Barbed wire and holes in the floor.

I saw a picture on Fet of a barbed wire flogger and promptly decided I must have one.

I even have the perfect flogger base to use because we have this really useless homemade flogger that sucks for flogging but would be grand for being wickedified.

Now I just need to make it. And then… find somewhere where it can be used. Because pretty as blood spray patterns can be, not so much on my bed linens or my carpet (and when did I get so old and frumpy as to CARE about my linens?! Next thing you know I’m only going to fuck on a towel! *sob*).

~~*~~

So, remember last week when I was on a desperate porn search and found the woman stomping on green plastic army men? (I do remember someone asking for that link. I can and will hunt that link up if you want it, but you have to a be a paid FetLife member to view it. If you are, and you still want it, lemme know).

I did finally find something worth fapping to, though I also don’t have THAT link. Srsly, remembering to put something in favorites in the midst of fapping is HARD! So, if you really want it it was either on pornotube or redtube and it was a gangbang-y type clip.

Periodically I search for a clip that I was linked to once, a gangbang clip where the guys are wearing gas masks and the girl is being fucked into oblivion and there is an extreme fisting portion that has been the frequent plot of many a masturbatory fantasy. But I can never find that one.

Incidentally, am I the only maso-slave who is bothered by the fact that their Dom-type won’t do the “extreme” on them because they don’t want to “ruin”‘ them? Like… DUDE. I’m supposed to be ruined! THAT’S WHY I’M HERE!!

But I also really like being loved and coddled, too. Argh!

I digress. Back to that fap-worthy porn clip.

The clip I found, while short, had a certain part in it that just pushed my buttons in a BIG way.

See, they (teh bad, oogy men) took this poor skinny chick, and at one point at the end of the clip, they had her on her knees and elbows with her head pushed down into a hole in the floor. So, like, she was completely stuck. Like, headless practically. Nothing but a body above the floor, and completely unable to go anywhere.

Like the “her” that made her HER was gone. Removed. She was just a cunt and an ass.

And then they were fucking her. Of course.

On top of THAT hotness, there was an infrared camera stuck down in the hole with her head and her face was being broadcast onto a tv screen that the fuckers (Fuckers. Literally.) were watching as she was being fucked. Every emotion/expression on her face, larger than life, shot up on the wall for all of them to see. And control. She been cut off and dismissed- but still was not able to hide.

And, and… just.. oh. muh. god. *fans myself*

Fapping material extraordinaire!

So! I was already trying to figure out how in the world I was going to convince Master to cut a head-sized hole in the floor when I came across THIS on The Bondage Blog.

It’s not the floor, but a table could be even BETTER! It’s portable. Adjustable. Workable. It could even be wheeled outside and put to work with my brand new barbed wire flogger!

It is good to know there are people working on making my fantasies come true. It does my ickle, dark heart good.

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Derp

“So, um, like, I met this guyyyyyy *hair twirl* and like… Well, like, we didn’t, like, meet meet, you know? We met online and, like, we emailed a couple of times and stuff? *bubble gum pop* And then he asked me to be his slave and I was all like, Yeah! That’s so cool! and, like, that was back in July and stuff. Like sooooo long ago, right?

“And the emails were Dude. SO intense. Like, Woah. Like, I was totally living as his slave. Awesome.

“And then, like, I didn’t hear from him for awhile? Like, I waited and waited and waited for, like, evurrrr? But the last time I heard from him was in August? Like, he’s not even answering me on yahoo. Like, at all.

“So, I’m just wondering, like, how long should I wait for him and junk, you know? Umcuz, he’s my master? So, like, what should I do?”

Bitch, please. You are fifty-fucking-two years old. I’ma cuntpunch you myself if you keep on with the stoopid.

Such is the beauty that can be found upon FetLife.

(I paraphrase. The OP was slightly less irritating. That’s just the way it translated in my head.)

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Happiness is…

–Granny Smith apples and Jiffy peanut butter.

–Buppy bouncing in hot pursuit of a grasshopper.

–Pizza being delivered for supper.

–cunt punches on a swollen pussy.

I’m a simple girl.

:)

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Homecoming

The first time was frenzied and desperate. Clothes scattering, no talking beyond grunts and moans, bodies colliding more so than meeting. Hands and lips and teeth were everywhere, mine, his, fervently trying to touch and taste every spot at the same time.

You’d think we hadn’t seen each other for a year for how urgently we fell into bed. And into sex.

The next time started out slower, sweeter. I curled against his back as he slept, lightly kissing his neck and shoulder, my hand sneaking around to fondle him. He woke with happy, appreciative moans, rolling over to return the fondling.

It ended with me being planted face down under the desk with both his fists punching and his cock pounding, sometimes at the same time.

The time between ‘sweeter’ and ‘planted face down’ was filled with fucking and biting, with my hands securely wrapped around the bars of the headboard, punches into my breasts, teeth on my nipples, my neck, my shoulders, thumbs on my clit, harsh words and harsher pounding.

I hate when he’s gone, but good lord do I love it when he comes home.

*beams*

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Squee!

HE IS COMING HOME TOMORROW!!!!

That is all.

:)

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Stream of consciousness

Yesterday I took Am to have her Senior pictures done.

It made me feel old. Blah. My middle child is a senior in high school. She’s going to be 18 (not until February but still! It’s coming!) Not my oldest child, my middle child. My youngest child will be 16 (not until April, but still! It’s coming!).

I’ve been parenting for a combined total of 50 years.

I’ve been slavin’ for a mere 6 years.

And I’m still a much better slave than I am a parent.

Am has told me on multiple occasions, and told me again last night on the way home, that I’m not passionate about anything. I’m not passionate about music or books or writing or art or… well, anything.

I just kind of shrug and nod when she says that. She’s wrong though. I am passionate about something. It’s just not something I can talk to her about.

I’m passionate about this, about us and what we do and how it works and WHY it works and how to make it better–or worse, from a masochist’s standpoint. ;)

I’m passionate about pleasing him in service. I’m passionate about the fact that we have to work so bloody hard to keep it all alive.

I’m not passionate about anything else.

I’m going through life with blinders on; shirking, side-stepping, delegating, biding my time. I’m withdrawing, hiding, ignoring. All such negativity for the greater good of my passion.

I have a singular goal, a singular purpose.

There was a wobble in that myopic world of mine for a time. A great big baby bump out of left field had me rockin’ on the axis. But I’m feeling pretty stable lately. Focused. And certain.

I am getting older. So are they. They. The… obstacles… in the way of indulging in my passion. Six years ago I had eight years to go. Now, I have two. And a half. ONLY two and a half. When you’re pushing forty, two and a half years is nothing.

It just kind of hit me as I sat there watching my middle child pose and smile for the camera. How close she was to being done. How close they all were to being done. How close I am to being done.

I will not be raising another child. I’m happy (relieved?) to say. I have not gone from being this close to the finish line only to draw the Chance card directing me to go back 18 paces.

I can’t. I don’t have it in me.

What I do have in me is harnessed passion.

I will not go gentle.

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Emotional Sadism

There was a hot little post over on Fet yesterday that I’ve been mulling over since I read it.

It had to do with the concept of “bad daddy”, and of confronting past childhood trauma by way of role playing. The d-type in the role of the incestual, abusive Daddy-man, and the s-type in the role of, well, of herself really. Older, and stronger- in a physical sense, at least, but not in an emotional sense.

Sometimes, when people talk about past traumas being the catapult to bdsm, they pretty it up by reassuring themselves that this is how they are taking the power back; that while they are still being ‘hurt’, it’s hurt on their terms, hurt that they control, even if only by way of consent.

This wasn’t like that. Consent, sure. But it wasn’t about finding a way to control the past. It was more reliving it, feeling it, experiencing it- pretty well mostly for the sheer deviance of going there.

At least, that was my take on it. Obviously, being neither party to nor witness of, I could be so far off as to be on another planet. But dissecting their motivation for it isn’t really the point of the post anyway.

There was a passage in the post that struck me like a mack truck. It gave voice to something I’ve been skirting for awhile. (bolding is mine. words are hers)

I am uncomfortable when told some emotional something I do is brave, admirable, strong, whatever. I’m tough. I’m freakin’ beef jerky tough. However. I’ve taken the concept of emotional strength so far that it has become a weakness. Further, it’s a dishonest weakness. It’s a denial of pain and suffering that actually exists. If the fear of emotional weakness led me to emotional callousness, then exploring the source of the fear just to see what will happen can be and likely is a good thing.

I have always, for all of my life, been accused of being cold-hearted. A dead fish. Emotionally unavailable. Closed off.

It was, at a crucial time in my life, a method of survival.

It started with the denial of pain, stone-faced and without flinching through a punch to impassively accepting a penis far too large for a little girl’s vagina.

Never let them see you hurt. Never give them the satisfaction.

Never give them proof of my own pain as ammunition to use against me.

Except, pain wasn’t the only ammunition there was. Ammunition also came by way of erasing the happy. So I stopped showing the happy.

When you give nothing, there is nothing to take. Stone-faced all the time means never a change in expression means never giving an indication that what is happening is touching me in any way means you aren’t affecting me means you are. not. winning.

Shut off the expression of for long enough and it has the handy side effect of shutting off the feeling of.

There is a sick sort of pride in being stoic.

And a powerless desperation.

A little over 3 years ago, I wrote a post called “Permission to Feel”, in which I touched on this emotional stoicism and how being in this relationship with Master had made a crack in the veneer. How he’s provided this safe place to start lowering the walls. In the post following that I said “He’s always right there, solid and consistent and encouraging my responses. [...] Nobody has ever [...] kept pushing and pushing until [...] quiet acceptance. Nobody has ever tilted my head up and looked me in the eyes when I’m emotionally raw and told me I’m beautiful.”

Except for him.

He created the fortress, not just to start feeling these things, but to give voice to them, to express them. To experience them.

That’s been amazing. It’s been needed, and comforting, and wonderful. It’s been a safety net.

It’s been a band-aid over a sucking chest wound.

Now, I’m intrigued at the idea of destroying safety.

I’m still not free. I’m rolling around in the padded little cell he’s built me.

I think there is much truth to the idea of needing to be shattered before you can be fixed.

There are two (probably insurmountable) obstacles to the idea of shattering though:

1) Me.

My defense mechanisms are good. They are reflexive. They are strong. In that post on Fet, whether in that post or another post related to that one, she muses on making the conscious choice of being there, of not erecting her coping mechanisms. I know I am not in that place yet. I don’t think I could get to that place alone.

2) Him.

He is not an emotional sadist. Not really for realz. He pokes at it, he plays with it, he calls me names and degrades me. But that’s ES-lite. It’s play and it’s pretend and he’s not really ever set out to harm me or ruin my self-esteem. Even with frequent dips into degradation he’s prone to degrading me with value.

Without him developing a hard edge, he wouldn’t be able to break through the defenses. And I suspect that the very second he saw savage emotional pain on my face or heard it in my voice, he’d soften.

I don’t consider that a flaw in him, by the way. That is the part of him that makes it safe for me to go to all the other ooky places that he takes me.

But like I said yesterday– not all change is bad.

Sometimes, when he so rudely interrupts my sleep by manner of jabbing his hard cock into my flesh, I have a couple of disoriented moments, a flashback, a surge of remembrance and of hard, black, raw emotion. I’m good at hiding it, at grabbing it and stuffing it, often before I’ve even opened my eyes.

He’s never been aware of it.

I wonder though… what if? What if, before I could grab it, he grabbed it first. And then beat me with it.

I wonder what would happen.

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Time may change me…

I think we’ve turned an internal corner in the ownership world. When he used to go off on trips there would be all of this angst and all of this hooplah to make sure I could still “feel” his control from far away. Task lists and chore lists and daily emails, and blah blah blah.

Without all of that, I’d feel adrift. (Or, at least I told myself I did. Still not sure how much of this is in my head, yanno?) Hell, maybe he needed it, too. Maybe we both felt the same disconnect. I have no idea why he should be immune to some of the same things I feel.

Everybody’s relationship is unique and everyone has their own way of working out the kinks (get it? kinks. Ha!) that surround separation. I don’t think that people who are together all the time can understand what separation does. I don’t think people who are primarily long-distance can understand what intermittent separation does, either.

There are those who claim the only way to even be enslaved is to have no separation at all. I guess they haven’t the smarts to figure out how to maintain enslavement when the enslaver is absent. ;)

But I digress.

So. Separation. My how times have changed. Or how I have changed.

We don’t have a lot of communication when he’s out of town these days. He’s working, not socializing. He calls me once, maybe twice a day; a phone call of about 5 or 10 minutes in length. No emails, but perhaps a one-word text, generally in reply to a question I may have texted him.

He also doesn’t require any further communication from me. I don’t have to blog every day or send him emails that he hasn’t the time or energy to read. The phone calls generally consist of love you’s, miss you’s, anything I need to know? kthnxbai!

But there’s something really cool about it. Because I don’t FEEL any different than when he’s sitting right here on the couch, waiting for me to serve him.

I still feel the weight of his ownership. I feel the fingers of his control in my brain, gently kneading and digging and poking. He’s still in the driver’s seat, with very little effort, and from very far away– and I just think that’s cool as fuck.

I’m chalking it up to him having done his due diligence in the early years. He put in the time and effort to make these changes in my person and in my thought patterns, so that he CAN go on these trips and have every confidence that when he gets back, no matter the length of time or the infrequency of his input, he’ll slip back in my head as seamlessly as if he never left.

Because he really hasn’t ever left here. The seeds he planted, watered, and tended to have taken root. Insidiously strong little tentacles have wormed their way into my being, like the pod people, and man the controls in his absence. I think I’m just along for the ride.

Um… Wheee?

;)

Something else I’ve been thinking about is a change in masochism. I’ve been going round and round with thinking I’d lost it, or that I just didn’t want it anymore. That pain wasn’t pressing the same buttons that it used to. That I was broken– or “fixed” actually, depending on your perspective of a person’s need for pain.

But I was wrong. I’m neither broken nor fixed. I’m just changed. A different masochist, just as I am now differently enslaved.

I used to be all sorts of greedy for impact play. Canes and paddles and spankings, floggers and whips and tawses and… whatever. Everything.

Now, impact play just hits me wrong (pun optional).

But I haven’t lost all cravings for dark and nasty. I’m just craving different dark.

Bites. Punches. Kicking. Hair pulling. Degradation. Sexual humiliation. Forget tying to me a cross and flogging me for an hour. Just grab my hair, throw me to the ground, kick me a couple times and then fuck the ever-loving shit right outta me. That’s way more pleasurable these days.

I’m not even interested in bondage, finding the process to be irritatingly boring. But I am still incredibly desirous of the inability to escape, move, or protect myself so bondage is a necessary evil- let’s just expedite the process, can we?

Mostly, I want to be taken there by my head and less so with my body. Do it in words, do it with feeling and emotion. Get in close and as you jab that fist into my ribs, jab my brain with words. Pin me down and impale my ass with your cock, with your hands fisted in my hair, with the threat–or promise–of other cocks to follow and let my mind take me where the paddles used to push me.

With time comes change. Change isn’t always bad.

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Are My Standards Too High??

He told me I had to masturbate. All the way, like, to the climax.

And I was all… Aww. Do I gotta? And ~heavy sigh~. And blerrrrrrgh.

And he was all… Just shut up and do it. Jeez.

Srsly? I’d rather be washing the dishes than facing the ridiculously unwanted chore of having to masturbate.

So I went porn searching, figured I could find *something* to spark even a wee bit o’ desire.

I watched some ball busting.

Meh.

I watched some hot sex.

Blah.

I watched some sexy, shiny, leather-clad dommes whacking on some sexier, naked boys and girls.

Feh.

I almost had to boil my eyeballs after a surprise scat attack but clicked it away before the tongue reached the poo.

Whew.

Then I saw a teaser for a video clip, the description said something about a sexy damsel, kidnapped and tied up by a bunch of army men and watch how she escapes and exacts her revenge! So I clicked… and I watched… while she stomped on the army men.

Little.

Green.

Plastic.

Army.

Men.

I have never been so turned off in all my life.

Srsly. There have to be porn standards.

Right??

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Trivia

Category: Things that make kaya happy

1) Master could be coming home as early as the end of this week!!!!11!!!eleventy!! That’s awesome! We knew he’d probably be home early because there is really no one here doing his job. We figured they’d be badgering to get him back and we were right. Which is kind of nice. Job security and all of that. But he’s not happy that he’s going to miss out on a job that he really wanted to see through. We’ll see how it plays out though. He thinks there’s a possibility that they’ll send him back before the job’s done.

2) Fall. I like fall weather. I like wearing jeans and sweatshirts. I like being able to go outside and be comfortable. I like the brisk air, I like the smells, I like the cold, clear night sky. I like sleeping naked with lots of fluffy blankets. I like hot coffee on a chilly morning. I like apples in season and Halloween in the stores and school in session!

3) School is in session! School brings routine and routine and schedule make kaya a happy and productive domestic diva. I’ve been cleaning like mad and cooking and.. um, well cleaning and cooking and that’s about it. But I’m enjoying it! For the last little while I’ve been so… blah… and didn’t care if the house was clean and didn’t want to cook and I’m just glad to see that turning around.

4) Exercise makes me happy. I went and bought two exercise DVD’s after I put on a pair of pants and they were tight. I refuse to gain back what I’ve lost, but going to the gym just ain’t happening. So I got one Jillian Micheal’s DVD that is kicking my ass. I’m seriously sucking wind about halfway through. And the other one I bought just so happens to be exactly the moves of the cardio class I was taking at the gym, which is awesome because I loved that class! It’s been a trip doing this with a toddler though. If she’s not standing directly in front of me when I’m supposed to be kicking, then she’s trying to sit on me when I’m supposed to be crunching.

5) My Buppy. At bedtime he wriggles his way down under the covers and curls up by my feet. My feet are always cold and without Master’s butt here to warm them, I was sure I’d have to suffer something turrible! Little did I know I had a miniature furnace all to myself.

Category: Things that make kaya proud

1) Listening to B-man play the guitar. I know he’s not a musical genius, and probably not going to be the rock star that he dreams about– BUT– he plays it, and he plays it well and did I mention that he stopped taking lessons after about the third one? He didn’t “click” with the teacher so he quit going. But he still plays, he’s teaching himself and he’s really not bad! I just think having the ability to play an instrument is an accomplishment that never goes away. I’m proud of him.

2) Jes has been working 6, sometimes 7 days a week for over a month. She’s not been late, she’s not missed a single day. She’s working 8+ hours a day. I know those hours will slow with the season, and she’s looking forward to that, but for her this is something to be proud of. Plus, in the GED program that she’s in, she’s passed all of her pre-tests and has been signed off to take the real test. Now to get enough time off of work to go do it! I’m very proud of her. She’s trying, and trying hard, to get her life together.

3) Am is doing well enough in school that she elected to take an extra online class, and she doesn’t have to go to school for the first hour. She’s also in Honor’s English, and her second year of creative writing. She’s got her sights set on college, though she’s waffling on a major. She’d always wanted to be a teacher (English, of course) but the constant downsizing of schools and letting go of teachers has her worried so she’s considering other options. She’s also considering being a medical transcriptionist (she types some ungodly speed.) so she’ll have lots of time to write the next great American novel.

4) Master’s been working 12 to 13 hour days. He works so hard for our family and he’s not even getting blow jobs or anything! I’m so proud to be his. I wouldn’t want to belong to any other soul on the planet. He’s the bestest.

Category: Things that make kaya irritable

1) Babygirl won’t stay out of the dog food/water.

2) Babygirl won’t stop sticking her finger up Buppy’s nose.

3) Buppy won’t go lay down somewhere where Babygirl can’t reach his fucking nose.

4) Buppy STILL hasn’t connected outside with potty time. He only potties if I walk him around enough to find the perfect blade of grass to baptize. Which is okay now while the weather holds up, but we’re very quickly coming into snowin’-blowin’ weather and if Buppy thinks I’m going to walk him around until he finds the perfect snowflake to piss on, he’s out of his little doggy head.

5) So then I saw THIS and thought that would be perfect to set out on the back deck and then I could just open up the sliding door, toss the little bastard..erm I mean Buppy on the porch potty and voilà! But Master poo-pooed (see what I did there? Ha!) paying 200 bucks for a stupid square of astroturf. Hmmph! Imma make my own.

Category: Things that make kaya go “hmmm”

1) So I was talking to Am and she was explaining to me all of the gender terms that keep popping up (because she’s the resident gayspert ’round here) and while on the subject, I was asking her this: Why do you suppose a man would go through the rigorous process of having the sex change operation to be a female, and then continue to act/do/look like a man and have a relationship with a female? Cuz I don’t get it. Fer real. WHY?!

2) For the child psychologists out there– what do you suppose the chances are that a baby of, oh say, 14 months, would go from squealing-happy-crawl-in-the-tub-fully-clothed ecstatic about taking her bath to cry-n-scream-til-she-gagged-in-absolute-terror from the minute you took her into the bathroom until you took her out, with, apparently, NO reason? Cuz I’m pretty fucking skeptical that nothing happened. When we went to camp, she spent that time with her daddy and he says nothing happened, that she acted that way the first time he gave her a bath. And she just didn’t. I know she didn’t cuz I bathe the kid. She’s only JUST now starting to come around and it’s been, what? 2 weeks? She still cries when I put her in the tub but at least now she’ll stop crying and is starting to play in the water before I take her out. If he’d have said, oh, I got soap in her eyes or she slipped and went under or something, but this “she came that way and nothing happened”? I don’t think so.

3) Why do I crave sweets in the evening? Is it habit? Something I’m eating during the day that triggers it? I eat really, really well all day long and can blow the entire day with one bowl of ice cream. I’m not starving myself during the day so it’s not that. I have no willpower. None. Zip, zilch, zero.

4) Why, when some people “get into” bdsm, do they check their brain at the door? It’s not like bdsm is some alternate universe where up means down and right means left and yes means no. Everything you learned in kindergarten still applies.

Category: miskayalaneous

1) I have a sudden craving to get a chemical burn in the name of masochism. Fucking people on FetLife planting the seeds of want!

2) Babygirl has a Cheer Bear Carebear Halloween costume. If you don’t know, cheer bear is champagne pink and has a big ol’ rainbow on its belly. I was trying the costume on baby the other day when Am walked upstairs, took one look, and said “What is she? Gay Bear?” Bwahahaha! Yeah. She totally is. Best pro-gay toddler halloween costume evar.

3) I am stupidly entertained by Bad Girl’s Club and Teen Mom. I am slightly ashamed. I blame Jes for this. (But isn’t Catelynn’s mom a fucking bitch?? Gawd. She makes me feel like mom-o-the-year.

4) I miss my man, like, woah, right? But it’s a strange sort of longing. Not that painful little jab dead-center in the chest like it usually is. Just a general sense of loneliness and sadness, but somewhat muted. Weird.

/trivia

There will be a quiz at the end of the week.

:D

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