Under His Hand

The journal of a slave

Satan strikes again.

When Master and I first started this heavy power exchange, things were pretty confusing for me. Of course He had it all figured out in His own head but as usual, I was being dragged along behind Him saying “but.. but.. but..” I was forever bringing up scenarios and what-if’s and maybe’s. Attacking it from every single angle and possibility. I analyzed it to death. Enough so that Master would very often order me to give it a freakin’ rest already. We had quite a few conversations where I was apologizing for being so obsessed. And Master would pat me on the head in that condescending manner of His and say things like “oh shucks, its a good thing you are obsessed with it. It shows your commitment and your dedication and I love to talk about it too, just not ALL the time. Now go make dinner and shush for awhile.” (maybe not those exact words but close…:)

These days, I don’t know that I talk about it any less, or if He’s just used to it, or if the conversation just flows continuously with bdsm as a constant background no matter what the actual topic, but it’s no longer a source of conflict for us. Not my obsession or His patience.

One of the things that confused me the most in the beginning was Master’s insistence that I NOT become a doormat in how I interact with Him. He likes how we banter. He likes that I’m a perpetual smartass (I crack myself up, I really do. I know it sounds so egotistical and I’m not necessarily saying that I am funny to anyone else, but I make myself laugh… I don’t care about the rest of ya..:). It’s not innocent humor though. I’m mean. I call Him names and stuff. I flip Him off. I do all sorts of disrespectful things. And He thinks it’s funny. Most of the time.

It was the “most of the time” that would get me. Being allowed such freedom of expression went against everything that I had ever thought I knew about a bdsm relationship. Even in the name of humor, the perfect little slave wasn’t allowed to be disrespectful. He was pretty adamant about it though. He had endless discussions with me about intent. About voice tones. The difference between funny and disrespectful. How saying “fuck you” while we’re teasing and He tells me to strip naked and jog around the block and how saying “fuck you” when I’m pissed off at Him are two very different things.

And I tested it. Over and over and over, I tested it. For one thing, it felt extremely unfair to me, that I was in essence having to guess at what His mood was, at how much was too much teasing. At what voice tone was acceptable. I would say things when I was mad, but He didn’t know I was mad and I’d think to myself “ha! I just got away with calling you an asshole!” Other times, I’d be honestly joking and He would take it the wrong way and I’d get in trouble. And sometimes, I’d just fly off the handle and rant and rave cuz I’m mouthy. And I’d get in trouble for that too.

I kept asking Him if He would PLEASE just make a damn rule that forbid me from talking to Him that way ever, for any reason. Things would be so much easier then. (yes I could have just did it myself, but see, I don’t self-dominate. Ever. If He doesn’t say it, I don’t do it. I don’t know yet if that’s a help or a hindrance. Some things I should maybe be doing on my own, but if I don’t fully sense His participation, I can’t. It just makes me feel silly. Like playing tic tac toe by yourself. Ever done that? It’s ridiculously silly) He wouldn’t budge on it though. I was going to learn how and when it was appropriate to be a smartass according to His rules and when it wasn’t appropriate. Fair or unfair, like it or not, deserved punishment or misunderstandings, He insisted. I would learn.

And I did! I can tell now when I’m even just getting close to “disrespect”. I can tell just from the look on His face if He’s in the mood for smartass-me or YesMaster-me. And in most instances, I’m extremely grateful that He insisted I learn it the hard way. I don’t at all feel smothered or stifled, I’m free to snap off most anything that pops in my head.

I still have some trouble with being able to shut my mouth when I get really really REALLY mad. Sometimes I just say everything I can think of as fast as I can before He tells me to hush. Of course then, I’m already in trouble and it’s too late for hushing. You know, getting off track here, a few people have made comments about how they could not live with being made to hush when they have something to say and I can honestly say that this has been the hardest aspect of slavery for me. If I have something to say, it KILLS me to not be able to say it. But I fully accept that He has the right to not hear it. Anyway, that’s a whole different post. Back on topic here.

So, I’ve learned when it’s ok to be a smartass and when it isn’t. And Master didn’t go easy on me in learning this lesson either. It didn’t matter if I didn’t mean it the way He took it, or whatever.. if it hit Him the wrong way, I got punished for it. You’d think that would have made me censor myself huh?..lol. It didn’t. It made me that much more aware of His aura.

In short, His method, while tough, worked. He didn’t lose our banter, He is still blessed with my wicked tongue (in more ways than one) but I can generally shut my mouth off when He requires it of me.

But now… today.. our main form of communication these days is MSN. Just try sending your tone of voice through msn. Try giggling in that cute way that softens a “fuck you Master” through msn. You cannot banter in the way that Master and I normally banter on msn. And how do I know this?

Cuz I was bantering along when out of the blue that last “yeah whatever” should have been a “yes Master” and fucking WHAM! Down comes the hammer. He claims I should have seen it coming. And maybe I should have. The trigger phrases were there.. but dammit.. just.. god dammit. The thing is, it doesn’t matter what I think or what I meant or the shoulda-woulda-coulda’s.

It was a mild transgression though… so the punishment was quick and mild too. Enough so that I will know He isn’t letting anything slide just because He isn’t here. (Did I really complain once upon a time that He wouldn’t be able to “Dom” me from afar?? Scratch that, cuz.. He doms me MORE from afar.) Two clothespins on my pussy lips all slathered up with icy hot for only 5 minutes, snap a couple pics to mail Him and apologize. The end.

Wrong.

See, last weekend when He was here, He told me I couldn’t shave again. I don’t know what the deal is with the whole not shaving thing but I didn’t mention it at all because I am NOT giving Him the satisfaction of watching me freak out over it. I refuse. I’m taking that weapon away from Him. I can’t shave my cootchie. So what. It’s disgustingly hairy and gross and I don’t care. You know when I look at it I literally feel nauseated? When I touch it, I just get the willies. It’s nasty. But whatever.. I’ve purposely not mentioned it at all. Not here and not to Him.

Until I had to send Him these two pictures tonight. Which was humiliating. Master does not like pubic hair. I know He doesn’t. He’s only forbidden shaving so He can humiliate me with this, the evil fucker. He’s going to come home next weekend and by then I’ll have a damn lap full of fur and He’s going to completely annihilate me with it. He’s going to point and laugh and make faces and pull on it and simply…… totally…. defeat me.

And there is nothing I can do about it.

He started it already just with those pictures. And then He told me to post them. I know some of you are thinking, what’s the big deal, right? A little pubic hair, wtf. Well, think I’m crazy if you want. I hate pubic hair on my own body. Looks damn fine on the rest of you. Master’s pubic hair is gorgeous. In general, pubic hair is sexy on a woman. Not on me. Hate it hate it hate it. It makes me feel dirty and smelly and it looks filthy and it makes me itch and and and the little hairs look like worms and it just makes me ill and the very thought of posting those two pictures made me want to scream “NO FUCKING WAY!!!”.

Which I did say. Out loud. Here. Where He couldn’t hear me. I typed one very small “please no” which was immediately shot down. I asked one more time if I really had to post them and He said He would think about it but most likely YES.

So I can stew about it all night and post them tomorrow morning.. or I can just do it now. Go hide my head for the night… and for the next several days… and die a million little embarrassing deaths and get it the hell over with. Because I know Him.. and He’ll hold it over my head and make me squirm and beg and plead and then make me post them anyway!!

Here. It’s done. Humiliated and punished.

Trust, Faith and the Breakdown of it all.

I am done with the 200 clothespins/chants for now, as long as I behave. Yeah.. so just be patient. I’ll be doing it again soon.}

One of the continuations of my punishment was the order to make a nice long journal post sitting on the bitch bench. So here I am. With nothing to say and never having felt more like disappearing into myself in my life. Sitting here, uncomfortable.. getting more and more uncomfortable as time ticks by.. is not as bad as having to lay it all for public consumption. For the naysayers to say “told you you were a bad slave”.

I couldn’t sleep last night and I decided at some 2:30 in the morning that maybe I’d feel better if I wrote it down, got it out, got it over with. And also, selfishly needing to hear that I was forgiven, that I was human, that I’m fallible and it’s ok.

Master gives me alot of chores and tasks to do that He would never know for sure that I completed. There are some that have marks to check, there are some that can have pictures snapped but there are ten times more that require His trust in me to do them as He directed. For instance, I may not be sitting on the bitch bench. There is no way to prove that. All He can take is my word.

What does my word mean to Him now?

Last night’s omission/avoidance/lie turned into two hours or so of lectures, pain, clips, interrogation, humiliation, tears, promises, pleas. And it’s not over. No matter what He replied in that comment, I know better. I won’t be trusted again for……. ever. And that’s the real punishment isn’t it?

I’m pms’ing. I know I’m pms’ing because Master is coming home and I always start sometime around that time. Because God hates me and wants sex to be messy and complicated. I know I’m pms’ing because I’m tired and cranky. It’s the only time that I don’t find Master’s jokes funny. It’s the only time that I bristle when I sense hostility toward my kids, doesn’t matter if it was exactly what I said about them yesterday, nobody else is *allowed* to say it. It’s the only time that I would dare say “fuck you” and mean it. It’s the only time that I can’t handle the absolute fact that no matter how hard I try, no matter how much pain I take, no matter how much effort I put into it, Master keeps the bar just a tad out of my reach. Always.

That’s not the same as saying He isn’t pleased, though that’s what I turn it into.

It’s the only time that I fight my rules and feel smothered.

So I’m struggling to think of things to write about here…. I do apologize if this is jumbled. Well, no I don’t. I AM jumbled. So suffer with me or go read somewhere else.

See.. pms. I told you.

I don’t get to have moods or be offended. Seems unfair, of course I can’t control that monthly feeling of irritation, but I CAN control how I respond to other people. I obviously failed this month. Is Master obligated to back off and cut me some slack because I’m hormonal? Obviously not, since He doesn’t. Does that make Him a cold-hearted, insensitive, hard-ass bastard?

Ayep.

That also makes Him a Master. He doesn’t let my hormones or moods run His life. I’d be less than pleased if He did. I really don’t have any problem with that. I LIKE that He’s a hardass. Most of the time.

Most of the time, pms is really a non-issue. He notices that I’m a little quicker to get irritated, I’m a little less enthusiastic about things, I’m alot more hyper-sensitive to insults (meant or not). But it’s not a problem, per se. It lasts a day, maybe two… and then I’m right back to normal and things are wonderful again. Which is exactly what would have happened this time, had I not made that one stupid decision.

I was going to post exactly what the lie was.. backspaced it though. My only motivation for doing that would be to hear people tell me that it “wasn’t so bad”. I already know that the lie itself was minor. Lying though, is not. And that’s what this comes to.

It works the same way with obedience too doesn’t it? I can tell Him no when He asks me to get Him some coffee or I could run down to the salon and chop my hair off… two vastly different broken rules but all still plain ol’ disobedience. I suspect the punishment would be about the same for both.

You know for the next forever and a day, He’s going to ask me.. after every sentence… “are you sure? Are you lying? How can I believe you?” He’s asked me that before.. and I’ve always had the luxury of saying “because I don’t lie to you Master.”

And I didn’t. I refused, no matter what the outcome or consequences to tell a lie. He was particularly sensitive (from past relationships) to any hint of deception and I worked hard to fix that.I paid the price for the other people/women in His past. I was honest to a fault. I was honest when it would hurt, Him or me. I purposely made sure to put everything out there just so He could see it. I confessed immediately to anything that I thought might be a trigger, endured the consequences, eliminated other things that I could see were always going to be a source of suspicion.

And threw it all away.

It can be said that the “punishment” is over. He forgives me. He loves me.

He’ll never trust me again.

All of the tasks I do will be with the knowledge that He won’t *completely* believe that I did them. He’s going to take everything I say about everything I do with just a little bit of doubt.

I don’t forgive me.

And I don’t know if I’m up for starting it all over again. I just don’t.

Miracle!

I’m cured. I am. I promise.

You know what I need? I need a slave interpreter. Or censor. Someone that I talk to first.. and then they tell me how I *should* say it.. and THEN it goes on to Master.

That would save me so much pain.

I can count

I was talking to Master on the phone (He comes home in 5 days! Hooray! I’m so damn horny I’m fucking candles…lol) and it became apparent to Him that I was leaving the words “Sir” or “Master” out of the conversation.

Now, I don’t always refer to Him by those terms.. with kids around, you just can’t. (Although I have a story about THAT too but later) I also don’t refer to Him by His name unless I’m talking about Him to someone who has no clue about us.. and then saying His name almost makes me feel naughty. It’s just not right. But when it’s appropriate… especially on the phone and especially when I’m getting a mini-lecture, Sir or Master is expected.

“What are you supposed to be saying?”

“Sir.”

“And why aren’t you?”

“cuz it sounds stupid.”

Open mouth.. insert foot.

I didn’t mean that calling Him Sir or Master sounds stupid.. I really really didn’t. Well I did.. but not in an insulting kind of way. I meant that sometimes I feel goofy saying it. Too much like I Dream of Jeanie. I’ll blush even.. all by myself.. just from saying Master. Not all the time though.. sometimes it’s just the most natural thing in the world.

He really wasn’t upset… amused maybe. We started talking about ways to fix it. I remember reading on ravenna’s site awhile back how they fixed it and leaving out all the delicious details (you’ll have to go read it yourself but make sure you bring your vibe along..:)the main thing was the repetition of it. Driving out the embarrassment demons. With Master in another state for the time being, we can’t do it ravenna’s way, though I’d give my left tit to be able to.

Anyway, Master and I were talking about the repetition, a chant almost. Of course I have to be in the corner for it. Master likes the corner. I’m in the corner ALOT. Truthfully, I like it too. It has close to the same effect as being caged or in the closet. Eliminating all distractions and focusing on your thoughts…. what else CAN you do? I kind of feel like I’m shedding stress and irritants, the way you might take off layers of clothes as I stand there… (I was going into a long detailed corner-post but I’ll save it. As fascinated as you all are to hear about what I think when I’m staring at the joint of two walls..lol.. I’m making you wait..:P)

So, I’m to stand in the corner.. and when I feel centered I’m to start repeating ‘yes Master’ 50 times, ‘no Master’ 50 times, ‘yes Sir’ 50 times, ‘no Sir’ 50 times. To which I interrupted with “I can’t count and talk at the same time!” It did not occur to me to say the number first. Or to use my fingers and toes. Or to make lil claw marks in the paint. Nothing occurred to me. I thought I stumped Him.

I have never once stumped Him but I always think I’m going to. I did not this time either. Honest to God I think He waits for these words of ignorance to fall from my lips. I heard Him smile through the phone. You know the smile. That slow curving, eyes flashing, the-better-to-eat-you-with smile. THAT smile.

He asked me if I could count clothespins.

Yes, I can.

Can I count 50 of them?

Yes, I can.

I can count 50 of them and place them somewhere on my body. And remove one with each repeated ‘yes Master’. And then put them all back on.. and do it again for ‘no Master’… and again for ‘yes Sir.. and again for ‘no Sir’. (4×50=200. You see how high I can count?)

Every day.

Every day.

How much you want to bet I lose this embarrassment thing REAL quick.

Freakin’ sadists.

Another lesson learned

Last night Master and I were lounging on the computers, I was chatting, He was doing whatever it is that He does… just relaxing… enjoying being that close to each other (less than two feet between the respective computers) yet doing our own thing. I had been half-heartedly begging for Him to come and chat with me… though I know it’s silly as all hell to “chat” when you can just turn and talk but I get the strangest little thrill when He indulges me that way. He was barely listening to me though, just mumbling “no” when I would bring it up again as He concentrated on His own thing. Then He came across something He found interesting and He said, “come and look at this.”

To which I quipped “Nope, You won’t chat with me, I won’t look at Your stuff.” It was an off-the-cuff comment, not meant to be disrespectful really. Half joking, though I will admit that I *didn’t* turn to look at what He wanted me to see. He whipped around and snatched me by my hair quicker than shit. It startled me, though it probably shouldn’t have, He’s kept me so tightly wrapped and pinned down under His thumb these last few weeks.

He grabbed a good handful.. and I am so tender-headed… instant tear pricks at the back of my eyes. And anger flashed up out of nowhere. My hands fluttered up, stopping at my chest..I know.. I KNOW that putting the hands up always makes it worse… I stilled them there, but just barely.

“You’ll do whatever I say you’ll do,” He growled into my ear. “Won’t you?” And He shook my head just a tiny bit.

“Yes Sir,” I spit out through clenched teeth, biting down hard on my tongue. Other comments, those more indicative of what I was really thinking flew threw my brain and screeched to a halt at my bitten tongue. He nodded, satisfied, and released my hair. I sat back in my chair and before I thought, before my brain could censor my mouth I mumbled “that was a lovely little power trip.”

What did you say??” His incredulous look made me cringe. I started to say “nothing” when the memory of a recent session with the belt over not repeating myself when asked flashed through my mind. And then, just as quickly, I was mad again. I mean, it was a joke in the first place! So I repeated it, loudly. And firmly. And meant it.

“That was a power trip.” And I met His eyes. I crossed my arms and pursed my lips and prepared to stand my ground. He stood up and pointed down the hall to our bedroom door. “That’s five,” He said, holding up five fingers in case I didn’t know what He meant. Five meaning five cracks with the belt. Which maybe isn’t such a big deal… except that I had gotten hundreds (literally honest to God) hundreds of ‘cracks’ the day before… and that day itself had been a day full of ‘fives’ and ‘tens’ and ‘to the bedroom NOW’ as Master stomped on me at every.single.turn.all.weekend.long.

“But! Wha.. Why!?” I sputtered and started to backtrack. He didn’t even answer me, just held up five more fingers, said “Ten,” and pointed to the door again. I moved then, knowing at some point (the point He was at right then apparently) nothing but absolute and immediate obedience is going to save me. I made it the hall, still sputtering and protesting but heading in the right direction nonetheless and then I turned. He was right on my heels and I spun into His chest. I buried my face in His shirt and pleaded.

“I don’t want ten, please, I’m sorry!”

He kept walking, pushing me in front of Him while I begged to His shirt. It’s a short walk from the computer room to the bedroom… even shorter when nothing good is waiting for you there… Master had His determined face on, His fed up with me expression. I just couldn’t believe this. It was all spiraling downhill… from one comment! And He won’t listen to me, I can’t talk to Him.

I don’t know how to explain the feeling that blooms in the pit of my stomach when He reaches for His belt buckle. How the clinks of the metal reverberate in my head, the sound amplified tenfold. The way the leather swishes against the denim as He frees the belt from the loops. And does He deliberately pull it so slowly that it audibly ‘pops’ from each loop or is it my mind trying to slow down the moment?

He doesn’t even talk anymore… just points to the bed. I know. I know this routine. It’s been repeated over and over again as He nails me on every fault. I push my pants down to my knees and lay across the bed, arms stretched out straight in front of me. I’m still protesting, but more out of habit than out of any hope that leniency is forthcoming.

Master folds the belt double, and then folds it again. That makes it shorter.. and heavier.. the strikes from the belt fall harder this way, less sting and more deep muscle pain. He comes at me from the same angle, the curl of the leather (the heaviest part) striking at almost the same location each time, and after the weekend I had had, my ass cheek on that side was shot. Doing it that way… I think… making each transgression seem less and less ‘worth it’ as something as simple as ten quick strokes with a belt becomes increasingly more painful is… a mindfuck.

The first stroke falls exactly where I knew it would and I cried out “one Sir”… and I tried, I really do try to stay still… but without bonds it’s impossible for me, I simply don’t have that self-control.. and the dance begins. Up on tiptoes and the blow lands down on the oh-so-tender thighs, buckle the knees and it’s too high…fuck! too HIGH!… twist and turn and it sends rivers of fire across my side… maintain position and the burn ratchets up and up as the same spot takes the brunt of the force.

The count comes out of my mouth by rote, the numbers interrupting the flood of “ow ow owwwwwws!” I say “ten Sir” a little louder than necessary and He swings in another hard one. I count it, as I’m trained to do, “eleven Sir”, but I know it’s unfair and anger blossoms up again. Anger that too harsh a punishment followed what was initially a joke.. that I lost a handle on the situation and that yes.. He’s the fucking hardass no-nonsense stop spoiling me Master that I want Him to be and that it sometimes, literally, bites me in the ass that I got what I wished for.

One thing about Master is that when a punishment is over, it’s over. I, however, sulk and pout and have to work my way back into a good mood again. Throw in some anger and hurt feelings and I could be sulking for a really long time. Master is used to this.. and takes advantage of it really… by insisting that I cuddle when touching Him affectionately is the *last* thing I want to do. Adding insult to injury is His specialty.

It was near bedtime then and in my best ‘i-dont-want-to-talk-to-you-but-i-have-to’ voice I mumbled tonelessly “can I use the bathroom?”. No please. No Sir. It just kills me to say it when I ain’t feeling it.

He paused, looking at me, giving me every opportunity to amend this. I knew what He was waiting for and I wasn’t going to say it. Just wasn’t going to.

“No. You can wait until morning if that’s how you want to be.”

I have no idea why I do this to myself. I can’t even say it’s a matter of pride because I don’t think that’s what it is. I *know* I’m not going to win and I don’t want to win. Winning is really losing in this stage of the game. I don’t want Him to give in to me, I need Him to be strong and strict and yes, unsympathetic. And He is. Boy howdy, is He ever! And I can say to myself, “now look what you got yourself into, you silly twit. Jeez.” If there really were little people on our shoulders, mine would have just biffed me upside the head with an exclaimed “dumbass!”

So the collar is locked around my neck and then locked to the chain that is wrapped and yep, you guessed it, locked to the headboard. I’m already feeling a small pressure in my bladder, not so much because I have to go but because I know I can’t. And I could have recovered at that point yet, I think. I could have asked properly to go. But I’m not giving in yet. I’m actually looking forward to letting Him see me suffer. Maybe.. just maybe.. He’ll feel bad. Serves Him right, dont ya think?

There was a brief struggle over Him making me lay how and where He wants me to. No, I can’t even decide what position to sleep in, at least not until He drifts off and loosens His grip on me. And I think I already mentioned that the very last thing I want to do is be affectionate and cuddly when I’m pissed. Laying there, stiff as a board, grumbling small complaints and slowly, ever so slowly, trying to drift away from Him only gets me shoved off the bed to the floor.

I do hate sleeping on the floor. Who doesn’t? But I would have last night.. and I would have welcomed it too! But, they know what it is that we want to do, don’t they? And they make sure that’s not what we get. At least, when I’m being the pouty sulking bitch, my Master does… :(

Pulled back up from the floor and forced back into His arms… and then… like someone pulling a plug, all the anger and irritation drifts away. Something I’m learning… that cunts don’t get to be like offended little housewives. He isn’t bound by the same laws that govern most marriages. He doesn’t have to be romantic or sympathetic, He doesn’t have to have my best interests at heart. He is allowed to deny me bathroom rights, deny me food, deny me the air that I breathe if the mood strikes Him.

If He wants to beat my ass for a pithy little comment then my job starts and ends at taking it. Hard to keep that in mind at the time, but epiphanies do come late, don’t they? This morning, when His alarm woke Him, I asked properly to use the bathroom. He apologized as He unlocked me. He is sorry that lessons have to be so hard. That I’m stubborn and pig-headed and still struggling with this transition.

It was a long night. It was an uncomfortable night. Another hard lesson learned.

cunt