How to Pluck a Chicken

First, one has to find a chicken.

That would be me. ~waves~ Chicken-shit right here.

So yesterday I got a comment. Lovely comment it was, short and sweet, came with a link to a video. Now I love me some shared s&m ideas, so I read the short and sweet message of “would master like to consider this solution to the hair issue?” and hollered out to Master to come watch it with me.

He did.

Now. Here’s the thing.

Me? Reluctant masochist. I have a hate/hate relationship with pain. You see there at the end how that amazingly brave and wonderful guy has that spontaneous orgasm as a direct result of intense pain? Yeah. That does not happen for me. I don’t orgasm from pain. Well, okay maybe I do when it’s that perfect nipple pain, but I sure as fuck ain’t gonna from hair plucking!

Anyway, back to the hate/hate thing — I hate that I have to be hurt. Srsly. I don’t LIKE pain at all. It hurts. A lot. I go into it dragging my heels and cursing the Genetic Gods that created me in this manner. I got brown hair, short legs, small tits, and a need for pain. Thank You God, you sadistic bastard.

For me, this is the major difference between a “pain slut” and a “masochist”. Y’all may define it differently or even see no difference between the two words at all, but seeing that I live in kaya’s world where I create my own bdsm-language, they are two different words with two different meanings. A pain slut (not me) LIKES pain, craves it, gets off on it, it makes them randy. A masochist (me) NEEDS it for whatever fucked up reason, and it feeds some portion of them in a manner that is not (entirely) sexual. It’s like taking bad tasting medicine. It has to be done for the after-effects. The during-effects suck fat dick.

So when Master discusses with me the mechanics of duct tape hair removal, I am not jittering with masochistic glee. My pussy is not wet. I am not eagerly anticipating the day. What I AM is cotton-mouthed, dry-heaving scared. My stomach churns and I think I might vomit, I envision running away and make panicked plans on where I can go and who I can stay with. I even hate Him a little. Maybe a lot, but who’s keeping track?

And that’s why, as we sat watching the video so generously shared with us by subsquare99, I watched with my mouth hanging open, my legs firmly crossed and tears in my eyes and Master watched with a grin on His face and a twinkle in His eye while getting a chubby. Because He is an eager sadist and I am a reluctant masochist.

/armchair psychology.

The hair continues to grow. I’m no longer just Sas-crotch, but the full Sasquatch. The armpit hair no longer leaves neat-o trails in my stick deodorant, but now lays flat, greased down by my stick deodorant. It is brushable.

Master looks at my leg hair and each time He does, He grabs some to pull. Apparently there is a magic pull-length that I have not reached yet. He also makes faces, cringes and ewws. *sigh* Humiliation games are fun.

Now, fer real people. There is NOTHING even remotely sexy about those legs on a woman. Nothing. I’m trying to come to terms with what His reasons are for making me feel unattractive. Or, more accurately, for turning me into something that HE does not find attractive. I know there are other people who dabble in this sort of thing and if you read Slut On Display, you’ll know about the complicated relationship her Owner has with her tits that He does/does not like.

It really is complicated and hard to grasp. On one hand, I can try and brush it off as being something He’s doing as a means to an end. He *wants* to cause me pain through hair removal and the only way to do that is to let it grow, a process that is just as unpleasant for Him as it is for me. However, while that may or may not explain the cunt hair, it does not apply to the leg/armpit hair. I don’t think duct tape hair removal is in the plans for the legs and pits. Or, it may be in the plans but merely because it happens to be there when He has duct tape in His hands, that wasn’t the purpose or plan when He took my razor privileges away. There is more to it and I can’t figure it out.

Or maybe there isn’t. Maybe it’s purely a whim and I’m giving Him too much credit. *snicker*

Either way, that video up there? If that happens, you’ll hear me screaming wherever you are.

Okay, that other picture isn’t of MY legs. But that’s where they’re headed!! Good God.

These are mine. It’s worse than it looks, trust me.

I am not taking pictures of my disgusting armpits. But I do have a hairy cunt picture. Oh lucky you!

Meh. Nasty.

Anyway. Enough about hair. And thank you for the video link, subsquare99. We were both impressed. You are amazing.

I was tagged by more than one person and I figure that trumps Master’s meme preferences. Hey, majority rules, man. Master’s been out-voted. *beams*

The Rules-
* Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.
* Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog – some random, some weird.
* Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blog.
* Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. I’m the youngest of nine kids. I’m also the most normal and well-adjusted of the bunch. Take from that what you will.

2. My mother spent a large part of her childhood traveling with a carnival and working a booth as a carny. One of the things she did was palm-reading. Before I got married the first time at age 19, she (jokingly) read my palm and told me I would be married 3 times and have 3 kids.

3. Master is my 3rd husband and I have 3 kids. (My first marriage ended in divorce after 3 kids in 4 years. I was widowed the second time.)

4. I have had both electric shock therapy and “truth serum” therapy. And I am STILL the most normal one in my family. We put the “funk” in dysfunctional.

5. At one time I was a suspected anorexic and weighed less than a hundred pounds. Now I’m a confirmed overeater and need to lose about 40lbs. Irony? No? I can never grasp the concept of irony.

6. When I was a kid (around age 6 or 7) I used to pick all of the marshmallows out of the box of Lucky Charms, put them in a bowl, cover it with chocolate sauce, and force myself to eat it to the point of vomiting — and then some. The game I was playing with myself was of dominance and force, though I didn’t know it at the time. I carried on a sick and twisted dialogue in my head of “do it or else” though I don’t know that I ever defined the “or else” part then. I ‘graduated’ over the years of my adolesence from Lucky Charms and chocolate sauce to eating cigarette butts and licking ashtrays to sucking on the bottoms of shoes and scrubbing toilets with my tongue. Strangely (luckily?) I never picked up germs or got sick. I figure I’ve been a pervert since birth, with a strong tilt toward taste/forced gross stuff. It’s not something I engage in very often or to the point of recklessness that I did as a kid. I’m far too aware of germs these days and it’s ruining that kink. (and I still maintain I’m the normal one!)

7. When I get angry I play minesweeper. I’m currently on a 96 game losing streak of minesweeper. I’m not sure it’s helping the anger.

It’s taken me hours to think of these facts. I am incredibly not interesting. That’s rather depressing.

I think almost everyone I read has done this meme. If not, consider yourself tagged by me! Dweaver? you should do it in my comment section unless you have a blog somewhere that I don’t know about? You are definitely tagged though. I’m popping your meme cherry.

~cunt

So last night I…

… was NOT sucking Master’s cock! Can you believe it? Too tired for a blow job is seriously tired indeed. Poor guy.

He got a back rub though so I didn’t feel entirely useless.

I had a light bulb moment last night concerning Master’s (stupid ridiculous) body hair thing. First, I thought that He must have turned gay and is trying to make me as man-like as possible, but He assured me that wasn’t the case. I’m glad too, because I really don’t look right wearing a strap-on. So what I’m thinking now is that He’s going to make me hate it so much that I’ll BEG Him to rip it all off with duct tape.

This came to me when I decided I was going to sit Him down for a come-to-Jesus-meetin’. I was just right on the verge of saying “I hate this body hair so much that I’ll beg you to pluck it all out one by one” when it came to me. Uh-huh. That’s what He’s waiting for. He’s waiting for me to WANT it. Sneaky fucker. It’s a win-win for Him and a no-win for me. I can be hairy and be grossed out and humiliated and hate it (cuz He totally has plans to display me at public play parties) or I can beg to have it removed in the most painful way possible (which is the only way it’s coming off apparently!) and hate that too. Either way, He’s set up for full enjoyment.

Were I not always the one on the receiving end of the cunning way His mind works, I’d be impressed. As it is, I’m .. well fuck. I’m still impressed. It’s just buried under a whole lot of “you sneaky motherfucker!” type feelings.

Enough about that.

So yesterday I was at the store getting some groceries and as I walked past the greeting card display I caught sight of an anniversary card. I aww-ed and thought, gee, Master and I have an anniversary coming up. I should do a little sumpin sumpin for Him. I walked on and then thought, oh hey! Our anniversary was 3 days ago. Well damn.

We both forgot about it. We’re so not into “special” days. Every day is special with Him! Awww!

Anyway, I did buy Him a present, a dvd and some beer (ah! romance!) and then I thought that He’d just feel awful not having a gift for me so I bought Him one to give me. I’m ever-so-thoughtful like that.

When He got home from work and I lavished Him with the dvd and beer, He asked what He got me. He got me a waffle iron! w00t! My inner domestic diva is pleased.

Master has waffles every morning for breakfast. Frozen toaster waffles. That will just never do! I can do better than frozen toaster crud! So. Bright and early this morning (5-freakin-a.m.) I was in the kitchen whipping up waffle batter.

It’s a little trickier than I had anticipated. Master was sitting at the table at 6a.m., literally tapping His fork on the tabletop and reminding me that He had to leave soon. I was wringing my hands as the waffle iron spit batter at me through the edges and saying “I know I know! They’re just not perfect yet!”

The first set had too much batter and after it puked half it all over the counter top, the waffles were burnt in the middle and doughy on the edges. The second batch had not-enough batter and it was more holes than waffle. The third set I tried to put cinnamon on and accidentally dumped WAY WAY too much on.

The fourth set looked all right. He ate them. He declared them to be “okay”. He pointed out that His frozen toaster waffles have cinnamon baked in them.

*sigh*

I think the homemade waffles became much more about me than about Him. Ego-centered service? Something like that. Or so says Fetlife.

The kids rocked on their chocolate chip waffles though.

I think I just need better recipes (I just used the bisquick box recipe. I’m certainly open to suggestions?) and more practice. I shall not be beaten out by Eggo and a toaster.

~cunt

Did you know…

That armpit hair is soft. It has the velvety feel of a man’s freshly trimmed crewcut.

It also leaves tiny little drag marks on the top of solid deodorant sticks. Today I gave my stick a plaid pattern. It amused me.

Leg hair, on the other hand, is like the rough side of velcro. It works like velcro too, in that material snags against the pokey little hairs and, while it doesn’t *hurt* exactly, it’s just… fucking weird. I feel like I am constantly plucking my clothing off my legs.

What DOES hurt (or is uncomfortable anyway) is laying one leg on top of the other. That causes the prickly little bastards to attempt to penetrate the skin of the other leg. If He wanted me to sleep with my legs spread all night, all He had to do was say so. There was no need to have me grow needles to force the issue.

You know how your mom always used to warn you to always put on clean underwear because “what if you get into an accident!”? Well I’ve been obsessing over just that very thing. Let’s face it here. Shaving wasn’t only about personal comfort. I shaved, in part, for precisely the reason I wore clean underwear. What if I DO get into an accident and some poor trauma-team has to snip my clothes off and is confronted with my Chewbacca-ness??

If that happens, I may never forgive Him for the humiliation. For real.

It’s been a matter of arguing myself into obedience the last couple of days as I stand in the shower with the razor mocking me. I want to shave really really really badly. It’s stopped being kinky and started being irritating. I don’t feel pretty or sexy or attractive. One simply is NOT sexy in silk lingerie with bushy armpits and a dead furry animal trapped between their legs. No amount of make-up or hair primping keeps lace from snagging upon your spikey legs.

I wonder if He knows that at one point in my life (at one point in every bar-slut’s life) not shaving was additional birth control. I would purposely not shave my legs before heading to a bar because I knew I would NEVER take some guy home if I had prickly legs. If I shaved, it was open season. Unshaved? Closed til further notice.

Well. I dunno. He’s just… a butt. A big mean butt.

And that’s all I got to say about that.

~cunt

Let’s talk about sex, baby…

Do you really want to hear any more stories of being fucked into oblivion? I mean, rly, it does get redundant.

Though I was. Fucked into oblivion that is. Under the desk, with my ass cocked up and my hand stuffed against my clit and Him behind me pounding the ever-loving shit right outta me. And it hurt – omg – my innards (and outards) are sore so I had to pull up the mental cheerleading section, urging myself on, reminding myself to keep that ass cocked! keep those knees wide! keep that back bowed! Keep that head down! Keep still! You can do it waterboy you filthy slut! This is what you were made for cunt! This is your purpose! Smile and LIKE it!

I did. I liked it a lot. A lot a lot.

Speaking of sex, several months ago I got a comment here (anonymously dontchaknow) that said something to the effect of Master and I not having sex for months on end. Now, I gotta ask – just whose journal was she reading?? Cuz it sure as fuck wadn’t this one! Master and I haven’t gone more than a week without fucking, unless He’s outta town, let alone months. Goodness. I can’t imagine the bear Master would be if He hadn’t gotten laid for a month. Yikes.

I don’t blog about each time though. If I did, every entry would start with – So last night we fucked or Yesterday when we were fucking or Today as He fucked me – nah. We fuck plenty, tyvm.

Instead of fucking, what else can I babble about? Let’s see…

I took a long and lazy break from doing any of the remodelling work downstairs. Actually I was hoping to convince Master that putting up panelling was the way to go because I srsly hate mudding and sanding and painting drywall with a PASSION. I think I had Him convinced too, right up until He added up the cost of buying panelling. A couple of hundred dollars compared to having me do it with supplies we already have for free? Yeah. He done told me to get off my lazy keister and get-r-done. Blah. So that’s on today’s list of things to do.

Oh oh oh! I can’t believe I almost forgot this. About that Sasquatch b.s. Listen to this sheeeeet!

So the other day, we were fucking (I know I know, I said no fuck-talk, but it’s pertinent I tell ya!) and He’s haggling me about my sprouting bush. Trying to give the shit right back to Him I warn Him, mid-fuck, to not rub all up on my legs because I hadn’t shaved them yet that day. Of course He immediately starts rubbing my prickly legs, and He jokingly says “I oughta not let you shave anything and see just how Sasquatchy you can really get.”

Now. He CLAIMS that right when He finished saying that my cunt spasmed around His cock. I say no-effing-way, I prolly had a queef or something. So now guess what the newest mindfucking b.s. rule is? Oh yeah. Sick bastard.

I’m doing fairly okay with not shaving my legs. It’s only been 4 days, and even though I generally shave every day, it’s not too bad yet. Prickly and itchy, but not uncomfortable.

But the armpits? Nah. This is fucked up. I am ridiculously obsessive about shaving my pits to extreme smoothness. I don’t even like armpit hair on men.

It wasn’t that long ago in the comment section that I confidentally stated that should Master deny me shaving my pits or legs I would simply accept it as I easily accepted not shaving my cootie hairs. But I only said that because I was confident He’d never go there.

He went there.

I have no clue what He’s after but I hope like hell this is a quickly passing interest for Him. I ask Him whaddup and He just shrugs and smiles.

Maybe if I whin- well that never works. Hmmph. Why on earth is He turning me into all the things that He dislikes when He watches porn on the net???! Gah!

Oh gawd. Do you think He’s thinking He’s going to duct tape those too? Oh owie.

Maybe He’s just trying to save money on the heat bill?

I have figured out why a man is in and out of the shower in 5 minutes though. There isn’t a damn thing to do in there after washing!

Anyway – enought about that. Thinking about it reminds me that my pits itch. Hmmph.

I was gonna babble on about the new Master-approved menu plan but I suppose I should get my ass busy on that drywall. Y’all behave!

~cunt

Look Ma! No skin!

A couple of weeks ago, during a conversation with Master, I was trying to trick, manipulate, get Him to tell me what His plans were for the pubic hair. I just hate not knowing the why’s of it all, yanno? It niggles at me, but He wouldn’t tell me anydamnthing. (of course now that I’m aware of the duct tape plans, I’d just as soon NOT know, tyvm.)

But since He wasn’t talking then, I got petulant, as I’m wont to do when I don’t get my way and I huffed out a “Hmmph. You can’t humiliate me with it anyway! I’m beyond pubic hair humiliation. So there!”

He laughed at me. He said “Oh reeeEEEEAAAaaaally?” He shook His head. He said “you just never learn, do ya cunt?” He patted me on the rump. He said “we’ll see.”

*dramatic sigh*

Why oh why can’t I ever just shut the fuck up.

To continue with the humiliation that I challenged Him to do, I have more pictures of the latest Sasquatch sighting. (That’s what Master calls me now. Sasquatch. Idn’t He funny. *deadpan*)

I told you it was starting to grow down my thighs. I’d have preferred to have left that to your imagination, though. :-/

So His task for me today was to hang 20 clothespins from my pubic hair. No skin. Just from the hair.

I tried to get a close up so He could see what an evil bastard He is that I had no skin, just hair.

In all honesty, just standing there with the clothespins on wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be. Clothespins don’t weigh very much so there was minimal hair-pulling going on.

What was bad was the stupid 30-second dance I had to do for Him. Think 30 seconds is short? WRONG! It’s endless when you’re clattering bright sparkly blue clothespins fixed up with non-slip shelf paper from strands of your pubic hair. Endless I say.

Well ok. So trying to show “dancing” in still shots is next to impossible. Doesn’t matter. Trust me when I say it was fucking humiliating. And it’s recorded. Joy! A humiliation that will never end.

And in case you’re wondering, they didn’t fall off. They weren’t going anywhere. In fact, when I took them off, the non-slip liner was so stuck to the hair that it plucked strands out with them. That was pleasant. Not.

I respectfully withdraw my claim of being “beyond pubic hair humiliation”.

~sasquatch

Playing by the Rules

I remember back before I had any real-life bdsm experiences, when I had just discovered it on the internet, before I even knew that people actually lived it – when I was a wee grasshopper – I was filled with the “shoulds” of it all.

What a Master *should* do and what a Master *should* say and how a Master *should* act. The things that a naive clueless submissive dreams of I suppose.

I wrote a contract once. Silly thing it was. Full of detailed responses that a Master *should* have in response to very detailed trangressions that a submissive would probably make. I remember showing it to someone once, and they laughed at it.

It hurt my feelers. It didn’t even occur to me that by detailing what the Master should do, I wasn’t letting Him be in charge. I was writing a script, mine and his, without realizing it. I was merely detailing my fantasies. Oh I suppose in a fictional Beauty-series moment, the contract was great. It certainly provided me with hours of masturbation material anyway.

I don’t have that contract anymore; it was written several years (and several computer hard drives) ago. If tasked with re-producing it today, I probably could not recapture the gullibility and innocence I had then. I think I would feel so incredibly stupid, now that I know reality from fantasy, that I could not do it with any amount of sincerity. And that shows through in writing, don’t you think?

Even after I had been well-educated on how Master was going to do things His way regardless of my silly preconceived notions, it took even longer to stop feeling a little bit embarrassed when I’d get bogged down in comparing Him to other Doms who were doing those things that I had once thought to be required. And even longer than that to stop feeling ashamed when another submissive would ask, shocked and disapproving, “He lets you do that?!?”

Shame and embarrassment morphed into a subdued sort of longing for awhile. At some point, the longing turned into reluctant acceptance and from there, a healthy respect began to grow. It’s rather awe-inspiring to think back on what I was when I came into this relatonship compared to what I am now, and how He got me here. How He’s trained me and changed me and re-created me. We both came into this with a very clear idea of what we wanted from the other, what behaviors and actions would fit our desires, and without any help from me, in fact, in the face of sometimes very active resistance from me, He was still able to “win”. I did not change Him a fraction, yet He’s totally re-wired me. When one talks of evidence of dominance, I’d say it lies, not in the welts on one’s backside, but inside of the one being dominated. I am the evidence, not the marks I carry.

I suppose you’d not believe me if I told you I started this entry with the intention of talking about shaving, huh? I was going to discuss how far off His rules and whims are from what I thought they “should be” when I first became His. That, and the recent comment discussion around the “He lets you talk like that??” had me thinking about the shoulds of it all.

He hasn’t let me shave in about 2 months. It’s getting pretty gnarly, starting to grow down my thighs. I joked that at this rate by the time the snow flies I won’t have to wear pants. I don’t know if He’ll let me shave again ever, nor do I care really. I’m no longer disgusted over pubic hair, it doesn’t make me feel dirty or gross. He’s mentioned a time or two that He’ll make me post pictures and I just shrug. If He does or doesn’t, I don’t mind either way. You’ve all seen my cootch in all manners of hairy stages, from bald to furry, so it’s no biggie.

I DID think though, that someone would comment that He should make me shave.

Well anyway, this entry kinda went nowhere fast so I’m abandoning it.

~cunt

What’s the big hairy deal? Well, I’ll tell you.

I haven’t mentioned that about two weeks ago, Master took me to the beauty salon and had them cut eight inches of my hair off. EIGHT inches.

That’s a lot of hair.

At the last minute, like as I was sitting in the chair, he upped it to 10 inches and I near about had a panic attack meltdown in front of the beautician. But, fortunately for me, his purpose in upping it to 10 was to be able to donate it to Locks of Love, but my 10 inches of hair would have been in layers and not a straight 10. So whew… it couldn’t be done and the cut stayed at eight inches.

My hair now sits just an inch or so below my shoulders. Still not a super-short cut, but for me it is, and it’s the shortest Master has ever seen it.

I’m not sure what he has going on here with chopping off the head hair and letting the cunt hair sprout willy nilly.

I’m reluctant to present a haircut as a profound thing, or to make it into something more than it is… but, if I’m going to be honest, a haircutting decision made by someone other than yourself really is profound. It’s easier, in my experience, to let it grow based on his decision to wear it long, than it is to sit in that chair with him dictating to the lady with the scissors how to cut it.

Not that I wasn’t in agreement with getting it cut! Because, truly, it was a pain. I swear that every move made by myself or Master involved getting my hair caught, trapped, pulled. He was as frustrated with my yelping as I was frustrated with the pain.

But the inconvenience of having that long hair was offset by his clear attraction to, and enjoyment of my hair. I would never have chosen to cut it if it meant lessening his pleasure. That HE chose to do it has sent me into a teeny tiny tailspin.

I don’t think he likes it, at all. So I sit in front of the mirror and I feel this overwhelming guilt. It wasn’t my decision, nor my choice, true, but… neither did I object beyond a cursory “Are you sure you want to do this?” while sitting in the waiting area of the salon. I feel like I should have argued more, or protested more because I KNEW how much he loved my long hair. But all I was thinking at the time was how wonderful it would be for me to not have to deal with the hassle of it.

I don’t feel pretty, and I see it in his face when he looks at me and his eyes travel over my head. He’s said to me about a hundred times since “you don’t like it do you?” and I don’t.. I really don’t. I don’t like it because HE doesn’t like it.

So, it’ll grow back of course. But that’s a long time to feel unattractive and guilty.

I keep thinking that his initial offer to take me to get it cut was made because he wanted to hear me say that putting up with the difficulties of long hair was worth it for him. And I didn’t say that. I eagerly hopped into the car and focused on how nice it was going to be to not have my hair layed on or stepped on or caught in the car door or stuck in the zipper of my coat… and never once did I think of the look on his face.

Fail.

State of the Pubes Address.

I’m at just about a month now I guess. Hasn’t been so much as a sharp fingernail near these puppies! It’s almost long enough to pull, and God help me, I think that’s what Master is waiting for.

So what do you think?

Bald or Bearded?
Hot or Not?
Bride of Chewbacca?

MY opinion ranks somewhere between “jack” and “shit” is that, while I don’t like the looks of it so very much, I am still loving not having to shave. I didn’t realize how much I hated razor burn until I stopped having it. No itchy bumps, no irritation, no red rash, no nothing.

And heck, my showers are so short now, I must be saving a bundle on my car insurance by switching to Geico! hot water costs! No razors, no shaving cream… I don’t need to work! I just needed to stop shaving!

~cunt

Like we didn’t see *this* coming a mile away!

I knew as soon as I mentioned not shaving on the journal, a picture would be the next order. I am so on to him!

Compared to some of the hairy bushes I’ve seen while browsing Master’s porn collection, I think my pubes are pretty sparse. Some of those women have hair that you could braid. Is that real, you think? Like, honestly home-grown bush? I keep thinking they must glue a wig on there for the photo. Cuz, like, dayum. You’d lose the bird AND your hand in those bushes.

~cunt