Can you say humiliate me?

He’s looking for more games and dubbing it “The Kaya Karnival”.

He thinks I’m gonna make prizes.

…

…

…

…

Suddenly, I think I’m getting sick.

*cough* *cough*

Yeah. I’m way too sick to camp.

;-)

I lay still for a while, trying to convince my bladder that it didn’t need to go as badly as it felt like it did. Sometimes that works. My bladder replied by sending me a sharp, shooting cramp. Message received then.

Master was deeply asleep and I rolled over, gently nudging Him with my knee, hoping that would wake Him up because I really hate having to poke Him awake. But all He did was grab my leg and pull it over Him as He often does. He likes to sleep with my leg across His groin area (and typically, I like to sleep that way. Except for when it places unwanted pressure on my bladder by curling me in half!) I settled in to wait. His alarm would be ringing in about a half an hour anyway. Surely I could suffer that long.

When the alarm buzzed, I made a quick move to pull my leg back and He lightly, and for just a second, tightened His grip on it. That means “don’t move” in M/s-ese, in case you were wondering. He tapped the snooze button and mumbled “One more.” One more means 9 more minutes of sleep. Or, in my case, 9 more minutes of my back teeth floating.

Relaxing was out of the question. It wasn’t the type of gotta-pee-urgency that had you thinking you were going to wet the bed at any minute, it was the type that just hurt. Pressure and spearing pain can make 9 minutes seem like 9 hours.

When the alarm buzzed again, I was successful in getting my leg back at least. “Time to get up?” I asked brightly, already shimmying toward the end of the bed as He reached over and smacked at the clock. “I have to pee.”

“No.” He said and wrapped His arms around me, tugging me back against Him, spoon-style. “Not yet. You can wait.” His arm tucked tightly around my midsection and another sharper cramp exploded in my bladder.

“I really have to go.” I whimpered quietly. And I did. I mean I really, REALLY had to go.

“I bet if I stick my dick down your throat and facefuck you for a while, you won’t have to go so bad, will you cunt?” Meaning, of course, that if He DID stick His dick down my throat and facefuck me for awhile, I’d gag uncontrollably and, consequently, piss all over myself in the process, and thusly, not have to get up to use the bathroom. (Oh the wonderous keepsakes of childbirth on a woman’s body, eh?)

“No Sir.” and I settled down for another 9 hour minute wait.

I do not recall if there were just one, or two more snooze-button naps for Him after that. I was lost in concentrating on not (and fantasizing about) pissing the bed. How good it would feel, how my bladder, now sending regular stabs of pain as a reminder of being full to the point of popping, would actually hurt as it emptied, but in that “god that feels good” kinda ouchy way. How warm and wet it would be, flowing over my legs, how vindicitively spitefully justified I would feel in pissing all over Master’s lap as He insisted upon squeezing me so tightly against Him and refusing to let me up to the bathroom, yet, how embarrassingly humiliating that would be and how *angry* He would be and how *awful* the consequences would be…. and telling myself, again and again, that I am 37 years old, for fuckssake, and I haven’t pissed the bed in *at least* 30+ years and no way am I going to NOW. But god damn, I had to GO and when you have to go that badly it is impossible to think of anything but peeing. I think my eyeballs had turned yellow.

Finally, finally, He gave a heavy sigh as the clock nagged Him again and rolled over, releasing His death grip on my abdomen. “Let’s go” He said, prodding me – as if I’d been comfortably resting and was reluctant to get up. I bit back things like “It’s about fucking time” and “I’m just about to explode over here” and “Holy fucking Christ on a cracker Master! My bladder is not an Olympic swimming pool!” and instead said, simply, “May I go to the bathroom please Sir?”

He didn’t answer right away and I had a small moment of panic where I was *sure* He was going to say no. Sure He was going to make me wait through His shower, through making coffee (running water, one of His favorites), through taking the dog out to pee first (because I do not rate above the dog you know!), through breakfast.. and then maybe.. maybe.. He’d let me go.

I think I would have cried.

“Yeah.” He said, and I scurried to the bathroom before He changed His mind. It was as blissfully wonderful as I had been imagining it to be. When I have to go that badly, it doesn’t stream out in a rush, but trickles, slowly and endlessly. Goosebumps rippled down my arms, my eyes crossed and I moaned in absolute pleasure. Heavenly, delectable release. A good orgasm would have paled in comparison.

When I had finished and was leaving the bathroom, still grinning goofily, I ran smack into Master’s form. He gripped my hair and tugged my head back to stare down into my startled eyes.

“Thank you…?” He prompted.

“Thank You Master.” I dutifully recited. Something dark and dangerous danced in His eyes as He looked down at me. More and more often He inches toward controlling, and making as painful and/or humiliating as possible, my bathroom needs. Denying me a toilet, having me use the yard as the dog does, making me lose control of it as He hurts or fucks me beyond the ability to hold it, watching me squirm in agitation with the need to perform such a basic bodily function, smirking at me as I beg permission – I think, had today not been a work day – I’d have not relieved myself in the bathroom at all this morning. I think that I’d be wearing it, both my own and His, right now.

And I’m disappointed that I’m not.

We have GOT to win the lottery. Dammit.

~cunt

I’ll just be over here.. hiding under this rock. Never coming out again.

*blush*

So you see! It can always be worse. Always. I should staple that note to my forehead.

But the horror is somewhat offset by being allowed to use a cut. I don’t know if everything will be behind a cut or if it’s just these particularly raunchy photos and I don’t care. Do not look a gift cut in the mouth. ;-)

So why are these any more vulgar to me than anything else we’ve posted? Well, besides the obvious up-close and personal view(s) of my most private areas, a lot of my reluctance is probably mental in nature. I was freshly fucked and Master was quite enamored with how swollen and pink and wet it all was.. and then the hair (which is getting grossly long now. I could have dreadlocks. Srsly.) so I wasn’t feeling any sort of clean or fresh or attractive… and then he was down there, all up in my “business” with the stupid camera, ‘ooh-ing’ and ‘ahh-ing’ and poking here and there and snapping pictures and telling me how they were gonna be posted and how he could see *everything* and.. and..

and if I keep yakking I can further delay the inevitable click of the ‘publish’ button.

Okay, okay. Just do it already. Bah.

~cunt

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.

A nice little shot of my tampon string to add a little more humiliation to it.

And I wondered why I dreamt of Master Satan. Maybe because I live with Him!