Sanity

One more song and dance routine of Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes and I will lose mine.

That is all.

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Maybe Mental

Random quote snatched from Fet:

Loving this “No dealbreakers, no limits, it’s His perogative” stuff. Not to pass judgements, but if I’m on his jury when he cuts your throat, hey….

A lack of self-preservation and survival instinct indicates mental illness. And frankly, I don’t see why a Master would want a slave with that kind of low self-esteem.

Thoughts? Agree? Disagree? Why?

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Tweets

• WordPress is giving me fits and won’t let me upload any pictures so the post I wanted to do can’t be done.
• We’re bottle weaning. She’s stubborn, willful, determined and has a screech that goes right into the center of my brain like an ice pick. She’s winning.
• We went and looked at a house yesterday that i absolutely LOVE. It’s huge, old Victorian-style, has 2 living rooms, SEVEN bedrooms, and 2 garages. Plus, it’s about 10 minutes from Master’s work. We’re an hour from it now. And, it’s the same price as this house. But we aren’t first in line for it, nor has Master decided 100% that he wants to move anyway. Thou shalt not dangle teh carrots in front of teh donkey!
• I need sex. He’s working too much (or just not touching me!). Much masturbation has occurred.
• I texted him the other day in the middle of the work day to gloat that I’d just finished masturbating. He paid me back by telling his co-worker. Much blushing has occurred.
• He’s not 100% sure that Twisted Tryst will be doable this month either. There is a lot going on at work and he’s obligated to attend to it if it needs tending during that week. I’m going to try and be a big girl about it but expect much whining to occur if we can’t go.
• I expect to die of cancer of the tongue if he keeps shoving his lube-covered penis in my mouth. Plus, it tastes yucky. Blech.
• But I guess I’d die with him happy
• Why don’t ALL men want to be doms? Sex on demand seems a rather common male fantasy. Baffling.
• I want bondage sex.
• Masturbation calls. Brb.
• Actually I lied. A poopy diaper and the crabby baby in it calls, but that doesn’t sound nearly as sexy. Either way though, I’m outta here. :/

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Playing With Toys

“I want to see my tits and my pussy, cunt. Now.”

I put my book down and looked over at him. He was naked, erect, and slowly stroking himself.

And waiting. Not patiently.

Still, I hesitated. Squirmed. Blushed. Mumbled a half-hearted protest, even though I knew I was defeated before I began.

I knew what he was going to do. I knew he was just going to look. Inspect. Stare. And otherwise scrutinize my naked body.

It does not seem to matter that he’s seen it eleventy-billion times before. It does not matter that he’s seen, touched, and probably licked, every flaw, every imperfection, every mark. It doesn’t matter that I’m naked in his presence more than I’m dressed.

It just doesn’t matter. It doesn’t compare. All of those natural occurrences of viewing, of shared coupling, of mutual body exploration don’t even compare to this… this… bug-under-a-microscope experience when he just has me lie there, exposed and spread and nakedly vulnerable to his disconcerting gaze.

He gave an impatient grunt and flapped his hand at me in a hurry-it-up gesture.

Swallowing the embarrassment, I stripped, lay back, and shyly propped my legs open a bit.

Without a word, he lewdly shoved them apart, my lips spreading, cool air whispering across my dampness. He grunted in approval and reached down to tug and pull, stretching things open to an indecent level.

There’s something that happens to his face, to his eyes, something that tells me he’s not seeing me. Not the me that is a person, a woman, his. He’s not there. We’re not there together. He’s shut me off, tuned me out, turned the me that is me away. He’s seeing a cunt, a wet, exposed, vulgar piece of meat.

He climbed up between my legs, up on his knees, still stroking himself, and still no words passed between us since my initial embarrassed, quiet protests. It’d be so easy to close my eyes, to hide within myself, but I couldn’t tear myself away from the expression on his face. It was like watching someone else through a window, a peeping tom into his world.

Plus, I wanted to be there in the moment. Fully immersed in being dismissed, being nothing. I wanted, needed, to experience him discarding me.

God damn masochism. Hate feeling so raw while at the same time dragging my own mental fingernails down the abrasion.

He flicked his fingers across my clit and I jerked, moaned. For a moment, he came back, blinking at me. And then he was gone again, staring unabashed at my spread-wide cunt, his hand slowly, lazily stroking up and down his cock.

He didn’t touch me again.

I wasn’t allowed or encouraged or expected to touch him. I wasn’t really supposed to be there. Just my meat.

He wasn’t going to fuck me. He wasn’t going to make me come. I was just a tool, a living, breathing toy.

Though it felt an eternity that I laid there, spread open to his view as his hand worked himself, it likely wasn’t long before he sat upright and with a deep, guttural growl, shot sperm across my torso, my pubic mound, my tits. And then he was gone, leaving me to marinate.

Later, when he was snoring softly beside me and the ceiling fan had long-since dried me off, I pulled the sheet over my naked body and rolled to look at his sleeping face. I marveled at the simplicity. He’d left me feeling well used with hardly a touch.

Maybe the difference between men and boys isn’t just the price of their toys, but in how they play them.

~cunt

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