Contest
I double-dog dare you to enter.
I wouldn’t last 5 minutes with that guy. I’ve seen his videos. But you.. you should totally try. ;-)
Uncategorized | kaya | 
Thursday April 26th, 2012 12:27pm | 
Comments (23)
Wish in one hand…
He’s coming home next Wednesday. It’s not as early as I’d wished for (today would have been good, tyvm) but I’ll take it. It’s a week later than the original travel date but a week earlier than the last announced travel date. C’est la vie.
Besides, I’ll be done with my period by then so that’s good. M doesn’t necessarily mind the period sex, but he grumbles about the extra clean up involved. It’s just not as quick-n-easy as he prefers. He’s such a product of today’s Drive-thru society. ;-)
The other day was the first time in a long time that I’ve willingly pulled the clover clamps out and used them while masturbating. I probably shouldn’t even admit to that. I’d almost successfully convinced the Man that my nipples were broken.
In fact, he’s been talking lots about getting me pierced (nipples and hood) and I said he should totally do it because, once pierced, he’d have to leave my nipples alone for *at least* a few months. Right? Healing time for nips is FOREVER! It would so be worth it!
Here’s my piercing/tattoo dilemma: The best, most recommended parlor around here is the same one that Am regularly uses. They know her. She’s been there several times because she’s been getting a rather extensive sleeve tattoo, and having to do it in stages as her finances allow. So, first name basis, chit chat, FB friends, alla that.
They also know that I’m her mom. I’ve been in there with her, and even without her they know me. They knew who I was when I got Am a gift certificate from there. We’re connected.
AND! I happen to know they aren’t always discreet. They talk.
Soooo…. and especially with the hood piercing, I’m just kinda squicked out about it, you know? I can just hear them the next time Am goes in saying something like “Dude. I pierced your mom’s pussy!” Or “Dude! Your mom has a slave tattoo!”
Ew! Right? You all feel me, right? So I’m dragging my feet about it, and each time he mentions it I hem and haw and whine and beg him to come up with a different plan. I’m all for him just doing it himself but people keep telling me not to fuck with the clitty piercing. He doesn’t want to break my button, since I’m largely clit-driven as it is, so he won’t. Plus, he can’t do the tattoo anyway.
What to do? I just say we go somewhere else, but, literally, every time I mention an alternate place to people who have experiences there, they all tell me not to go there. Or there. Or there. Or anywhere except to Am’s place. And it’s not like we live in a metropolis where there’s a parlor on every corner.
I like to think if I go in there and say to the folks, listen here, people. This is my private business so don’t go yammering about it to my kid, got it? Then it should be good. And yet… what if not?
So Am would know I have piercings. Or a tattoo. Big freakin’ deal right?
I’m sure the kind of people who do piercings and tattoos are all up on alternative lifestyles anyway. I’m sure the fact that I’d be in there with a steel collar locked around my neck and a steel handle sticking out of my ass and M dictating the events being committed upon my body while I sat passively by would tell them everything they need to know.
And then they’d leak that to my kid.
Oy.
We just gotta find another place. That’s all there is to it. I don’t think I’m asking for too much here!
Right?
Uncategorized | kaya | Wednesday April 25th, 2012 7:17am | Comments (32)
Fap
I’m really, really, really missing Master right now. He’s going to see if he can bug out of there early and I’m letting myself get way too excited about that possibility. I’ll be crushed if they need to keep him longer.
He detailed a bondage position that he plans to do on me when he gets home. Nothing intricate, a simple doggy-style tie at the end of the bed that’ll give him access to all 3 holes. It was just enough of a teaser to get my blood boiling, though. Gah! ~fap fap fap~
For me, bondage sex is the bees knees. Anything that prevents me from protecting myself and gives him unencumbered access to pound and fuck, pinch and slap, and and and… Gah, I say. ~more fap~
When the pain gets intense I have this running loop that goes through my head. “This is your purpose. This is what you’re for.” It’s even hotter when he says it. ~fap~
Man. I sure hope they let him come home early. I may fucking explode if they don’t.
Uncategorized | kaya | Tuesday April 24th, 2012 9:21am | Comments (4)
Flash Fiction: Run, Forest, Run.
He’d set a brisk pace for her on the beach. Just under a jog, she marched back and forth between the two landmarks he’d pointed out when they’d arrived at the secluded lake two hours earlier.
The day was warm, the sun high and bright overhead. The temperature settled somewhere in the low 90′s, she figured, but the mostly-steady breeze off the big lake kept it bearable– but only just. Sweat ran down her face, down her spine, down the valley between her breasts. It pooled at the waistband of her shorts, and they and the sports bra she wore were soaked through.
She’d been fantasizing about how wonderful a dip in the lake would feel for quite some time now. Instead, she licked her salty lips and swallowed with a click in her dry throat. Raising the water bottle that he’d allowed her to fill before she started, she shook it. Almost empty. She drank the last of water, lukewarm though it was, getting little relief from it.
She cast a glance at him as she trudged along the rocky, sandy shore of the lake. He lounged comfortably in a reclining chair, an umbrella shading him from the sun, a book propped in his lap. She didn’t think he was reading, nor was she fooled by the sleepy expression on his face. He was watching her like a hawk, she knew, the stopwatch resting on the arm of the chair timing her between landmarks.
She also knew that each reminder to pick up the pace would carry a consequence. She knew, too, that she wouldn’t like the consequences, but try as she might to keep the rapid pace he’d set for her, the rocks constantly threw her off balance and the heavy sand sucked at her feet; feet made heavier by the ankle weights he’d strapped her into before she started. It hadn’t been long before her shoes had filled with sand and pebbles, and with the constant friction she could feel the burn of blisters forming along her heels. The heat, the sand, the added weights, the blisters–all conspired against her keeping her speed up.
“Step lively, slut!” rang out again across the empty beach. She coughed out a small sob, and picked up the pace.
~~*~~
His cock twitched under his shorts and he shifted in the chair a bit to ease the pressure, smiling to himself as he watched her march. She was quite the specimen to behold these days. Long, lean, muscled legs that went on forever, sprouting from an ass that just wouldn’t quit. Toned, tanned arms and a flat, chiseled stomach, topped by tits out to here. Whew. He never tired of watching her, especially like this; shiny with sweat, brow furrowed in pain and concentration, muscles quivering, and her eyes, oh those beautiful baby blues, constantly cutting to him, watching for his approval–or disapproval, as the case may be. Watching, always watching.
She hadn’t always been so watchful. Nor such a beauty, for that matter. When he first found her she’d been self-absorbed, playing at submission like it was a hobby. She’d been plump, too, carrying 30 extra pounds on her slight, 5’6″ frame. God only knew what he’d been thinking when he took her. Maybe he saw the potential. Or maybe he just liked the challenge.
The stopwatch next to his elbow beeped and he called out to her–again. That made seven reminders, the last two right on top of each other. He figured she was just about at her breaking point. Hers. Not his.
He shifted again, trying to create more space in his shorts.
~~*~~
She heard just a hint of disappointment in his voice when that last reminder came right on the heels of the previous one. She sped up, or tried to, as tears born of fatigue and pain sprang into her eyes. Her body trembled with exertion, the sun seemed to burn 10 degrees hotter, the sand seemed to suck her feet in like quicksand, the ankle weights gained another 5 pounds.
Already she hated this exercise, and it was just the first time. It was by far the worst, she decided, though admittedly she thought that about each one he’d introduced. He’d pushed her through yoga, jogging, weight lifting, water aerobics and regular aerobics, and one painful, months-long daily drive on an elliptical machine set to the highest resistance.
Raising a hand to wipe sweat from her forehead, she stumbled in the sand, the simple movement throwing her off balance. By the time she’d recovered her gait, he’d called out again. “Step lively, slut!” and she almost went down… quit quit quit reverberated through her fuzzy head… but her feet kept going, her legs picked up speed, her body obeying over her mind.
~~*~~
Seeing her yank herself up by the bootstraps, he relaxed into his chair. She’d quit when he said she could, or so that was the gamble. He’d drive her beyond exhaustion to test that theory. He knew her body was fighting, that she was digging deep to keep going- to keep pleasing him, the need to obey deeper than her physical abilities.
He’d pushed her hard plenty of times as he’d whipped both her mind and her body into shape, but always he’d stopped her when he saw the signs telling him she believed she couldn’t go on any longer. She’d made terrific progress on the mental aspect of submission, mostly pushing herself to obey, which made it much easier on him. More than once, as he’d encouraged her by way of nothing more than disapproval at the idea of quitting, he’d thought to himself that she was a natural born slave, and not the playful submissive she’d presented herself as.
She might think she was struggling now, he thought, as his hand closed over the buggy whip. But one just has no idea what the body is capable of enduring. He intended to find out how much she would endure for him today.
He watched as she rounded the rock and started back toward the dead log 100 yards down the beach.
~~*~~
She was concentrating too hard on the terrain in front of her to notice the buggy whip in his hand. Besides, the sun had lowered enough to catch her in the eyes, setting low behind his chair. She could make out nothing more than his outline when she glanced his way. She estimated she was well into hour 4, maybe hour 5 of today’s forced exercise.
The day had begun to cool, just a touch. If she were any less exhausted, or any less thirsty, the cooling air might have registered with her. But the temperature change went unnoticed.
She was sure every step was going to be her last. She kept waiting for him to call it; he always did. Each time she tried to stop her feet without the order to do so fear blossomed in her belly and she managed another step, another trip around the log and the rock.
She’d suffered plenty of punishments at his hand, and while she didn’t like those, of course, this fear was new and different. Unsettling and perplexing. She’d never outright defied him before, and his order, as it was at the start of every day’s round of exercise, was to not stop until he’d said so. Something intuitively told her that the rather mild consequences for failing him didn’t even come close to the consequences for outright defying him.
She’d be right, of course.
~~*~~
If he could read her mind, he’d have been pleased at her thought process. As it was, he was impressed. She’d gone a lot longer than he’d anticipated. Her time estimate had been close to the mark at just under five hours of continuous fast marching over a rough terrain.
He knew for a fact that she was in top notch physical condition. Hadn’t he seen to that himself this past year? Carefully controlling her nutrition and activity, monitoring her health? He wasn’t worried. He was impressed. She was farther along that he’d thought.
And that ass! That lovely, firm, bouncing ass! He considered abandoning the plan and, instead, throwing her down to fuck the shit out of her right there on the beach. Her cries and whimpers as sharp pointed rocks poked into her tanned flesh, skinning her knees on the sand, maybe a little breathplay in the softly lapping water until she gasped and begged him. Her cunt clenched so prettily around his cock when her lungs starved for oxygen…
No, he said, shaking himself out of the fantasy.
Well, he amended, grinning. Not yet, at least.
~~*~~
Rounding the dead log again, she stumbled over a rock and pitched forward, landing hard on her hands and knees. Hissing in pain, she sat back on her feet and looked down at her scraped and bloodied palms. Instead of hopping back up to resume walking, she sat back in dejected exhaustion. Done, she thought, throwing a handful of sand at the log. Done, done DONE.
Anger flared up as she talked herself into a temper tantrum. Anger at the pain, at him, at the heat and the sand and the exhaustion. Anger at the tiny rocks now embedded in her hands. She was so intent on her anger, she didn’t sense his presence behind her and when the first stinging lash cut across her thigh, she cursed and jerked around in outraged surprise.
She’d barely registered him, and the whip held high above his head, before the second lash whistled down and crossed the first one.
“Get up! Move! NOW!” he screamed at her, his voice, hard and defined, left no room for hesitation or argument. She was on the move immediately, her skinned hands and knees forgotten as the buggy whip cut through the air, catching her high across the back. She cried out, stumbling again in her haste and he cracked her again, welting her upturned ass before she could right herself.
“Sir! Please!” she struggled to correct her gait while also sidestepping the lash as it cut at her again. She damn near fell again, and was well off the path she’d worn into the sand with her hours of marching, so he stepped around her and directed her back to it with short, sharp snaps to the backs of her thighs.
Yelps punctuated the quiet as she goosestepped away from the snapping whip. Her cries fell on deaf ears, confusion clouded her head, so she did the first thing that came natural: She obeyed, and fell into line.
“March!” he yelled from behind her. His military training wasn’t wasted, he thought, and gave her another welt across the shoulder blades for good measure.
The burst of adrenaline momentarily chased away her pain and exhaustion and she moved quickly back into the rhythm she’d held early in the exercise. He stayed behind her, his footsteps crunching directly behind hers, and she could hear, could feel, him breathing on the back of her sweaty neck. For a couple of rounds around dead log and giant rock, they walked in unison, with no sound other than their combined labored breathing.
Exhaustion began to creep back into her muscles and she began to slow. “Please,” she gasped. “I ca-”
Her words were cut off by the intense burning pain of the whip striking the backs of her thighs. Again and again he swung, chasing her screams, until the backs of her legs were criss-crossed by deep red and purple lines.
“Move.” he said, softly, quietly. He pointed down the path she’d worn in the sand. “Step lively, slut. Don’t stop. Don’t talk. Don’t turn. Until I stop you.”
Raising the buggy whip up high, he began a hard and steady whipping up and down her body. She jerked and squirmed with each strike, tears running down her cheeks. But she moved.
Five, then ten, then fifteen more trips around the rock and around the log, with the whip whistling down every minute or two. She’d never felt such pain, never been driven so hard. She heaved air in in loud, throat-searing gasps, exhaled on a sob, punctuated with barely audible bouts of begging.
He whipped her harder and longer than he ever had. Front and back, ankle to neck, he showed no mercy, driving her on and on. Suddenly he stopped, grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back and down, throwing her roughly into the sand and rocks at his feet. Kneeling around her he held her head steady by the hair so she had no choice but to look into his face. “Don’t you ever. Disobey me again. Ever. Do you understand, slut?”
Frightened she stared wordlessly into his piercing eyes. A sharp slap across the face rocked her head to the side. “Yes, Sir! Yes! I won’t. I promise. Never again. I’m sorry! So sorry!” she pledged her obedience in desperate babbles.
He almost took her then, his thoughts flashing back to his earlier fantasy. The waves were right there, lapping so temptingly close to her face. His cock swelled, and he shoved a hand against her crotch, jamming hard, grinding flesh against bone. Her eyes widened, and she instinctively spread her thighs, giving him access.
He jumped up and kicked her legs further apart. “Don’t move, cunt,” he ordered, and taking the whip he lashed at her pussy through her thin shorts, and at her inner thighs while she screamed and fisted her hands into the sand.
When he stopped, he gazed down at her. Lying at his feet, tear-stained and hiccuping, welted and bloodied, sweating and exhausted.
“Get up.” Pointing down the path with the buggy whip, he smiled. “Step lively, slut.”
She hopped up without hesitation. And began to jog.
The End.
~~*~~
I have a lot of forced exercise fantasies, though not necessarily to ^that^ extreme. I really didn’t know where to go with the story once I’d finished masturbating myself into a coma started it, though. An “And they lived happily ever after!” seemed kind of lame, but I lost the direction of it after I finished masturbating myself into a coma had phone sex with mah man.
I have food control fantasies, too, both of the restricting what I eat variety as well as the forced yucky-stuff eating variety. M really only dabs at the surface of these kinks of mine.
The nerve, right? Not fulfilling my every desire? Topping from the bottom fail. Must. Try. Harder.
Food and exercise have been on my mind a lot lately. He’s planning on going to kinky camp in August and I likely won’t be wearing much. Though he’s always careful to not hurt my feelings, the implied message is “You’re fat. Don’t embarrass me.” and, of course, I want him to be proud to own me.
Not that I think pride and obesity are mutually exclusive. But I don’t like the way I look, and neither does he. We both want to change that. Too bad ‘want’ isn’t enough. Apparently, getting skinny means not grazing like a cow. Who knew? ;)
So. While I wish he was available to me 24 hours a day to strictly control my diet and exercise, my reality is that I have vague orders to “look better and be healthier”, and have I mentioned how badly I suck at domming myself?
I am trying, though. I just know I would do better with a little more accountability (hint hint) and lot more dietary control (clue X 4) with a smattering of consequences for failures (Bottom, top. Top, bottom. Where is my place again?)
While it should be (according to some) as simple as he’s given me an order so get on with it already, the fact remains that every one has a currency. I’m a masochist, and while I may in fact someday be successful at diet and exercise on my own, for my own sake, my ‘currency’ is domination and control, consequences and rewards.
I’m not ashamed of being a masochist anymore and so I’m not ashamed to remind him of how I tick. I know he hasn’t forgotten, exactly. Perhaps just misplaced the kaya guidebook?
I don’t ask for much (choke) but I’m asking for this. Diet and exercise sucks enough as it is. But turn it into a bdsm-event and it’s suddenly much more interesting.
Amirite or amirite?
Uncategorized | kaya | Monday April 23rd, 2012 8:05pm | Comments (8)
Off Base
I talked with M last night about some of the latest blog entries. He doesn’t always read them right away, nor do I expect that he will, so it’s not rare that we talk about them days or so later- if we talk about them at all.
Anyway.
He’s not mad/upset/irritated at me. I have the dreaded pms. So knock it off.
And regarding the entry on lying, he said: “Why the fuck would I lie to you? If I wanna fuck a bitch, I’ll tell you I’m fucking a bitch. Got it?”
/quote
/verbal smackdown
It wasn’t even that I suspected he was lying about anything. Sheesh. I was just saying that he COULD, if he wanted to.
You know, every entry of mine wherein I’m talking about control, I could just strike out all the words and say this: I do not want to dictate his behavior in any way. The End. Bubbye.
Except I kinda do want to dictate his behavior a little. I want him to be a jackass-except when I don’t want him to be a jackass. :D
Moving on… I think I’m going to meet up with Tigger tonight, unless something comes along to mess up my plans. We’re gonna go to the munch. It’ll be weird going without M, but he said we could go if we go together. It’ll be nice to get out of the house, see our kinky friends, have a bite to eat and just hang out.
I don’t know if we’ll do anything else but maybe I’ll shave my legs just in case. I haven’t touched a razor since M left and I am one hairy beast. He cured me of my stubble-angst and I’ll bet you he regrets that. Ha! Score 1 for the slave!
Happy Saturday!
Uncategorized | kaya | Saturday April 21st, 2012 9:01am | Comments (7)
Coasting
Master’s been gone for 10 days. He was supposed to come back on the 25th but they’ve already extended that “a week or two, or until…” He’s hoping to get to come home for a visit next weekend. (Srsly. Just how fucked up is THAT. “Hey Boss, can I go home and visit my wife?” Really?)
So, he’ll be home sometime in early May, at any rate. I haven’t fallen apart yet. Even though he is STILL acting distant or angry or something. He says it’s nothing, that there is nothing wrong, so I’m left with having to chalk it up to insecurities and/or pms-inspired hallucinations.
What else am I going to do? Insist that he’s lying and he really is mad at me? Heh. I can imagine that going over real well. “No, Master, you’re wrong. You are mad at me. Fess up, man!”
Transparency is not a two way street though. Therefore, I get left with a little bit of doubt and suspicion. And would he lie to me? Sure. If it suited his purpose I bet he would.
Anyway. Such is my life.
Extreme separations such as these (wherein the elite of the BDSM world declare us to be untrue and unreal because we dare to have an hour apart and omgthecontrolis gone!) leave little of excitement to blog about.
Jes is settling into her apartment and I’ve kept myself busy helping her organize and then setting my own house to rights. Amazingly, the more of her stuff that moves out, the cleaner my house becomes.
I’ve been talking with Am about getting a car of her own instead of moving out. She’s driving a 20 year old Taurus. Literally, 20 years old. I’m impressed that the car is still running but someday it’s not going to be and there is no way we’re going to stick lots of money into a 20 year old car. A nice little used compact that gets good gas mileage would be perfect. If she thinks she can afford rent, then she can afford a car payment instead, and the car will be a much smarter investment than an apartment, in my opinion.
I have nothing else. The weather is crap, M being gone is crap, pms is crap. Bah humbug!
Uncategorized | kaya | Thursday April 19th, 2012 10:48am | Comments (10)
Dinner Guests
If I invited you over for dinner, and when you came in you saw this book sitting on my counter in my cook book collection… would you still eat?
~snicker~
Uncategorized | kaya | Wednesday April 18th, 2012 9:04pm | Comments (22)
Pants on Fire
I was wandering around Fet the other day and I came across an older thread about owners who lie. It was primarily about owners who cheat and then lie about it, but it delved off into lying in general.
Of course those lying scumbag owners were tarred and feathered.
The general consensus was, predictably, ‘losers’ to ‘not true’ to ‘he doesn’t have his bitch trained right if he has to lie’ to ‘he’s married’ to ‘I’d dump his ass’ to ‘redflagabuseromg!’
It’s typical of Fetlife to assign a value to an owner’s choices and behaviors so I wasn’t shocked by the responses.
An owner who checks his/her property’s email is insecure. An owner who limits friendships doesn’t have any trust. An owner who [insert method of control here] is [insert negative character judgment here].
Yadda yadda yadda.
In my opinion, an owner who does whatever he or she wants is just being an owner. That behavior, coming from a vanilla person, MIGHT indicate a negative personality trait but owners aren’t vanilla. Owners aren’t… normal (snerk). Owners are different–that’s what makes them owners and not vanillas.
A vanilla husband who lies about sleeping with his secretary is having an affair. An owner who lies about sleeping with his secretary is not.
He’s doing what he wants with no regard to being obligated to share that information.
There’s a difference in lying because he feels he has to, and lying because he wants to. One might indicate that he really doesn’t have his bitch trained right. The other indicates nothing of the sort.
Maybe he likes the secrecy. Maybe he doesn’t want to share his everything with his property. It doesn’t automatically equate to being reluctant or unwilling to tell. If “because he wants to” is an acceptable reason for why dominants do what they do, then shouldn’t “because he doesn’t want to” be just as acceptable? The feeding of necessary or relevant information to the property should be at the discretion of the owner. Yay or nay?
Warning: Bad-but-required car/dog=slave analogy ahead: I certainly don’t tell my car when I drive another one. I don’t rush home to soothe my dog when I’ve petted another.
I just don’t find it to be an indication, necessarily, of a bad character trait- or at least not any worse of a trait than every other dominant trait that society wags their judgmental little finger at.
The bigger teller, to me, would be the reaction of the owner if his secret came to light. Master would, I suspect, say “Yeah. And?” rather than be ashamed or sheepish.
Putting limitations on lies is putting limitations on your owner. Period.
That just doesn’t sit right with the version of O/p I live.
Obviously, I don’t know if Master is lying to me about anything. Of course I don’t want him to be, but, really, it’s within his right to do so.
It might even be kinda hot in an emotional masochist way to be told that, yes, he is lying and no, I won’t be privy to about what. Or when. Or who. Or why.
Hmm.
Something to think about.
Uncategorized | kaya | Tuesday April 17th, 2012 8:04am | Comments (37)
For Future Reference:
If you have to say: “This is probably none of my business, but..” then it is not, in fact, any of your business.
If you have to say: “I don’t mean to criticize, but…” then are you, in fact, criticizing, and you absolutely mean to.
If you have to say: “No offense, but…” then it is, in fact, offensive, and you know it.
Also: If what I write here doesn’t sit well with you, click the x at the upper right of your browser. Do not bother emailing me, especially if your email contains any of the above statements.
Lastly: You might consider checking your ego at the ‘send’ button if you honestly think that you will be THE ONE who changes my seven years of happy blogging style.
You are the weakest link. Goodbye. ~flaps hand~
Uncategorized | kaya | Sunday April 15th, 2012 10:50am | Comments (25)
Drumroll
Jes is having another girl!
:D
I’ll need a new name, because Babygirl is already taken. Sweetpea? Cookie? Darling? Or should Babygirl be promoted to something new as she’s not really a baby anymore?
Indeed. Very Important and Meaningful slave work going on over here today. o.O
Uncategorized | kaya | 10:38am | Comments (12)
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