RIP MJ

I know I said I wasn’t amused with the Michael Jackson jokes.

But.

This cracked me up.

The Games They Play

We were standing in front of the huge rolls of carpet at Menards, arguing good-naturally over the size of outdoor carpeting we needed.

“It’s 10′x12′, Master” I insisted.

“Nah.” He said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. “It’s 10′x14′”

I shook my head. “Whatever you say.” And then, mumbling just loudly enough for him to hear, “But it’s 10′x12′.”

He shrugged and turned to leave. “We’ll just have to go home and measure, won’t we, cunt?”

Skipping along side him I smirked. “Wanna bet on it?” Confidentally I held out my hand for him to shake. After all, I’d been staring at the box leaning against the wall since Mother’s Day. I knew damn well we needed a 10′x12′ square of carpet. The End.

He pumped my hand twice. “10′x14′” He declared.

“What do I get if I win?” I gloated, rubbing my hands together in greed.

He grinned. “You get to lick my ass.”

Crinkling my nose, I scuffed my foot on the floor, all of the gloat seeping away. “Gee.” I said sarcastically. “What do I get if I lose?”

His grin widened. “I get to fuck your’s.”

~~*~~

Smug bastard.

Lesson Learned #1: Don’t shake on the bet before you know the terms.

Lesson Learned #2: Stop thinking you can outfox the fox.

Lesson Learned #3: Even when they lose, they win.

~cunt

PS. It was 10′x12′. Mouthwash, anyone?

A Nursery Rhyme

(To the tune of Three Blind Mice)

(mememememe!)

Three waxed sluts.
Three waxed sluts.

See how they squirm
See how they squirm.

They begged to the sadist to “Make it burn!”
She pointed and sneered to “Wait your turn!”
Us silly girls will never learn!

Three. Waxed. Sluts.

Ta Da!

*beams*

So my headless cohorts and I were reluctanly dragged, kicking and screaming under threat of great bodily harm, to our molten lava demise-

Okay okay. Fine. Not really.

In fact, as soon as “wax play” was uttered, at least one of us (No names mentioned. Squeakers!) was naked and on the floor purt near before the first match was lit. Eager beavers, I tell ya.

And speaking of beavers- pulling wax out of pubic hair is just… it just fucking hurts.

We had a most excellent weekend. Naked girls and evil men (and evil women!) milling around my house gives me the warm fuzzies. This is how life is supposed to be. Naked, well-fucked, and grinning from ear to ear.

However.

The next time that we all get together, I’m going to mount a large, blinking neon sign on the wall that reads “A Little Less Talk, A Lot More Action.”

In fact, let me lay out a proposal for group voting:

Next time, everyone who comes in the door puts on a ballgag. Yes, even you Toppy-type folk. Gag yourself (and stop whining. It’s not THAT bad!)

That way, the “talking” will be done with your hands. Or your toys, your teeth, your whips and canes and ropes and…

All in favor, say Aye! raise your hand.

Motion passed (it’s my world and in kaya’s world, I make teh rulez.)

BYOB- Bring Your Own Ballgag goes on the next invite.

Seriously, they talk too much.

And by they, I mean Master.

*snicker*

(Poke The Sadist- the kinky version of Pin the Tail on the Donkey)

Poor Alderon has been wanting to tie up some girls for weeks now.

Next time. *nods*

~cunt

I just threw up in my mouth a little.

On scat play. A quote.

“Shit, like food from a fine restaurant, will be very different in all these ways, depending on what the feeder has been eating. In that respect, she/he can be thought of as a fine chef who is capable making fare that is vile, sweet, spicy, bland, bitter, aromatic, hard, soft,….

Why wouldn’t 2 lovers want to experiment with a lot of different types?

I think it would be terrific if this group compiled a set of “recipes”…”

Well.

I can’t say that I have any poop recipes. Other than, yanno, corn and peanuts.

*gag*

“There is no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one”

The girls had decided they were going to cook me breakfast for Mother’s Day. B-man wasn’t home so he was off the hook on having to help (I told you he was the smart one). They “warned” me of it the night before, telling me that I couldn’t get up until they called me.

I warned them that we don’t sleep until noon.

I was a little reluctant to be handing my kitchen over to the inexperienced hands of my daughters, but I didn’t want to rain on their parade. Besides, they were actually going to do something together. How could I justify interfering when I’d just been bitching about how they hate each other?

Before going to bed on Saturday night, I nervously gave a brief tutorial on how to use the waffle iron. My new waffle iron. My clean and shiny and I-luffs-you waffle iron. Then we checked the batteries in the smoke detector (what? we have faith. We’re just cautious with it. Shush.) and went to bed.

Sunday morning, bright and fucking early (6:30am. Maybe I should have qualified the “we dont sleep til noon” with a “we also don’t get up before the sun on weekends”?), we were awakened by the clatter of pans and banging of cupboard doors.

For quite awhile, Master and I just lay there and listened. I couldn’t hear what the girls were saying to each other, only the low murmur of their voices. Then the shrill rise when they’d start to snap at each other, followed by footsteps stomping away and then stomping back, and then the low murmur again.

We giggled. Me and Master. We are teh evils.

They were cooking for a long LONG time. We were beginning to get the shakes from lack of coffee. One of us was going to have to make a coffee run or we were gonna die. The idea that one of would have to go was cemented when I heard the exhaust fan kick in over the stove and one of the girls give a hacking cough.

“That doesn’t sound good.” I said.

“I should go out there.” He replied.

I nodded and pushed him out of bed. (Well. It was Mother’s Day– not Master’s Day!)

He left and I settled into the pillows in his warm spot with my book. (I miss Harry. *sniffle*) After several more minutes of pan-clanging and the drifting smell of waffles, I cautiously crept to the bedroom door and eased it open a crack.

A crack gives me a tiny slice of the view into the kitchen.

That was enough.

The exhaust fan was blowing on high. The sliding door was flung open and cold air was blowing in (It snowed here on Saturday. S N O W E D. It’s MAY, ffs!). Smoke was billowing through the air. I could see the garbage can overflowing (literally things were falling onto the floor) with the remnants of several burnt and/or undercooked waffle-y shaped things. The girls were hollering back and forth at each other and running around and Master was standing at the end of the hallway, hands on his hips, watching them with a big ol’ shit-eating grin on his face.

Maybe he heard my “Oh my fucking God” whisper or maybe he sensed the dismay in the air because he whipped around, caught sight of my face in the door crack, pointed his finger and sternly said “You. Out.”

So I shut the door and crawled back in bed to see if I could find my happy place.

(No, not THAT happy place. Pervs. It was Mother’s Day, not Masturbation Day!)

I was a’scairt. My kitchen! My waffle iron! And I was hungry! And I needed coffee. Lots of coffee. And somehow, I was going to have to walk through the mess and smile and not look at it and not do anything but be light and happy and eat my breakfast.

It was a little while after that that I was allowed to come out. The table was set, piled high with waffles and pancakes, toast and fried eggs. Bananas, milk, OJ. And coffee.

We ate- with the sliding door open and our eyes burning and watering from the smoke that hung heavily in the air. The food was cold and greasy but the coffee was hot and the girls were so fucking pleased with themselves that nothing else mattered.

They’d even turned on my light rock station that plays love songs all day long, something they can’t stand to listen to.

“Look Mom. We didn’t even kill each other.” Am said, proudly.

“We came close.” Jes added.

“I made the pancakes!” Am said hotly.

“Yeah, when you remembered they were cooking!” Jes retorted.

“So what made the smoke?” I asked, interrupting them before blood was spilled.

“We don’t know. It was just… there… all of a sudden.”

I wish now that I’d have thought to take pictures so I could show you the extreme mess that littered the kitchen counters. It was almost cute how destroyed it was. And my waffle iron! I don’t know if they just dipped the whole thing in batter or what but it was *covered*. There were blobs of batter everywhere, counters, floor, stove, sink, down the cabinet doors. One entire box of pancake mix, one dozen eggs- and some of it even made it to the table!

And their pleased, smiling faces. They were so proud of themselves, it tickled me pink.

I grinned at them and sat back, belly stuffed. The mess, the smoke, the rather chilly breakfast weather– I could not have asked for a better morning. Srsly. It was the bestest Mother’s Day in the history of ever. Lots of hugs and thank yous went on after we ate.

Later, after the girls helped me clean up, Master took me to the store where he made me pick out two outfits. (I hate clothes shopping. For real.) He bought me a skirt and a cute top and a pair of capris and another cute top. Now if it’ll just get warm enough to wear them!

Then he bought me an outdoor patio set, table and six chairs, so we can all sit outside and eat and stuffs.

You know, should it ever get warm enough to actually go outside.

Because it’s the fucking arctic circle up in here! What the hell! Snow. In MAY.

Argh.

AND! Master got two blow jobs. Count ‘em. T W O. On Mother’s Day! I got nuttin’! I guess every day is Master’s Day.

~cunt

I hope all of you mothers out there had a glorious Mother’s Day!

Revenge is a Dish Best Served-

-with some fava beans and a nice chianti.

I don’t know if you all remember (because it was SO effing long ago) that Master swore revenge upon me for swiping burny-type lotion on his ass?

I mean, wasn’t that like, last year or something??

Whenever it was, I forgot about it. Statute of limitations and all that, you know.

So, last night when I raised my head from sucking his cock and saw him sitting there with a fingerful of the same lotion and that Cheshire cat grin on his face, I was a little taken aback! What is this? Belated revenge? Ha!

He instructed me to turn around and spread my cheeks, mumbling something about an eye for an eye, or maybe it was an asshole for an asshole, I can’t be sure. I was busy giggling in my head.

Because, you see… Master is a wimp. And myself? I am not.

*beams*

He swiped and smeared and chuckled and then gruffly pushed my head back down to his cock where I resumed sucking.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

I was waiting, see, for that “this shit burns like fire!” reaction that Master had when I did it to him.

*snicker*

Mayhaps he forgot that I’ve had Icy Hot slathered from stem to stern–and inserted and fucked and used as lube for a butt plug– many many times during my service with him and that this incredibly mild muscle rub lotion with it’s scant amount of menthol was no more “burning like fire” than would a swift kiss fresh after brushing your teeth.

So, after awhile, and after I’d been toying with his cock and idling the time away humming to myself, he lifts his head up to peer down at me and says, rather dejected and disappointed-like, “Nothing? You don’t feel anything?”

I just smiled serenely up at him from around his cock.

He grunted and dropped his head down. “Bitch.” I heard him mutter.

He then flipped me over and fucked me six ways to Sunday and through it all, my asshole remained nice and fresh and tingly. It was just lovely, to be honest. Everyone should have a fresh-feeling asshole. *nods*

Now, it seems to me that he’s had his revenge, pathetic as it was. He blew it, therefore, we’re even and the slate is clean and too bad, so sad, Mister Man.

Least, that’s what I think.

~gloating cunt

How many subs does it take…?

Here’s a little diddy ’bout Jack and Diane– (um, no, that’s not right. Lemme try again. ) Here’s a little something written by AnnabelJ (from Fet Life). It cracked me the hell up so I knew y’all would get a kick out of it. She graciously gave me permission to repost it here. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

HOW MANY SUBS DOES IT TAKE TO SCREW IN A LIGHTBULB?

Answer:

1 to say she’s not allowed to change a light bulb without Master’s permission;

3 to say they’re not even allowed to talk about changing a lightbulb without Master’s permission;

1 to say, “well, that’s why I’m glad I’m a sub and not a slave;”

15 to take offense to that statement as slaves;

56 to become embroiled in a discussion about what defines a slave vs. a sub;

3 peacemakers to point out that the definition of slave and sub is complicated, and different for everyone;

1 to finally overcome their submissive nature, take the initiative, and go to the store to pick one out;

4 to stress out on her return whether or not that particular light bulb casts the most pleasing glow for Master or Dom’s pleasure;

1 to begin to screw it in anyway;

6 to debate if that’s the right way to screw it in, because they do it differently;

1 to say, “well, I do it differently because I am a slave, not just a sub’;

15 to take offense to the ‘just a sub’ phrasing;

78 to become embroiled in a hot debate over who’s better, a sub or a slave;

3 to act as peacemakers and point out that the important thing is to change the light bulb according to their own kinks and beliefs;

1 to once again take the initiative to start screwing in the bulb;

436 to remind the sub that she needs to use lube every time;

5 to argue that it’s more exciting to just do it dry;

436 to say, ‘well then, I hope you are stocking up on Depends’;

1 to tell that urban legend about the person who tried to ‘insert’ a light bulb and ended up in the ER;

1 to comment that she and Master use the Gorean ritual to change lightbulbs while cryptically leaving out what that entails;

4 to say they don’t change lightbulbs because they’re only submissive in the bedroom;

19 to comment that, for them, BDSM is about a lot more than sex;

6 to make cheeky, naughty comments about sex with their Master or Dom anyway;

33 to soothe the sub afterwards, when she worries she did not install the light bulb well enough to please Master or Dom.

1 to compose this list and post it to the Suck it up, Buttercup group on Fet Life.

HOW MANY MASTERS DOES IT TAKE TO SCREW IN A LIGHTBULB?

None…they make their submissives do it.

“May the dragon of life only roast your hot-dogs and never burn your buns!”

Have you ever had one of those impulsive moments where you do something rash to the sadist in your life, all in good fun mind, but hours later when you’ve taken the time to contemplate the various ways he can extract his revenge and there isn’t jack-shit-all you can do about it, you begin to feel the first nigglings of “what the fuck was I THINKING?”

You done that?

I done that.

Hee. While I giggled my ass off about it last night, today I’m looking for hiding places.

So here’s what happened. We’d just gotten into bed, right? Well, HE was in bed and I was still trying to herd the cats out of the bedroom. So before I get to the bed, he flops over onto my side, on his stomach and just lays there.

I did NOT stand there like a retarded deer caught in headlights (ha!) (Funny fetlife thread), though I probably otherwise would have because I like to play the word game sometimes, you know? I like to stand there when he’s clearly expecting something and go “What? What do you want? I can’t read your mind you know! Use your words, people!”- just cuz it frustrates him a little and I am a bitch like that.

However! I didn’t do that this time! Fetlife thread fresh in my mind and all, I thought about it, immediately rejected it, told myself “You aren’t stupid. You know what he wants, so STFU and do it!” and promptly hopped into action. I snatched up the special muscle rub lotion, squirted some on his bare back and he says “Uh. I only wanted you to do my feet, cunt.” and waved his big old clod-hopping feet in my face.

For real! What the fuck, Chuck.

Now you SEE why I do the word game?? I really CANNOT read his mind and when I try, I fail. Can’t win for losing, honest to God.

I scooped all the lotion off of his back and he shakes his head. “Nuh-uh, bitch. You screwed yourself now. I’ll take a back rub, too.”

“Oh yeah?” thought I. And before rational thought could intercede, I snatched up the waistband of his underoos and sticking my handful of lotion in there, I made a quick swipe inbetween his buttcheeks. “Who’s screwed now?” I quipped back at him.

There was nothing at first.

It’s rather slow-acting lotion.

I finished the back rub. I finished the foot rub.

There was time enough for me to think Whew! It didn’t work. Thank God. Wtf were you thinking anyway!

We laid down and picked up our books (we’d fucked earlier. And it were good).

It got quiet.

Then-

He gave a little squirm.

I held my breath.

Scrunching his butt into the mattress, he looked at me, all confused like and says, “Damn. My ass is burning.”

I cracked. the. fuck. UP.

Seriously. I lost it. I pointed. I laughed. I hooted. I hollered “I got you!”

He’s like “What the-? What in the-? Oh fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. You fucking cunt! You wiped that lotion in my ASS??”

That menthol-wintergreen muscle relief burning massage lotion.

*snicker*

I couldn’t even talk. I had tears rolling down my face. I had a serious case of the giggles watching him scrunch his ass around on the bed. But, oh my GOD, the expression on his face.

Fucking priceless, man. I think he wanted to be pissed but he was too damn impressed to get there.

But okay. So finally, I settle down. He keeps throwing me looks that I’m doing my damndest to pretend I can’t see, but I’m calm. He’s calm. We pick up our books.

He’s still scrunching. I’m still having giggle leftovers. Then all of a sudden he whips the blankets off, jumps out of bed and hightails it for the bathroom with his ass all tucked in, mumbling “I gotta wash this shit off, fucking shit burns. My ASS is on FIRE.”

And I lose it all over again. I laughed so hard I started snorting. THAT’S when he got all “Oh you’ll pay. You laugh now, but you’ll pay, cunt.”

He was still laughing, standing there naked with a cold washrag stuffed in his butt crack – which was just fucking hilarious- so how could I take that seriously!?

A naked mad with a washcloth in his ass trying to threaten me?

Bwahahahahaha! *snort* Bwahahahaha!

He gets into bed and he’s all mumbling about “Icy hot” and “clothespins” and “smartass fucking cunt” and looking at me going “har-de-har-har!” all sarcastic-like while I’m wiping the tears that are still streaming down my face.

And all I can do is shake my head and giggle out “So worth it. Totally fucking worth it.” while I try and breathe.

So. Yeah.

That was last night. Last night it was worth it.

Today? I’m not so sure. Today, I’m a little nervous.

Still giggling! Just… nervous giggles.

Paybacks are a bitch. He really likes that phrase.

I am so screwed.

*snicker*

Still fucking funny though.

~cunt

PS. The kids are having a snow day today. It was 70F last Friday, and yesterday morning it was snowing.

*thumbs my nose at mother nature* Fucking whore.

A little bit lighter…

How to tell that the honeymoon is over:

The other day I was walking down the hall and I glanced into the bedroom as I passed. Master was in there, he’d just changed into some pajama pants and he was doing that very manly-maneuver known as “teh ball scratch”.

I leaned against the door frame and watched him for a bit. “Hey now,” I said, snickering and waggling my eyebrows. “That is some kind of sexy. I don’t know if I can control myself when you do that.”

He looked up at me and smirked. “Oh yeah? How about now?” He shoved both of his hands down his pants and started scratching with some real enthusiasm, lewdly wagging his tongue at me. “Now come here, baby. Daddy’s got a little sumpin’ sumpin’ for ya.”

“No!” I shrieked and took off running down the hall. My momma didn’t raise no fools!

He chuckled and chased after me, leering and cat-calling, his hands stretched out in front of him like some weird, sexed-up zombie.

He finally caught me in the living room though I put up a good fight, screaming and squealing like a girl. He grabbed me from behind and smeared his hands all over my face, laughing in my ear.

“Take that!” He yelled, and he shoved his fingers up my nostrils. “How do my balls smell now, bitch? Huh? Whatchoo got to say now?!”

Laughing, I tried to wipe my nose on his arm. “I say you need to take a shower, you nasty ass! You fucking stink!”

He grinned and biffed me in the back of the head. “Some slave you are, talking disrespectful to your master like that. You should be ashamed! How come you don’t share these moments on the blog, huh? Afraid you’ll tarnish your reputation? Don’t want anyone to know you aren’t ‘twoo’?”

I kicked him in the butt. Then I went and q-tipped out my nostrils.

I am so twoo. Twoo slaves always kick ass.

~~*~~

So there. The honeymoon is over and we’re left with ball scratching and nose picking.

Does this mean I can stop plucking out my stray nipple hairs now?

~cunt

Uhh…

I’ve heard of this before but I’d never taken the time to read it.

So I did. And… I’m struggling a little bit.

I… it’s… well. I don’t think I get it.

I’m all, like, what the FUCK is it even about? What’s the moral, the message? I understand that buried somewhere in here is some Master/slave epiphany but….

Where?? What??

Do I need watered?

I can find all kinds of material to snark but deep and meaningful M/s significance?? Was it *made* to be snarked? Cuz.. that I get.

Yeah. It’s not real right? I mean, I know it’s not *real* but I mean, was this really in the book and people really read it and really find something in it?

Well. You tell me then cuz I am as lost as I can possibly be.

~~*~~

HOUSEPLANTS OF GOR

The spider plant cringed as its owner brought forth the watering can. “I am a spider plant!” it cried indignantly. “How dare you water me before my time! Guards!” it called. “Guards!”

Borin, its owner, placed the watering can on the table and looked at it. “You will be watered,” he said.

“You do not dare to water me!” laughed the plant.

“You will be watered,” said Borin.

“Do not water me!” wept the plant.

“You will be watered,” said Borin.

I watched this exchange. Truly, I believed the plant would be watered. It was plant, and on Gor it had no rights. Perhaps on Earth, in its permissive society, which distorts the true roles of all beings, which forces both plant and waterer to go unh appy and constrained, which forbids the fulfillment of owner and houseplant, such might not happen. Perhaps there, it would not be watered. But it was on Gor now, and would undoubtedly feel its true place, that of houseplant. It was plant. It would be watered at will. Such is the way with plants.

Borin picked up the watering can, and muchly watered the plant. The plant cried out. “No, Master! Do not water me!” The master continued to water the plant. “Please, Master,” begged the plant, “do not water me!” The master continued to water the plant. It was plant. It could be watered at will.

The plant sobbed muchly as Borin laid down the watering can. It was not pleased. Too, it was wet. But this did not matter. It was plant.

“You have been well watered,” said Borin.

“Yes,” said the plant, “I have been well watered.” Of course, it could be watered by its master at will.

“I have watered you well,” said Borin.

“Yes, master,” said the plant. “You have watered your plant well. I am plant, and as such I should be watered by my master.”

The cactus plant next to the spider plant shuddered. It attempted to cover its small form with its small arms and small needles. “I am plant,” it said wonderingly. “I am of Earth, but for the first time, I feel myself truly plantlike. On Earth, I w as able to control my watering. I often scorned those who would water me. But they were weak, and did not see my scorn for what it was, the weak attempt of a small plant to protect itself. Not one of the weak Earth waterers would dare to water a plant if it did not wish it. But on Gor,” it shuddered, “on Gor it is different. Here, those who wish to water will water their plants as they wish. But strangely, I feel myself most plantlike when I am at the mercy of a strong Gorean master, who may water m e as he pleases.”

“I will now water you,” said Borin, the cactus’s Gorean master.

The cactus did not resist being watered. Perhaps it was realizing that such watering was its master’s to control. Too, perhaps it knew that this master was far superior to those of Earth, who would not water it if it did not wish to be watered.

The cactus’s watering had been finished. The spider plant looked at it.

“I have been well watered,” it said.

“I, too, have been well watered,” said the cactus.

“My master has watered me well,” said the spider plant.

“My master, too, has watered me well,” said the cactus.

“I am to be placed in a hanging basket on the porch,” said the spider plant.

“I, too, am to be placed in a hnaging basket on the porch,” said the cactus.

“I wish you well,” said the spider plant.

“I, too, wish you well,” said the cactus.

“Tal,” said the spider plant.

“Tal, too,” said the cactus.

I did not think that the spider plant would object to being watered by its master again. For it realized that it was plant, and that here, unlike on Earth, it was likely to be owned and watered by many masters.

~~*~~

Such is the way. *sage nod*

wtf?