Clean Your Plate

Click the image. I double-dawg dare ya!

Just (Face)Fuck it!

I was tasked tonight with finishing that facefucking clip that I was supposed to do some two months ago and putting it up at the clipstore.

I can’t go to bed until it’s done and I’m a sleepy girl.

Anyone who still thinks we’re in this for the money? Pffft. Apparently not since I haven’t gone near the store for months.

I probably make the whole clip loading process ten times more difficult than it has to be because I’m a complete computer/techno loser. Ah well. It’s getting done now. Most of “work” involves just sitting here waiting for it to finish loading.

Which is why I procrastinate doing it for so long. Sitting here doing nothing drives me batshit crazy.

Anyway.. /whine

Actually, having taken two months to get to it was a benefit I think. I was able to view it with fresh eyes. I’d practically forgotten about it.

I’d certainly forgotten how good it was.

I’m not trying to toot my horn or anything, because, let’s be honest here, I pretty much just drooled and gasped and otherwise laid there and took it.

But Master was on his game that day. He was all kinds of mean and bossy and shit. He was… he was just on fire.

Watching it again got my motor revving.

So, of course, he’s in bed and I’m here. Loading it up.

Still. It’s a hot clip.

If you like that sort of thing.

Forgot what I’m talking about? Lemme refresh your memory.

It’s up. At the store.

Best one yet, if you ask me.

~cunt

Good Night!

The Fun They Had

We had the best weekend EVAR.

Well, it was the best in a really long time anyway.

Friday he stuck me under the desk for one of those marathon hours-n-hours long fuck sessions that have me pounding my fist on the floor in frustrated pain while struggling to keep my ass cocked in just the right position while he bangs the ever-loving snailsnot right outta my body. You know the ones.

Fucker.

Sir.

Saturday. Mmm. Saturday.

There is something about having yelping naked women around that almost ensures good times, isn’t there?

We were treated to one of the funnest scenes we have ever watched. Lord knows we appreciate a serious, sensual, edgy scene, too. But laughing so hard that you are crying while someone *else* is being caned is just WAY too much fun.

What a trooper she is.

She was delivering one-liners faster than He could swing the cane. He wadn’t exactly ticking her ass with those canes, either! He was thwapping her! She’d yelp and he’d ask her something, trying (in vain, I might add) to steer it toward serious, and she’d look at him, deadpan straight-face, and blurt out some quip or another.

We were rolling in the peanut gallery, wiping our eyes.

I think the poor Dom gave up trying to get serious right about the time she farted.

lololol

We cracked UP. He backs away from her ass and starts fanning the air and goes, “I don’t know if I wanna be working down there anymore!”

God. It was too fucking funny.

And then! Right when he seemed to be regaining some semblence of “this r serious business” composure, you know – she’s gotten quiet, he’s concentrating on walking her through some pain, we’re all on the edge of our seats, watching the energy flow between these two gorgeous people -

SNAP!

The clothespin that we had holding the curtain shut snapped in half with an usually loud crack, FLEW across the room in pieces… this poor girl on the table getting beat? Who was just starting to slide down, was quietly concentrating and waiting for that next blow? Purt near JUMPED off the table, squeaked, the Dom ducked, I think we were all heading for the floor to assume the bomb-shelter position –

Honest to God. I haven’t had this much fun in ages. What a great night that was.

I got to be Master’s Little Helper while he did some wax play on some other girly-girls, and, I gotta tell ya, hearing the two of them moaning on the floor, watching them wiggle? I about had to go wipe my thighs. I wasn’t even being waxed and I was HOT.

No wonder men are sadists. Srsly, girls whimpering and writhing under your hand? Fuck me. What a turn on.

~fans myself~

Whew.

I’ve seen Master do things to other submissives before, but not like this. He’s done quick things, like “lemme show you this” kind of stuff? This was way better though. Imma be a little brag-ish and say that he is hot when he’s in action.

S’cuse me while I touch myself.

I even had a pussy jolt when I saw him sitting on the couch, cuddling up in some aftercare with another naked chicka. He just oozes power, sitting there in his tight-ass jeans, all dressed and manly-looking with some naked, high-flying girl all wrapped up in a blanket on his lap.

God damn. I’m gonna have to go masturbate pretty soon.

Needless to say, the sexual energy flowing through the house was at an all-time high this weekend.

A couple of months ago I asked if losing the expectation would also mean losing the desire. I am happy to report that it does not.

The desire popped up when it was called on. When he asked for it. Not that pesky me-me-me angst that I carried before. Not that stomping around the house watching the clock tick down the precious time, nothing at all like how it had been in the past when the kids would bless us with a free weekend. I had no expectation. I had no angst. I had nothing but making sure he was happy, content, and his dick was pleased.

And when he picked up the whip or whatever, I was just happy to stand there and take it.

He whalloped on me pretty good, too. I am bruised and welted and scabbed. He told me he was going to “take it slow and easy” since we hadn’t played in awhile and since it was the first time we’d played with this group.

Well. If THAT was “slow and easy”? Count me OUT of the “fast and hard” play, mmkay?

Not that I wasn’t loving it or anything. I was jazzed. He coulda whipped me for the next 3 hours and I’d have still begged for more.

Before the weekend was over I had to:

Wash sperm off the bedroom door (I told him his aim was bad, he told me I made him come so hard he overshot my face. Squee!)

Scrub my own squirted come out of the living room carpet – and I rarely ever squirt! (I guess he was returning that ‘coming too hard’ favor. teehee)

Clean up about a gallon of wax (whoever discovered the iron and paper bag trick is a dadgummed genius!)

Wash blood from my vampire-gloved ass out of my favorite slut blanket.

Good times, man. Good times.

I am a happy camper today. I cleaned out the jumbled mess of a toybox, reorganized everything so it’s all easy to grab. I’m gonna go wash the sheets and clean the house and make dinner and sing along to Michael Jackson. I am in love with my life.

And I’m sore! God I missed being sore. It hurts to sit (I’ll have to ask Master to take pictures of my butt.), it hurts to move my arms, my nipples (jeebus but he was deadly spot-on cracking the whip across my nipples! They’re skinned, blushed a bright pink, and HURT.)

Did I already say good times? I did.

Well. It was.

(we didn’t film any of the play Saturday night. We didn’t even think about it at the time. But Sunday morning, he whipped me again and filmed that one. It’s up at the store.)

A Bad Hair Day

It was made clear to me why I haven’t been allowed to shave for the last two months.

Because, surprise surprise! Master is a sadist.

I’m not much of a masochist. In fact! I’ve just about decided that I was wholly mistaken in ever taking the label in the first place. Fer realz.

Cuz, pubic hair pulling just plain fucking hurts. More than it should. It defies logic. I think Master was more amused by my screams – which, on second thought, totally makes sense, doesn’t it? A sadist who likes to hear screaming. Duh, kaya.

Oh nevermind. I’m doomed. He’s clued me in on His next plan for my fuzzy snatch. Two words.

Duct Tape.
*sob*

Anyone have room for a scared pussy? I won’t eat much! You’ll hardly know I’m there. And I do windows!

The before shot – I was trying to be all sexy and alluring.

And then when I was happily wallowing in the feel of rope wound around my appendages and knowing I was going to get fucked. As in sex. Sex-fucked. Not fucked-up.

And then the fucking, that could have been done without the hair-handle, but what do I know?

And the after. Cool handprints, huh?

Behind the cut are more pictures that Master said I had to post. It’s been a long time since I’ve argued with Him about posting pictures, but then it’s been a long time since He’s made me post pictures. I thought I was over the angst of posting pictures that I think are… um… nasty.

Apparently I am not. And apparently Master is not bored of humiliating me in this manner. Needless to say, that argument (that consisted of Him saying “post this, this, that one, and that one” and me going “*gasp* But Master! I don’t wa-”, and Him replying “Do it and stfu, cunt”, and me mumbling “Yes Sir. *hmmph*”) was won by Him.

(But I’m begging you not to go back there!)

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“… or else it gets the hose again.”

Master has always had an interest in controlling my bathroom needs. Not only controlling them, which He thoroughly enjoys, but in making it difficult. I fondly remember the days when having to pee was as simple as just.. peeing. These days, needing the bathroom can be an event.

He’s told me probably a hundred times or more that someday I’ll be peeing outside. Not that I’ve never peed outside – I have. Many times, on drunken road trips where actually finding a bathroom was too much work, copping a squat while clinging to the car bumper so I didn’t totter over into my own puddle – yeah, I’ve done that a time or two. But even that was done because I wanted to, not because I HAD to. The idea of being inside my own house, with access to three bathrooms in perfect working order and to still be told to squat in the backyard like a dog? That’s a little difficult to wrap my head around.

It was easy for me to just nod and smile when He’d say those things. Where we lived before, we were surrounded by people. There was zero outdoor privacy and with all the city regulations on fences and stuff, there was zero chance of ever having outdoor privacy. So I dismissed His outdoor piddling threats. We were never going to *move*, for goodness sake! He owned the house, and He’d done work to it and He’d built the bedroom/dungeon/cunt cupboard. I was so safe from the outside!

*ahem*

I stand corrected.

I haven’t yet had to pee outside. But it’s coming. I’m resistant and I figured I could continue to be resistant because, seriously, I have pride and I have ego and I have been potty trained for years and years. One does not slide backward in mere seconds.

I should know better than to think I can “fight” Master on anything that He wants. But I rather think He enjoys this sort of battle. Oh it could be as simple as Him saying “do it NOW, cunt” and I’d drop and squirt like a frightened squid, but this is much more fun (for Him). I genuinely do not think pissing outside is hot or erotic or depraved or anything that would make me want it even on a darker, as-yet-unrealized level. So I’m digging in my heels and dodging and bargaining and avoiding and and and – so far, I’ve been on a toilet every time.

But yesterday – yesterday was close. Oh so close. I almost broke because He found a tool, a weapon, that is far more sadistic than anything I’ve experienced to date.

The ice-cold spray from the garden hose.

I’d asked to pee and He’d denied my request. (*More on that down below) So I held it, of course, because arguing or begging only seems to encourage Him with the outside stuff.

But then a bit later He took me outside anyway.

And tied me to the deck.

He said He was going to whip me until I pissed myself.

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“No one gets their way. Until they whip it.”

I’ve put off doing this post for too many days. Ugh. I tried to beg out of it, but no dice.

I was gonna title it: “Look at the fat girl tied to the chair!” but Master hates it when I insult “his” property. Bah.

Okay, enough about that. I’m fat. Deal, right? Right!

So! On to the posting then.

I wish I would have posted while the experience was still fresh in my mind instead of being a “omgz! I can’t show my gut on teh intrawebs, Master!!” ninny. Now it’s lost a lot of the spark.

This was directly following the breath play so I was in some weird headspace. Pretty zoned but super disconnected from him. Which is what he tends to do when he’s about to get mean. He distances himself from my emotions.

(I have a post I wanted to do about that – about love and s&m and such. Maybe this will remind me to do so.)

I have a shameful confession to make.

I will do my damnedest to play on Master’s feelings. It’s true. I try and manipulate the situation (by situation I mean scene) by tugging on his heartstrings. Looking pathetic, imploring sympathy with puppy dog eyes and crocodile tears, pleading whimpers… you name it, I do it. I’m not acting or trying to be sneaky or anything. I mean it when I do it. I’m responding honestly to the pain by “asking without asking” for him to dial it down a notch.

If he ignores that -and he does, often- then I’ll just tell him (if I’m not gagged) he’s going too hard/fast/whatever. It’s a statement of fact, a warning really, that grace is about to take a flying leap out the window if he keeps it up at that pace.

Which is what I did less than 60 seconds into the whipping. I’d run quickly through the whole heartstrings attempt which he paid not one second of attention to, and damn it, he really WAS whipping fucking hard. No warm up (unless the breath play was the warm up), it was full speed ahead right out the gate with the whip. I told him. That’s too hard, man!

So he gagged me.

I have another shameful confession to make.

I’ll try and make too much noise so that he HAS to dial it down a notch. *blush*

Thing is though, I really, really don’t think I can stand one more second of the pain when I start hollering and crying. I’m not making it out to be worse than what I think it is, it seriously hurts bad. He’s not always out to help me find my happy place or to sink into subspace or to just make me horny. When he wants it to just hurt, it’s just going to hurt and I’m not pretending otherwise. It’s pain, real pain. My reactions are not stellar performances when that’s his intent.

But I do know that he’s bound in some manner to keeping things fairly quiet. Keeping it on the down-low. So when I’m sitting there thinking I’m dying, I’m gonna holler like I’m dying. It’s survival instinct! Sometimes it works enough that even if he doesn’t stop completely, he’ll switch toys or switch spots, which is sometimes all I need to get a grip on things.

I tried that. I was really trying to get some serious sound around the gag. All I wanted was for him to slow down. The repetitive strikes of the whip so fast together – there just isn’t time to breath, you know? The pain builds and builds.. and I was already all fuckled up from the breath play and face slapping – I was in bad shape. That’s all there was to it. So I hollered. Loud.

I thought it had worked too, as he lowered the whip and took a step away – only to reach the stereo where he cranked the volume up higher. I knew I was sunk then. Up a shit creek without a paddle.

After that I was a mess. I utterly and completely lost it. He felt so far away, I was all alone with the pain and my tears. I don’t know really how to describe that distance or how badly it fucks with my psyche. Once I enter that space, everything hurts more than it otherwise would. My nerves are all ramped up, on edge, jittering.

I was sobbing. Sobbing. Drooling around the gag, snot running down my face, can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t connect. And him? He was so turned on he could hardly stand it.

When he was done hurting me, he left me alone for a bit, putting my stinging body into bed, handing me the bullet vibe, and telling me to calm down and get ready. It took me a bit to find a happy place. For a while I was angry-vibing, hating every second of that vibrator pressed against my over-sensitive body, cursing him for “ruining my good scene time”. It took a little bit, but I got there. I found a good place.

I always do though. Those kind of scenes, heavy ones, I need those way more than the lighter fluff scenes. I just don’t always know that at the time. It’s hell to get there, but what lies over the horizon is fucking wonderful. For both of us.

I don’t know if he wanted these pictures behind a cut or not, but I’m doing it anyway. He didn’t tell me I couldn’t.

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Ambivalence

I used to use the word “ambivalent” incorrectly. I thought it meant to not care one way or the other; to be apathetic about a decision or choice. Of course it doesn’t mean that at all. It means much the opposite in fact.

Latin in origin, from ambi meaning “both” and valentia meaning “strength”, ambivalence means having strong feelings, simultaneous and contradictory attitudes, toward an object or certain path.

I am ambivalent about slavery, I’ve decided. It is not a love-hate thing. A love-hate relationship would mean that I love being a slave but hate myself for doing it. That is not the case at all.

But this line right here fits me to a T: “a heightened ambivalence which is expressed in behavior by alternating obedience and rebellion, followed by self-reproach”.

See? I’m ambivalent.

While that bears further thought, there is something else that I am ambivalent about and that’s my real reason for posting today. The vocabulary lesson wasn’t in vain.

I am ambivalent about the whip. About being whipped. About asking to be whipped or told I’m going to be whipped.

It’s different than, say, spanking. Getting a spanking is almost normal. It used to be a standard part of childhood back in the day (still is I suppose), and I even remember it being used in schools as a youngster (Not that I ever was spanked by the principal! I was much too good). I seem to recall, when my own children were just entering elementary school, signing a paper forbidding the use of corporal punishment on them should they misbehave in class. So my guess is that using paddles in school has only recently been done away with.

And spanking wasn’t unheard of between a husband and wife either. A “naughty” wife was dealt with, by some husbands, in much the same way a naughty child was. So spanking feels, to me, like a much more acceptable practice. The history of spanking is presentable.

But the history of whipping is not so presentable. It’s not a clouded memory for most people. It’s not something that’s ever been shown in anything other than an extremely negative and unattractive way, bringing up feelings of revulsion and anger. Pictures of men and women, tied to posts and whipped to bloody ribbons. People strapped to machines or tools, whipped into working harder and faster. In movies, doesn’t the “slavedriver” *always* have a whip in hand, and isn’t he always quick to use it upon a slow worker?

Whipping is all wrapped up in shame and disgrace. That bleeds over into my enjoyment of it.

When I am enjoying it, that is.

It’s very strange, the things that pop into my head in the midst of a scene.

Master does not whip me to bloody ribbons. Yet. I know that he can, I know that he is capable of it. I’ve seen him flick a whip at a sturdy cardboard box and leave a 3 inch gash so I know that when it’s me on the receiving end and not a box, he’s holding back something awful.

I do not know if he will always hold back though. Nor do I know at what point he’ll “let loose” once I’ve been secured to the ceiling. There is a lot of fear coursing through me during a whipping… until the whip has been hung UP, and I have been hung DOWN.

Anywho, so I know I’m not taking anything over the top when he’s whipping me. I get some welts, sometimes they last days, sometimes only hours. Sometimes there is a little breaking of the skin, sometimes not. Sometimes it feels good, sometimes I’d like to set the whip on fire in the backyard and do a happy dance while it burns.

Sometimes he does it rather lightly (but still hurting!), but repetitively, over and over and over, quick little snaps, moving from spot to spot to spot, without pause and it drives me batshit crazy. It’s not even the pain so much as the constant flick, the never-ending bite.

I’d make the comparison between being stung once by a wasp, or being bitten by 300 fire ants, one at a time.

I am ambivalent on whether I’d choose the wasp or the ants. Both and neither, thank you.

My fear is the day when it becomes being stung by a wasp 300 times, one at a time.

I’ve never been stung by a wasp. Not even by a bee. I’ve built it up into epically painful proportions in my mind.

This particular occasion was a “300 ants, one at a time” type of whipping. Honestly, by the end of it, I’m whimpering like I’ve been skinned merely because I can’t catch my fucking breath. It’s insanity I tell you.

Pictures are behind the cut. And a clip is up at the Clip Store.

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Porn Sale!

All of the clips currently hosted at the clip store burned on a cd and mailed to you for $35.00 (plus shipping). That’s a savings of… *mental math*… like.. over a hundred dollars! Email me if you’re interested: kaya at underhishand.com

I like being whored out for cash. Makes my naughty bits kinda tinglay!