Under His Hand

The journal of a slave


(This entry is partially in response to what an incredibly tough and profound weekend I had with Master and partially in response to the anonymous person who posted the ever-dreaded “WHY???” question. It’s disjointed, jumbled and all over the board because quite simply, that’s how I feel. Nobody ever said this was easy.)

“Jump” my friend says to me. She’s right. I’m clinging by my fingernails to the last of my self.

I can’t jump. I’m too afraid of not being caught. Of bouncing off the floor in a thousand shattered pieces. Is this what I asked for? Honestly?

“Bite your fucking tongue girl!”

The pictures start off so innocently… at some point, the camera is set aside and forgotten. The world is set aside and forgotten.


That’s my world.


What happened to the hot, horny, writhing mass of hormonal masochistic need? Where did the girl who used to race to the toy box, all giggles and un-ending sexual desire go?

What the fuck did You do with her?

What the fuck did You do to me?

Where did this sobbing, messy, whining, begging, slobbering bundle of fear come from? Was it in there, this whole time… and You’ve opened it up and let it out? Or have You taken that simple and easy pain-slut and twisted and warped it into this monstrosity?

And this appeals to You? Snot dripping off my chin, urine squirting down my leg, drool dribbling between my breasts… so buried in pathetic emotional garbage that I can’t even breathe…this makes Your cock hard?

No, not the physical sight. I don’t believe that. That’s hard to look at, and impossible to be aroused by. So what is it then? The naked fear in my eyes? The raw need in my voice? Does the power rush come during the swing or after my cry?

You are such a fucking sadist. Push and push and push. Relentless. Untouchable. Grab ahold of my fear and squeeze it… drain it of it’s juices… hold the mutilated mess of myself in front of my eyes, make me see it… feel it… rub my nose in it… and then slam it back down my throat.

I don’t understand what makes You tick. But worse than that, I no longer understand what makes ME tick.

What makes me follow You into the room, with fear so hot and heavy in my gut I can feel it trying to escape through my crotch? Have I ever told You how my heart stops for a split second when You click the lock shut on the door? What makes me willingly hold my wrists out to be cuffed while tears begin to pool in my eyes… why do I arch my back and thrust my breasts out when You stand there with clamps in Your hand? Why do I lovingly pull Your cock in between my teeth and caress it with my tongue, open my throat for You to impale and balance on the edge of suffocation while You swing over and over again at my back and ass, slap my face and rip at my hair? How am I able to lay back and spread my legs for You… and feel like I am drowning in painful need and simultaneously soaring above any feeling or thought? Why does my cunt clench and drip around Your cock as You whisper what a filthy whore I am in my ear? Where does the whisper of Your breath, the slippery velvet of Your cock, the race of gooseflesh across my skin start and end?


That’s my world.


I don’t understand it and someone wants me to explain it? That’s almost laughable. Every day is a struggle, every day is a triumph.

The goal… cunt-in-a-cage. No thoughts, no emotions, no nothing. Nothing more than available.

I am His. His object, His toy. His it. We’re almost there and it scares the fucking hell out of me.



I’m just really not feeling well about the website and the blogging. What’s the point? Who reads it anyway?

Just another naked cunt posting pics of her fat ass on the internet. MMmmm.. isnt that appetizing.


Pic of the Day.

Welts made from snapped rubber bands. Big welts. Fat welts. I’m not so pleased with these pictures. I’m not so sure Master will be pleased either. It’s *not* as good as He would have done and that’s the assignment.

But I’m *not* Him… and I can only push myself so far before I snap (no pun intended). And this is day three or four, I think, of some pretty painful self-inflicted things. And you all are only seeing the ones I post.. there are other things… private things.

He offered, just yesterday, to give me a day off and I turned it down. I need these tasks right now. I need to feel close to Him this way. But even knowing that, it’s still rough.. and I’m hitting bottom maybe now. I miss Him, more than I can describe.

I don’t know that I can convey through here.. or anywhere to anyone… what a huge important piece of my daily existence revolved around His presence. Our only time apart, in the last year or more, have been no more than a day at work. Everything else was done together. Everything. I… *sigh*… I miss asking to use the bathroom. I miss being chained to the bed. I miss the sound of the key in the lock around my neck. Mostly, I miss His smell. The cologne bottle isn’t the same, it needs His smell mixed with it.

I’ll do these welts again, if You wish me to Master. I’ll do them until You are pleased with it. But I’d much much rather have You here doing it.



Master left today. I’m so lost.

The trip to O’Hare and back was a nightmare. I despise Chicago traffic. I only took one wrong turn though.. yay me.

I was thinking, on the drive home today, of all the ways that Master makes me feel. These thoughts will keep Him close to me so I’d like to share them here.

As most of you know already, the power exchange in our house is total. He is the boss… and i am not..lol. I can (usually) voice my opinions and feelings, I’m just not guaranteed that He will take them into consideration.

He relates to me, though not often, on a plain, or equal, level. As a wife and mother, it’s necessary at times, I guess. Especially when Master and I are discussing the kids…I can get pretty snippy. Always the defensive mom, even when there is nothing to defend. That used to cause problems with us, my snapping on Him over the kids. It’s less and less an issue, though I’m not sure which of us changed. I suspect that we both came to the realization that me being the obedient and deferential slave was nul and void when talk turned to the kidlettes. I’m still expected to be polite and respectful to Him though. (The more time passes, the more I see that He isn’t attacking my kids or my parenting skills, that, just like any other parent, He can be upset with them and not hate them.. I am less inclined to take offense with it. But that’s a whole ‘nother entry.) I’m deferential to Him on all money matters, and most anything else domestic. Unless He specifically asks for my input, that’s His domain. I take comfort in this arrangement.

Master will sometimes treat me like a little girl. Holding me against Him in a tight little ball, stroking my hair and crooning in my ear, telling me what a “sweet and precious little girl” I am… and on the flip side of that, He’s more than once marched me to the corner, nose to the wall, or flipped me over His knee and paddled my ass for some wrong-doing. I don’t refer to Him as ‘Daddy’, if someone were to ask I would say that we aren’t in to age play at all. But there is that aspect to our relationship and I do feel like the petulent punished child in the corner… or the treasured Daddy’s little girl.

Master can also spoil me rotten, sometimes making me coffee in the morning before work, giving me massages, helping me with chores and housework. He constantly voices how much He appreciates what I do, how much I mean to Him. He says ‘thank you’ a thousand times a day. He tells me He loves me a thousand and one times a day.

However, He can also be very strict and very firm. A heavy hand and clear, concise expectations from His slave. There are days, most days actually, where there is no wiggle room, there is no happy-sappy crap. I’m the slave and my duty is to Him, His house and His happiness. He has only to point and snap His fingers and I can almost always anticipate what He wants. I’m past the testing and playing dumb phase (finally, eh, Master?), I clearly know what’s expected of me and what the consequences will be if I don’t do my part. I thrive in this situation. I’m at my most content when things are structured and consistent.

On lesser occasions, Master gets… well… mean. I’m His toilet, His footstool, His kleenex. I’m whatever He wants me to be. I’m humiliated and degraded. Yet, these times send me to a headspace that I long for. I’m thoroughly debased.

I’m also, of course, His toy.. His cunt.. His sperm junkie. I’m His willing masochist, and sometimes not-so-willing-suffer-through-it slut.

I’m all of those things, all of those people, all rolled in to one. He is the Master to them all, He brings them out at His whim and desire, one at a time, all at once. I have no control over who comes out to play, it’s decided without my consent or cooperation. A look, a word, a snap and a pointed finger… and the one He fancies pops up like a well trained puppet.

I don’t know where all these pieces of me came from. I was just a perverted, slightly submissive woman once upon a time. Now… just the mere presence of Him in the room.. and my every sense turns to Him, watching, waiting… all the voices clamoring inside… vying for His attention. What has He done to me?

I’ve been Master’ed.

This seperation… to me… in my head… threatens everything. He assures me nothing will change. I still have my chores, my rules, my tasks to do in His absence.

Speaking of rules, I’m 7 minutes past my bedtime. Good night!


Sad night

We had a pretty busy weekend… just the two of us. No work, no kids, no nothing. We fucked and played and scened and fucked and …well.. fucked.

I’m sore and bruised and it feels great.

Tomorrow Master leaves for two weeks… maybe more. I’m sad. I miss Him already. Separation does not come easy for me… christ an 8 hour work day is too much.

What am I going to do without Him?

I asked Him earlier today if my dependency on Him bothered Him. He said it didn’t. That He liked it. He said He saw me as independent anyway… kind of a controlled independent. *sigh*… I don’t care what you call it.. I need Him. I AM dependent on Him.

It’s going to be a long few weeks.