I has a happy

Master: You’ve been very pleasing lately, cunt. I’m impressed.
me: ~swoon~

~cunt

Strong Man

“I want a man who is strong enough to take me,” she sighed dreamily. “Confident enough to own me and possess me. Who won’t be guided by society but by His own will!” She turned to look at him. “I want a man who will do exactly what he wants.”

“I’m doing exactly what I want.”

~~*~~

I wrote that over two years ago, when I’d come to accept, finally, that my life as a slave wasn’t ever going to mirror those early fantasies. I’d made the mistake, as so many often do, of taking those snippets that I read and those 2 minute video clips that I’d seen, and believing that to be how it works 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Accepting my limitations as a mother and as a flawed human, accepting his limitations as a man – wasn’t as easy or as obvious as one would expect. But even harder than that was accepting that what he wanted, what he would have from me, wasn’t the stuff porn sites are made of. He does not want an object with no brain, a silent fuckdoll, or robotic obedience all the time. He wants a partner, a wife, a family. He wants interaction and love and affection. The silent, objectified fuckdoll is the dessert. The partnership is the meal. And he isn’t always in the mood for dessert.

Harder, still, was admitting to myself that neither am I.

I tried, for a long time, to convince him that he wanted dessert every day, every meal, double portions. He remained firm though. Sometimes frustrated, sometimes angry, sometimes patient and understanding, but never did he do more than have dessert when he damn well felt like having dessert. There were occasions when dessert was heartily eaten, times when it was nibbled, times when it was no more than a finger-lick. But always, no matter how much I bounced around him with that tempting plate – He was a strong man.

Adding, too, to my own inordinately high ideals on what my slave life should be, was the pressure I felt from blogging. Brought on fully by myself, I might add.

One person hates the pictures, one wants more. One thinks I should post nothing but the bdsm stuff, another says no no no, I want to hear about your kids and your pets. Love the recipes, hate the recipes; it’s all porn, it’s not enough porn; from ‘too extreme to stomach’ to ‘we do that everyday, what’s makes you think you’re so special?’, It’s the everyday stuff that makes you *real*! No, it’s the scenes that make you *real*. You’re not real at all because you do a, b, and c! You’re not real at all because you don’t do a, b, and c!

It was tough accepting that there might be weeks on end where I’d have nothing of interest to post, no scenes to report, no clips to show. Not having that stuff had become, to me, public evidence that we were slipping, not living up to the ideal I’d manufactured in my head based on blogs and comments of what M/s is supposed to be. Weeks of no pain? Months, sometimes, of nothing? It was a strange paradox. I would feel like a failure here, in my small public venue, yet at home, I knew I wasn’t. I knew it was going his way and that he’d do “it” when and if he wanted.

So it was a long, hard lesson. Tough getting to a place where I can just follow his direction, regardless of how far off from my fantasy it is or of how it will be received here. There are times when it does match my fantasies, like having my boobs nailed to boards and spending hours contemplating life in a dark, cramped cupboard. Being that silent fuckdoll, offering my body up for whatever painful, or non-painful, activity he has in mind.

But there are more times when it is as simple as putting in new bootlaces because his are frayed, adjusting a recipe because he likes more garlic, giving a backrub when I’m so tired my eyes won’t even open. Or just being quiet, being a friend, a lover, a wife. Because that’s what he wants.

He got what he wanted, he does what he wants, and I’m happy with that. The trick was in making those shoelaces be as significant as sitting down for the hammer and nails. Because you know what? The feedback from him was the same for both.

It’s not the details of what I do, it’s the spirit in which I do it. What a fucking revelation that is. I’d accepted, but I hadn’t found exhilaration in that acceptance. Now I have.

(I kinda lost wherever I was going with this. Master’s had to work all weekend and that leaves me with far too much time alone to think of dumb stuff.)

I guess I’m just happy. Happy because Master is happy. We’re in a good place right now. I keep being told how I should be ashamed of this or that – the list of supposedly shameful things is endless – but.. jeez.. I’m just not ashamed. Of any of it.

Everybody has standards to live up to, expectations to meet. What your’s are is based entirely on your own experiences, the people in your life. I’m meeting Master’s and that’s all that matters. What’s shameful are those who open up their standards like some public service umbrella and try to force others under it. What is that all about? Is it a God complex? Megalomania?

It does kind of feel like I’ve stepped out from under an umbrella and into the sunlight. Things are clear and crisp and easy.

Of course that could be that I’m still riding the tail end of the endorphin rush from the other night. Though we didn’t do anything edgy or really painful or anything like that, what we did do was fucking hot and the sex was out of this world. So maybe, a few days or weeks from now, I’ll have cycled back into dreary life-sucks territory. But for now I’m leaving Pessy McPessimist Pants behind and enjoying the sun.

I hope you do, too.

~cunt

A good old fashioned, bare bottom over the knee spanking!

Things I love:

Master

Master’s hands

Master’s lap

The humiliation of inspection

Getting spanked

Suckin’ and fuckin’

My new boots!

Post-orgasmic lounging.

The IRS (for giving us a refund and putting Master in a VERY good mood indeed!)

Now the pictorial version of the things I love: