Under His Hand

The journal of a slave


I was talking with a friend recently about the drudgery of my daily life. The ‘same shit, different day’ attitude that creeps in and takes root.

It’s my biggest enemy- that skewed view. Especially in relation to kink things. When everything becomes so normalized that I stop seeing it or feeling it or noticing it.

At the end of the day, as I’m readying for bed, I can have this disgruntled, dissatisfied notion that my entire day was all vanilla– which is a killer for a girl like me. It’s as much of a punch to the gut as a nun getting into bed, knowing she’d sinned all day long, lol; a pervasive belief that you aren’t living up to your full potential.

It’s the nature of this type of relationship to tie my hands, to let him direct the activities, from the big to the little. So no matter how much I might wish for or want something different, he has to do it. I cannot. I can’t manipulate, I can’t demand, I can’t create. I am to just be.

So I climb into bed, where I may or may not be chained and padlocked in, with a no-fooling, old-fashioned chamber pot nearby in case I have to piddle in the night because a slave does not (willfuckingnot, do you understand, cunt?) wake her sleeping Master for something so mundane and inconsequential as a need to use the toilet.

Not to mention that the only reason I’m going to bed when I’m going to bed is because he’s told me to go to bed. It’s rare-to-never that I “announce” that I’m going to bed. I might have asked if I could, if I was feeling particularly exhausted but usually he’s not too keen on me leaving him, nor am I usually too eager to go without him. He might need something, and then what??

So I climb into bed, naked -always- because I’m not allowed to wear clothing in his bed, though I have stopped thinking “I am naked because my Master commands it” and have started thinking “I find pajamas hella uncomfortable to sleep in so I’ma sleep in mah birthday suit!”. Like I decided this for myself, and make the choice each and every night.

My eyes pass over without seeing the state of my body- the scars that spell words, the scars that are just scars because he felt like it, bruises here and there in various hues of healing, an ache here, a sting there.

I lie down and adjust the ring on my collar, the silly little leash ring that slides and spins and will, invariably, pinch my skin or get tangled in my hair at some point in the night. Another something I’ve stopped thinking about- wouldn’t a vanilla person take off jewelry that pinched their skin and pulled their hair in the night, if only for comfort’s sake? The collar and wrist cuffs never come off. A matched set. I don’t even feel the weight of them anymore. These days I only think about them when I notice a stranger’s glance is a little too long, a little too pointed, their face a little too judgy; and I fleetingly wonder what they are thinking, even if I really don’t give a fuck what they’re thinking.

But even prior to getting into bed, I’ve fetched a glass of ice water and placed it on his nightstand. I’ve prepped his toothbrush before asking for permission to do my own. I’ve asked for permission to go to the bathroom- in the actual toilet and not in the chamber pot or, worse, been sent out to the backyard in the dark with the bugs and crawlie things and mosquitoes.

I have, probably, had his cock in one or more of my holes one or more times that day. At least, assuming he’s home and not traveling which he’s been home a LOT (a lot) lately, I have likely been fucked in some manner, have likely swallowed his cum, or licked it off of (or out of) something.

I have likely served as a urinal a few times, the taste lingering in the back of my throat. Or it might be in my hair, hair he won’t let me wash “just yet”, so he can berate me for being a piss smelling whore.

Or.. maybe not.

Maybe he used the toilet all day, ignored me. Maybe he didn’t want to fuck me, would rather masturbate or do nothing at all.

That’s never up to me, though. Not to expect that I will be used in any capacity, not the right to ask for it, and certainly not the right to deny it.

It is a certainty, though, that, before bedtime, I have cooked all of his meals and plated them and served his plate to him first, before being allowed to eat my own. It is certain that I have fetched and served a glass of water/a beer/a glass of wine/made a mixed drink each time he’s asked for it. It is certain that I have fetched a snack, made a sandwich, gotten a clean pair of socks, a different tshirt, taken off his boots, gotten his phone off the counter/out of his pocket/out of car where he left it, gone to the store to buy whatever he’s craving.

It is certain that before bedtime rolled around I have cleaned the house to the standards he’s allowed me that day- which varies from spotless to messy, depending on what else he might be having me do.

I might have given him a massage that day. I might have sat on the floor while he sat on the couch watching tv, and soaked and washed his feet, massaged them, too, before giving him a pedicure.

I might have wanted to go somewhere only to be told no, we aren’t going. I might have not wanted to go anywhere only to be told to stfu and get ready. I might have wanted ice cream and couldn’t have any, only to watch him eat a bowlful. I might have not wanted to taste the icky-to-me thing he was eating only to know that if I don’t open my mouth when he’s bringing the fork in, he’ll stab me in the lips until I do.

Maybe there were random acts of violence, a shove up against the wall pressing his full body weight against me, pinning me like a bug to a board. Or a hand around my throat, that small smile on his face while I gurgled, my arms dangling at my side. A punch, a slap, a pinch- just for funsies.

Or.. none of that. Nothing. A hug, perhaps. Or a kiss. A quick dance around the kitchen, or a snuggle on the couch.

But I don’t get to pick.

I may or may not have had a plug in my ass for days, even weeks, in a row, with no option to remove it just because I want to or it’s uncomfortable.

It is definitely certain that I have asked for permission to use the bathroom each and every time I’ve needed to go. That one never changes.

It is also certain that, long long before bedtime, even as the sun was just coming up, he kicked me out of bed, and sent me off to the kitchen while he either lounged in bed reading, or relaxed on the couch with the remote, or messed about online- while I made coffee and poured it, tended to the pets, made breakfast and served it. All of this at the very start of my very vanilla day.

The conversation with my friend had centered mostly on the under-the-desk sex. Something I’ve written about extensively before. It makes up 97%, at least(!), of our sex. There’s nothing kinky – to me- about being under the desk.

It’s dark and cramped and stuffy. It’s uncomfortable. I can look at the blank, brown side of the desk or the blank wall or the blank floor- though mostly I close my eyes and go somewhere else in my head. Usually somewhere that is nowhere, a misty-ghostly no place with vague, hazy images of pain and bondage and a repeating thought that’s been drilled into me (somehow?) that goes ‘Keep your ass cocked up, you’re just a hole for his pleasure. Keep your ass cocked up, you’re just a hole for his pleasure. Keep your ass cocked…’

My arms get tired and no matter how I try to position myself or how hard I try to stabilize myself, before it’s over my neck will be bent and my head will be smashed up against the wall because I simply cannot withstand the force of the constant thrusting behind me, pushing me forward cm by cm.

He doesn’t interact with me, except maybe to reprimand me if I move too much. It could be his hand, or a fleshlight, or a blow up doll that he’s fucking.

Sometimes he spices things up with some ass slapping or hard back scratching. Or a few punches that settle deep in the muscles, making them cramp and ache. Or a reach around for a nipple or two to squeeze and tug on. All of that to make me whimper or cry out.

Oh, and to make my pussy wet (or so he says).

So maybe for him, he’s got a wet cunt hole, or a tight puckered asshole, spread and on display, just waiting for him to pick one to fuck. Or both, if he’s in the mood. And at the same time, he gets to indulge in his second-favorite activity of all time– watching porn. All of the porn. Women of all shapes and sizes, spread pussies, gaping assholes, bouncing breasts, moaning and screaming and begging for more, beautiful women with perfect bodies and round tight asses who just want to eat cum.

and he has to do nothing to me. No prep, no foreplay, no worry about my satisfaction, no pressure, no nothing. If he wants a noise out of me, he makes me make one. If he wants words out of me, he tells me what to say. If he wants my cunt to clench or my asshole to spasm, he knows how to do that, too.

I am just a hole to fuck.

Just a hole.
Just a hole.
Just a hole.
Just a hole.

It is, for him, the best.sex.ever. I am the living, breathing blow up doll with the always-available, always-warm, no-maintenance set of holes ready for his cock any time it twitches.

You see? Nothing kinky to see here.

And so, I will sometimes climb into bed at night and wonder where the kink went.

Right after I adjust my chains, ready my chamber pot, and ask for permission to sleep.

Ghandi said – “Monotony is the law of nature. Look at the monotonous manner in which the sun rises. The monotony of necessary occupation is exhilarating and life giving.”

All monotony needs is a spotlight shone on it, and suddenly all the twinkles comes to light.