to hurt about it. I want to wonder if she was better than me- No. I want him to tell me she was better than me. I want to be compared, and found lacking, even if it isn’t true.

We have these repeated conversations, pretty much every time he takes off on a trip. He keeps saying that he doesn’t want or need another. That he’s content with me, that I take care of his needs, blah blah blah. And I keep saying that it isn’t ABOUT that (and think that maybe I should stop taking such good care of his needs if’n I’m ever gonna get my way. But *smack my hand* them’s bad girl thoughts, dontchaknow.)

Finally he was like, wtf is your deal? Why do you push this all the time?

So. You know why? I’ll tell you why.

It’s not just about emotional masochism, though I’m sure that factors in.

It’s because I want to… I NEED to… have this prideful contentment erased. Scrubbed out. Obliterated.

I want to feel less secure in my slavery. I want to experience jealousy and fear.

I want to be reminded that I don’t own him.

Plus, you know, it’s perverted as all fuck.

So I asked him to take pictures if he does do it. Lots and lots of pictures.

I’ll keep you posted.

~cunt

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Gawl Durn It.

Everytime I sit down here I get interrupted.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Not one sentence typed, not one thought formed, just a matter of thinking to myself, hey, everyone is fed and content and otherwise occupied so now would be a great time to- and then I hear “Mom! I need help with my math.” or “Mom, can you print this off for me?” or “Honey? Bring me a glass of water (or suck my dick, wash my back, etc., etc., ET CETERA).” or “Grandma!”

Well, okay. Not grandma, but the others are true. Swear to God, cross my heart and poke my eye– or however that saying goes. Every damn time.

So I gave up sitting down here. I don’t sit here, they leave me alone. I sit here, they bother me. See how it works?

Then Master took it over because the chair was empty. Neverwinter Nights or Earth Somethingorother or some medievel war thingie that turned the mouse pointer into a little sword.

I watched a marathon of Cake Boss, got caught up on America’s Next Top Model, watched every episode ever filmed of Wife Swap. Cleared out the DVR.

Cleaned the basement, washed walls, pulled out the stove and scrubbed behind it. I organized a cupboard, tried to talk Master into putting shelves up in the closet (fail, btw), helped Jes sort through the baby clothes Babygirl has already outgrown, gathered up a box of clothes for Goodwill out of Am’s room, re-homed 5 kittens.

Now. I’m fucking sitting here and I don’t care if the house is on fire, I’m finishing this post.

Which… yanno.. I just did. The End.

I am victorious.

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Grandma? Is that you?

Recent search term: “grandma cunt photos”

There are some sick, sick people in this world!

Hee. They came to the right place though. ;-)

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A Mother’s Love

I got into an argument on Fet yesterday (go figure, right?) and I’m still just flabbergasted by the whole thing.

It had nothing to do with bdsm either.

So OP makes a post about someone she knew murdering their newborn (drowned in a bathroom sink apparently) and the mother’s influential family helping her get away with it and how she (the OP) hates her now.

At first the comments are all like, oh you poor thing! *pat pat pat* How awful for you to have to go through that!

And I’m all like… wtf! You’re talking about a murder here, ffs. A covered-up murder. This is not the OP’s tragedy, for one, and for two- wtf!

So then I’m blasted for daring to suggest the OP do something more than rant about it on Fetlife, fer christ’s sake. I’m on my moral high horse and shit, you know. Why can’t I just sympathize with the angst the OP is going through and why don’t I do something about it myself then if I’m so damn outraged and and and-

Hell, most couldn’t even agree on whether or not it was a murder. I mean, it was just a baby, for goodness sake. Probably a nonviable fetus anyway. Probably wouldn’t have survived without medical treatment anyway. Probably it was very much okay for the mother to drown the lump of flesh in the sink.

Srsly. Something is *wrong* with people.

(Turns out, as near as I can gather, there is nothing that can be done now. I’ll have to hope karma handles the rest.)

Anyway, it just made me realize how dismissive people tend to be over babies, and the value of their lives, these days. Abortion and pro-choice really has not been a successful journey, in my opinion.

Nothing but parasites and lumps of tissue.

Of course, I’m looking at precious Babygirl sleeping right next to me with her rosy lips all pursed and her little hands fisted, barely audible baby-snores, so trusting and confident in us to care for her- and I’m so in love with her that undoubtedly I’m not able to see this with any objectivity at all.

I thought a mother’s love was fierce. Man, look cross-eyed at my granddaughter and I’m liable to come uncunted.

Uncunted is my new word, btw.

Heh. I remember scaring the bejesus out of a kid one time at the roller skating rink because he was picking on B-man. This kid was at least twice B-man’s age AND size. I think B-man was in kindergarten, maybe first grade- still learning how to roller skate and not at all steady on his skates- and this kid was lying in wait to trip him every time he skated by. Just thought it was *hilarious* to watch B-man splat on his face. I watched him for a little while, and then finally I stomped out into the rink, snatched him up by his ugly little polo shirt and told him in no uncertain terms that if he tripped my kid one more time I was gonna kick his ass.

Oh I’m not proud of threatening to kick the ass of a 10 year old, but he left my kid alone after that.

Grr. Don’t fuck with my kids. Only I can do that.

So Am’s attempt to get a GSA off the ground is at a standstill. None of the teachers will host it and without that, it’s a dead end. I’m sure the school board is delighted to see it stomped out before it even got started. Fucking close-minded bastards.

She went to homecoming with her girlfriend and that went okay. There were some comments, some sneers when they danced together, but overall she said there were more positive comments than negative.

However, they didn’t try and get in at the cheaper couple-admission price, instead paying as two singles. They didn’t want to cause a scene.

They were also told later by a friend on the yearbook staff to not expect to see any photos of the two of them in the yearbook. She’s not going to object to that either.

While I’m all sorts of ready to jump up and threaten to kick ass again – she’s not. And I can’t force it on her. It’s not me who has to go to that school and face the kids and the teachers everyday. Inside I’m lecturing her to stand up for her rights and fight for equality. Outside I’m telling her that she needs to do what feels right for her.

Using her as a pawn to fight my own battles against social injustice just isn’t right. But the minute she’s on board with it, I’m snatching the school up by its ugly polo shirt, by-fucking-God.

Grrs, I say.

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Wreaths and cups and socks, oh my!

A kinky craft that *isn’t* painful!

Some friends of ours recently moved into a house that has neat-o dungeon space so I made them a dungeon-warming present. Since I’d just finished the Halloween wreath, I made them a dungeon wreath.

It looks a lot better in person. Now I want one of my own. And the dungeon to hang it in. Lucky bastards.

Then I got to experience some new stuffs. I had a lovely lady show me what cupping was all about.

I don’t have any pics of the cupping itself, only of the after-effects. And of my muffin top. *snicker*

That was an interesting sensation. It was kinda-sorta painful but not really. There was a lot of pressure at first, and the more she put on the less I could tell where each pressure point was. The longer they were on, the less painful the pressure was, too.

Inbetween the cups she was using a violet wand- and the violet wand through a wartenberg wheel? Ow. That felt like a hot cigarette dragging against my skin. Yowsers.

The best part was when she took the cups off. That felt goooooood. No wonder they call it massage cupping.

Then Master ripped my stockings all to shreds and fucked me silly. Hee. I love my life.

Miss my stockings– but love my life. :)

~cunt

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10 second break.

Waah. Master’s a big meanie pants!

Break’s over.

;)

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Why did the chicken cross the road?

To get to my kitchen of course! Hee!

I would swear I’d posted this recipe before but I don’t think my search button is working and I’m a terrible tagger so I can’t find it.

By request: Chicken Enchiladas

8 6-inch tortillas
1/2 cup chopped onion
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp. ground coriander
1/4 tsp. pepper
2Tbsp butter
3 tbsp all-purpose flour
1 8oz carton sour cream
2 cups chicken broth
1 or 2 canned jalapeno chili peppers or 1 4oz can green chilis, drained.
1 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese
2 cups chopped cooked chicken
Optional: sliced black olives, tomatoes, chopped onions

In a saucepan, cook onion, garlic, coriander and pepper in butter until onions are tender. Stir flour into sour cream, add to onion mixture. Stir in broth and chili peppers. Cook and stir until sauce mixture is thickened and bubbly. remove from heat, stir in 1/2 cup of the cheese.

Stir 1/2 cup of the sauce into chopped chicken.

Place about 1/4 of chicken mixture into each tortilla. Roll up and arrange them, seam side down, in a lightly greased baking dish (cake pan). Top with remaining sauce.

Bake, covered, in a 350F oven for about 35 minutes or until heated through. Sprinkle with remaining cheese, bake, uncovered for another 5 minutes or until cheese melts.

If desired, sprinkle with tomatoes, olives, onions. Let stand 10 minutes. Makes 4 servings.

I serve mine on a plate with shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes and onions, sliced black olives, sour cream and refried beans on the side. Maybe some spanish rice, too. Makes a very filling meal.

(I apologize for the lack of posts and replies to comments. I’m verrah verrah busy. It’s entirely Master’s fault. ;-) )

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Tied to the Whipping Post

Well… if the whipping post were a stove, I would be.

Master is schmoozing his boss by way of my mad kitchen skillz, which of course means that I am schmoozing Master by way of getting up at 5am and chaining myself to the stove.

He came up to me before he left this morning, wrapping his arms around my waist. “They’re counting on you,” he said, referring to the hungry men he works with. “Don’t disappoint them.”

I snorted. “It isn’t them I worry about disappointing!”

“Heh. Don’t even think about disappointing me, cunt.” And then he was gone.

*gulp*

So! 2 hours later and I have 3 dozen biscuits, 6 quarts of sausage gravy and I will be out the door in about 20 minutes, on my way to deliver breakfast for 15 hulking boys.

THEN! I have to get back here and make deli rolls because I’m having the girls over (hee. I like saying that. “The girls”. “My girls”. I haz friends.) for lunch and we’re having deli sandwiches and veggies and dip and we’re doing a craft day! w00t! We’re making wreaths, assuming we create more than we chat. ;-)

Before that though I need to throw dinner in the slow cooker. Beef stew, I think (with the leftover rolls. *nods*). And take the car to the shop (please cross your fingers for a non-expensive fix).

Then it’s back to the store because tomorrow, more schmoozing by way of 3 dozen chicken enchiladas.

Oy. Biscuits and gravy was easy. Chicken enchiladas… not so much.

While I may have used my mad bedroom skillz in all of my pre-Master bdsm fantasies, Master seems to prefer the kitchen skillz.

Should that make me sad? I don’t know. It might. I’ll get back to you on it. ;)

~cunt

ps. I read all the comments and I’ll reply when I can! Thank you so much for putting a smile on my face!

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Fast, cheap and easy.

No, not me!

Well. Okay. I AM all of those things but for the purposes of THIS post– not me.

I’m talking about food. I’m talking about hot, filling comfort food. I’m talking about reaching a man through his belly.

And, I’m talking about a lazy slave who found a delicious shortcut and I aim to pass it on to you. :)

Maybe, on a cold and blustery Monday morning you look outside and see something like this:

Maybe you just want to sit on the couch, yank the pillow over your head and pretend you live in Hawaii.

Maybe you don’t WANT to have to go butcher the cow, shell the beans, knead the dough, churn the butter and puree the tomatoes.

Maybe you’re thinking PB&J for dinner sounds wonderful and then your Man calls and he’s working outside and he’s tired and cold and hungry and he says “What hot meal are you making for me tonight, slave?” and you have this rush of guilt and figure perhaps it’s time to take the pillow off your head.

But you’re no more motivated to butcher cows and shell beans.

So what do you do??

You cheat, that’s what. You cheat and you enjoy the fuck out of it because, as the title said, it’s fast, it’s cheap and *bonus!*, it’s easy.

It’s magic.

Chili magic, that is.

First, slave over that can opener opening all of them cans. It’s turrible hard work I tell you.

Dump the can contents into a pan. Preferably you’d empty them into your slow cooker so it has several hours to blend the flavors together, unless you’re like me and really took the whole couch/pillow/Hawaii fantasy to late afternoon. Oops.

So, dump the magic and the ‘maters together so they’ve got some time to blend and cook together. In the meantime, dice up your onion if you like them and toss that in with your ground beef.

If you like that raw onion taste, you could dump the onions in with your canned stuff, but I loathe raw onions so I cook them down.

Then drain it and dump that into your canned mess of magical goodness.

Stir it in and let it simmer for a bit. You really need to let the burger chunks soak up some chili-tomatoey sauce, let the tomato chunks soften, let the onions blend in- just let it simmer.

Add spices if you want. Master and I aren’t spicey kind of folks (except in the bedroom! Ha!) so I don’t add much more than salt and pepper, maybe a dash of chili powder.

If it were already in your slow cooker and you hadn’t spent the day having sex on the beach with Anakoni and his well-placed lei… *ahem*

Nevermind.

Next, (after you’ve washed your hands because Anakoni made you do filthy, filthy things to yourself), gather up some toppings. Sour cream, shredded cheese, Fritos(!), oyster crackers- whatever floats your little chili boat- and ladle it all up.

Then, slice up that $0.99 loaf of french bread that you got on the bakery clearance rack and slather it with butter.

Serve that hard-working man.

Do NOT, I repeat, do NOT call him Anakoni. Impressed as he may be with your chili magic, he won’t like it. Trust me.

All in all, for a couch potato, blustery fall day- fast, cheap and easy works out well. And, nobody has to know! Toss out those magic cans and everyone thinks you’re a chili goddess! I have no freakin’ clue how to make chili from scratch but Master takes this to work and, by God, they worship my mad kitchen skillz.

Cheating. It’s what’s for dinner.

;)

~cunt

Total cost for me (chili only, not including toppings) was well under $15.00, for enough chili to feed 5, plus Master’s lunch the next day, plus enough leftovers to toss in the freezer for chili-topped baked potatoes one day next week.

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