That title sounds kinda cryptic, huh? Meh. It’s not meant to be. It just summed up where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing. Just living life.
That’s not a complaint, by the way. My life is rocking cool. I’d be hard pressed to come up with complaints, and whatever I did come up with would be trivial.
There’s something wickedly awesome going on between Master and myself over the last couple of months. The best way I can think to describe it is to say we’re “blending”. Everything just seems so smooth and effortless and comfortable. It’s really nice.
We’re coming up on 6 years. When does one qualify for longevity in M/s? Is there a minimum time requirement? Have we reached it!? I want a trophy. A cookie. Something.
Anyway, as I was saying, I’m living. Somehow I seem to have lost the ability to work the internet into that living. Probably that will work itself out now that the kids’ school break and Master’s holiday break are over. As Jack pointed out just the other day “you can always tell when Scott’s home; the blog goes quiet.” We determined I should just post that I am busy acquiring blogging material and I’ll brb.
So what blogging material have I acquired anyway?
Well.
A couple of days ago, Saturday morning in fact, Master wakes up, looks at me and says “I’m in a giving mood today. Get dressed and let’s go.” Not being one to question or dilly-dally over direct orders (ha! Who am I kidding. But I did get up and get dressed.), we were soon headed out into the snowy-yuck that is the U.P. and off to the mall.
There’s a book store at the mall that is closing. Everything in it is half price. Master got, like, 20 books or something. I got one. But it looks like a good one. Some steamy, sex, bdsm-y type of thing, if the jacket is to be believed. (I’ll let my fellow perverts know if it’s worth a read.)
You know what is directly across from the going-out-of-business book store in the mall?
Regis Hair Salon.
Do you know what place was pathetically empty of clients because there was a baby-blizzard going on outside?
Regis Hair Salon!
Do you know where Master took me by the hand and dragged me to after he paid for his books?
Regis Hair Salon!!
Do you know where he sat me down in a salon chair, spoke with the stylist, pointed to exactly where the scissors should stop, dictated the layering and almost.. almost.. ALMOST had it snipped up to the very base of my neck?
AT REGIS HAIR SALON!!!
It was only through very nervous and almost imperceptible shakes of my head that he scrapped the “take 12 inches off” order and changed it to “just take off 6 inches. I think she’s going to pass out.”
You know what it felt like when she was done? It felt like someone had taken off a too-small and too-heavy motorcycle helmet. I happen to know what it feels like to wear a too-small and too-heavy motorcycle helmet because I grew up with a Harley-loving dad.
In other words, it felt–it FEELS–divine. Luxurious. Heavenly. Lightweight. I feel like I’ve been Tigger-fied. I’m bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy fun! Well, maybe not pouncy. But the rest for sure.
It’s going to take some getting used to because I have no idea what to do with it. Other than running my fingers through it and gleefully telling Master to “Look! Look what it does!” and then flipping it oh-so-nonchalantly out of the way, that is.
So. That prediction that I’d probably sit in the salon chair and bawl over being an epic hair-fail?
Nah. I couldn’t have been more wrong. In fact, I was positively giddy. A little nervous but far far FAR from feeling bad.
I’m having trouble dredging up any feelings of guilt or failure or oh-noes!-I’ve-topped-from-the-bottom! because… well because. I haven’t, in over 5 years, managed to top him from the bottom or manipulate him into doing it my way, and I doubt that I somehow magically made it happen on Saturday morning either.
Maybe it WAS that he didn’t want to hear me complain about my hair anymore. Maybe he was bothered by the frequent headaches. Maybe he was tired of my lost hairs finding their way into his underwear, wrapping themselves around his ball-hairs and then ripping them out when he had to hurry and yank his tidy-whities down for a quick poo at work (true story, that.)
Maybe he got a wild hair up his ass. (Pun optional)
Maybe.. whatever. Fact is, it was his decision.
It just so happens that SOME of his decisions are hella lot easier to obey than others.
*beams*
Wanna see?!
It feels a lot shorter than it looks in that picture. It is teh awesome haircut.
Master seems to like it too. Practically every time he looks at me he says something about “loving the ‘do” and then praises himself for having the great idea of cutting it. ;-)
An added bonus is that he’s given me a couple of good solid hair-pulling moments and it hasn’t sparked an immediate headache. Before, he just couldn’t indulge himself too much in that fetish of his. Now he can.
*beams again*
On to other blogging material.
We’ve had some great sex. Like, toe-curling, eye-crossing kind of sex. Master summed it up perfectly the other night when, after collapsing on top of me, he grunted out “God DAMN we have good sex, cunt!”
He’s right. We so do.
And then! Even after having that toe-curling, eye-crossing kind of sex, in the middle of the night I’ll be sneaking my hand into my nightstand drawer for my pocket rocket and popping off a couple of silent and secretive ‘gasms just at the memory of that awesome sex.
You know where else he rocks? He’s not interested in orgasm denial or orgasm control or masturbation restrictions or permission to come. None of that b.s. The more the merrier, he always says and you know what? He’s fucking right! I tell him that I masturbated in the middle of the night right next to his snoring face and he gives me a high-five.
He is so made of win.
You wanna know where we had some more awesome sex? Right smack in the middle of Jack and Jill’s living room. Yep. Sure did. With Jill’s own orgasm right on the heels of my own. Or maybe before. I’m not sure. When the bench I was leaning over started taking a dive on to her poor naked bod, I lost track of who was squealing first.
We were making some music, let me tell you. Girls moaning through orgams is a pretty sound.
We have no shame. None. Zip.
Srsly though. How many friends do you have where it’s not only okay, it’s encouraged to bend your girl over and boink in the sanctity of their living room?? I love those guys!
We did a little bit of play. Master wanted to do some bondage so he fiddled around with the rope for awhile.
I’m a finicky bondage fanatic. Bondage for the sake of bondage doesn’t do much for me. I tend to find the process of rope work to be tedious, downright boring sometimes, and if it takes too long, I’ll get foot-stomping impatient.
Cuffs and chains are so much faster and easier, don’tcha think?
My interest in bondage begins and ends at restraining me for the purposes of fucking my brains out, painfully please, and me not being able to do a damn thing about it. Or securing me to something, somewhere, so’s he can beat me and I can’t do anything about it.
Bondage for the purposes of looking pretty in rope? Meh. I can take it or leave it.
I take it, whenever he’s in the mood. He was in the mood.
I suppose that all sounds unappreciative or something. It’s not meant to be. I soak up any kind of attention he wants to pay to me, especially if there is a kinky-flair behind that attention. I just would rather spend time doing other kinky things than having to stand there while he winds rope around and makes knots.
Ugh. Even that sounds snarky.
Y’all know what I mean, right? *desperate plea for understanding here*
Anyway, here, have a look-see.
Check out those shmexy fucking socks, y’all. Laugh if you gotta but just let me point out that cold feet are not a turn on for anyone. You can take that to the bank.
Let’s look at the hair one more time. Notice how healthy it looks. You can’t see it but I’m beaming. Again.
This picture played right into that fantasy I have of being hooked up to a cow milking machine. (Which, btw, is one of the most often used search terms that brings people here. I tell ya, people are perverts!)
Unfortunately, that titty ran dry a billion years ago.
*shrug* C’est la vie.
This next picture I kinda like. Notice that there is a bit of hair pulling going on- and I’m not running for the Excedrin! Boo-yah!
At one point during the evening I almost tumbled down into that funky hole that sometimes follows pain. It’s that place full of self-pity and anger and fed-upedness.
He had me bent over, cane in hand, warm up (what’s that?!) dismissed. And I Was. Not. Digging. It.
It beckoned me, that place, when he started with the cane. It’s been too long, I’m out of practice, my ass is practically virginized, I wasn’t ready, I didn’t want to, it hurt, he started too hard, and on and on and waah waah waah.
You know that place? *another desperate plea for understanding here*
I mean I was THERE. At the threshold. One foot into the hole of funk, the other foot off the ground and ready to go…
…and then he totally redeemed himself by bending me over and fucking me into oblivion.
Does he know how to work me or what??
Apparently he enjoyed it, too. I mean, gosh. Look at that big, cheesy grin on his face!
~cunt
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Uncategorized | kaya | 
Monday January 11th, 2010 8:03am | 
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