Q&A – LaLa Land
can you tell me how you get to lala land while in pain..I try and I try..just cant seem to get there.
I wish I could tell you, I wish (for my own sake, too!) that there was a step by step process that worked for everybody, all the time. Wouldn’t that be sweet? :)
But there isn’t..lol. What works for me, doesn’t work for another. What they are doing over there? Wouldn’t work for me. What worked for me yesterday will not work for me tomorrow, but might work again next week – if I’m lucky.
It is *such* an individualized process. And it depends on so. many. things. I’ll tell you how it works for me, because maybe there are some commonalities between us that can help you find your way.
First and foremost, it depends on the level and type of energy that’s flowing between him and I. That part really has to be perfect. If there’s anything that’s off, forget it. And the smallest things can throw it off – stress, emotions, moods, feeling rushed, pms, if he’s breathing wrong…
What? I told you it had to perfect and perfect includes perfect breathing!
I think that’s why I prefer having music playing at a rather loud volume. It helps to drown out some of that interference.
Unless he catches me singing along, that is. For some reason that seems to interfere with his mojo. I guess I can see that. I mean, here he is trying to find his rhythm and I’m headbanging and screeching this:
“I am the Astro-Creep
A demolition style
Hell american freak!
Yeeeah!”
Anyway. Yeah. Music can help.
The next thing that is necessary is time. It just isn’t going to happen for me in one of those “wham bam, than you ma’am” 20 minute type playtimes. I need a good hour (at least) of consistent, uninterrupted attention. It takes time for my brain to start releasing those chemicals and for me to get on for the ride.
Which brings me to being *allowed* to get on for the ride. Something that he, more often than not, prefers me not to do. The easiest way to keep me from boarding the train to Never Never Land, is to change up the rhythm too fast, too often and too hard.
Sooo… the way to get me there is to keep it steady and slow, with a *gradual* incease in pain. (Unfortunately, Master and gradual work together like fire and water – meaning, as soon as I’m starting to smolder? He tosses cold water on me. He’s a fucker like that.)
The last thing that will help me get there is to stop. asking. me. questions.
Seriously. Just STFU with the Spanish Inquisition stuff. Don’t ask me how the weather is, don’t ask me what I want to do on Saturday night, don’t ask me what’s for dinner, don’t ask me how my hands are or if I’m having fun or what I want next. Don’t ask me *anything*.
By all means, grab my hair and hiss into my ear what a filthy disgusting pigwhore I am. Grab my face and scream, letting spittle spray over my lips and cheeks while you tell me how badly you’re going to fuck me up. Do ALL of that.
Just don’t expect me to answer. Cuz the very second I have to engage my brain to send a message to my mouth to formulate a response beyond primitive, gutteral moans and grunts? The train is gone, I’ve missed the ride, too bad, so sad.
So there’s my path to LaLa Land: Energy. Shutting off. Time. Consistency. Shutting up.
*reads over the process*
Huh.
No wonder he doesn’t let me go there very often, right? I make it sound all complicated and shit. “The moon has to align with Planet Zircon and the earth has to be tilted toward the sun and the grass has to be exactly one and three-quarter inches long on a Tuesday afternoon.”
It is complicated, though. It’s a lot of work and when he wants to play, usually he just wants to play. He doesn’t want to *work*.
So, we play how he wants to play and lala land tends to remain elusive. I’m not going to say that I don’t like getting to go bye-bye because of course I do enjoy that. But, there is another, very satisfactory emotion that follows knowing that HE is pleased and that I took it/did it exactly his way.
Subspace, or lala land, is nice, but it’s done for me, not for him. Given the choice, I’d choose doing it for him any day.
I don’t say that to try and make myself sound like the uber-altruistic-slave because it’s not like that at all.
There is a greater sense of satisfaction and purpose that comes after his kind of scene, something that just does not occur after my kind of scene. So if you look at it that way, it’s a completely selfish preference. I am not altruistic. No how no way. I get stuff out of it, it just sometimes comes in a roundabout, backwards way. :)
~cunt
ps. Further evidence of my uber slaveyness–
Last night. We’re in bed, right? I’m tired. I’m literally starting to doze. I’m naked. It’s fucking cold outside of the blankets.
THREE times he pokes me and sends me off on an errand. THREE times, he waited until I was back in bed, snuggled in and warm and right close to drifting off again.
(Okay. So. Maybe three doesn’t seem like a huge number of times now that I’m writing this today. But it FELT like a bunch last night.)
Anywho, I was getting pissed.
And then. THEN! The last time, that third time, after I’d opened my almost-asleep eyes and kind of glared at him a little bit, you know what he said? You know what he had the NERVE to say??
“Doesn’t it suck to be the slave?” and he smiled.
No. I take that back. He didn’t smile. That makes it sound way too pleasant.
He smirked, he grinned, an ear-to-ear, shit-eating grin and gave a lazy, contented sigh and snuggled down in the blankets and flapped his hand at me. Like, “shoo, you lowly-fetchmeshit-slave. You’re dismissed. La-de-da”.
I tell ya, I was boiling. Srsly, he has no idea the self-restraint I have. He sees the glaring and the way I snap the blanket off and stalk out of the room and he’s probably thinking “oh that uppity bitch! why I oughta!” but if he KNEW, if he had ANY IDEA how much I want to, like, kick him and bite the end of his nose and I DON’T? He’d be impressed with my self-control.
Right?
Well. He should be. That’s all I got to say about that!
So anyway, I fetch the shit and I deliver it, and I didn’t even spit in it or anything, and I’m climbing back in bed and I say “I’m not getting up again.”
He’s reading his book and I see him roll his eyes and he mumbles by rote, “Don’t tell me what you’re going to do.” clearly not very interested.
“I mean it!” I say, angrily punch-fluffing my pillow. “If you ask me to get up one more time, I’m taking off my collar and I’m gonna quit being your slave for the night, and we’ll just have to start over in the morning!”
He chortled and peered at me over the top of his book. “You’re gonna quit just for the night, huh?”
I nodded. “Yup.”
He snorted and went back to reading. “Go to sleep, you goofy shit.”
Dismissed again, just like that. Just as ignored as you please.
So. Lily Lloyd? That just goes to show you that sass only gets me sent to bed! Hmmph!
If sass worked to get me beat, it’d be non-stop action round here. ;)
Uncategorized | kaya | 
Thursday March 12th, 2009 7:47am
Oh. My. Fucking. Gods. That is hilarious! I can just picture you doing that too. All nice and tied up, (for some reason I’m picturing you tied to a chair) and then out of no where.. a good song comes on and you start headbanging and singing really loudly. I can’t stop laughing. Damn you!
It reminds me of this one time Master and I were having sex, and we had a mixed CD playing in the living room, while we were in the bedroom. And out of no where, I song I had strictly put on the CD for comedic value (“Let’s Get Naked” by Tommy Lee) starts playing and I couldn’t stop laughing. Master was all like, “What the fuck?!” So we had to stop what we were doing, I had to go in the living room and switch the CDs and then come back and stop my giggle fit so we could continue. Yeah. I seriously forgot that song was even on that CD. Honest!
I adore that song. Fred Durst is a pussy, though. Refused to take his clothes off in the video. And he was the only one.
I’m sorry it’s called “Get Naked” lol. And I personally wouldn’t want to see Fred Durst naked. :-|
I just found out he’s 40! I thought he was around my age (I’ll be 29 next month). And yeah… I’ll pass on seeing him naked, too. lol
Your description on how to get to lala land? Perfect. At least it was for the last few times Master’s played with me.
Funny, that. Try as we might, before I left it was impossible. These days? Shit just clicks. Though usually it’s porn for us… not music. Course, we don’t have any little ears to offend. Unless you count Zedd and Co. I’m sure my poor birds are completely traumatized by this point.
And, uh… Master and I had a similar conversation last night. I’m all crampy and feeling icky and suddenly my previously unwarmable body was sweltering. So I asked if He turned the heat down before we went to bed cringing inside because once He’s in, He’s in unless He has to go to the bathroom.
I actually worry about how He’ll react if the house catches on fire.
Okay not really. But close!
Miss PMS-Potty_Mouth responds to His “Nope.” with “Are you fucking *kidding* me? I’m not in enough pain already? I need to be climbing all over you, too?”
And He said, “Yep.”
Murderous, I was. Till He ignored my outburst and started cracking jokes to chill me out.
I suppose He can live. This time. :p
What was the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do and what lessons did you learn from it?
Master says that next time you have to start singing “I’m an anarchist, I’m the anti-christ”. :)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0TZ_9-rbslo
“Doesn’t it suck to be the slave?”
Too funny! Your Master is such a bastard! Lolol. okay, no offense meant! But that is seriously funny. I loved it!
I have a question: where is Magdala? She used to comment often, and I think she is a great friend of yours, right? I am usually a little annoyed by the number of comments of the kind: “my master does the same!” or “you must live in my house!” I really mean no offense, it’s just that they sound natural when girls are talking, but in writing it’s just repetitive and makes it hard to sort through the comments to find the ones that are really offering some thought material. Magdala often commented something different from that.
I have another question: Do you think that at least part of your attraction to degradation and forced sex may be related to you not thinking that you deserve pleasure, or don’t deserve that someone pleasure you for your own sake? I think that your recent vanilla-ish lifestyle, in which you are surprisingly satisfied could have to do with you accepting a little more that you deserve some things for yourself.
Well, damn! Sent to bed?
Yeah, it’s 3 AM and I’m not sleepy. Maybe I should wake Bryce up and sass him and see what happens.
Would I get sent to bed? Hm. Could happen :)
Best,
Lily