My Bloody Valentine

(how many of us deviant characters titled our valentine posts with THAT title? )

Master took me out for an uber-romantic movie night.

We saw Friday the 13th.

Nothing like a little blood and gore and jumpy-outy moments to kindle romance.

He knows me so well.

*beams*

Hope all of your’s was as “thrilling” as mine was.

For the morning sun in all its glory, Greets the day with hope and comfort too

Mornings are my favorite part of the day.

Once I’m out of bed that is. I hate having to wake up. Master is such a sweety about it though. He almost always wakes up in a good mood and he’ll stroke my face or hair, hug me awake. “Time to get up, snooks.” he’ll say, kissing my cheek.

He calls me snooks when he isn’t calling me cunt. Doesn’t that just make you go “awwww!” (It makes me go all melty inside anyway).

He heads for the bathroom to shower, and I have to grumble a bit just to make sure the Gods are aware of my displeasure at having to leave the warm comfort of the bed. “Brrrr! It’s cold.” or “I’m tiiiiired. Boo.” or “Mornings suck ASS. *grump*”

And then I’m all good.

We get up early. 5:30-ish or so. Sometimes earlier, like yesterday I was up at 5:00 making boatloads of biscuits and gravy for Master to take to work for the guys. The day before that I made cinnamon rolls for the guys. (I feed them so much I’m starting to plan them into my grocery shopping)

I’m really focused on service in that first early morning hour. That’s why I’m up, that’s why I’m here and not getting ready to go to my own job.

Actually, the first service I have to perform is to feed the cats because they won’t get outta my face (or off the counter or off my legs) until I do. So once I’ve serviced the real masters of the house I can then concentrate on serving Master.

It’s very quiet in the mornings. The sun isn’t up yet, there is no traffic or noise or lights way out here. The house is calm, peaceful. It’s lovely really.

I make coffee first, then start his breakfast. Waffles usually (my new waffle iron is awesome, btw), sometimes eggs, sometimes toast and cereal. I set his place at the table and for some reason I really like doing that bit – setting that perfect table setting. Silverware, coffee, food, a glass of water with two vitamin tablets laid next to it. And the remote. He likes to watch the news in the morning.

Then I pack his lunch. Leftovers from last night’s dinner if there are any. Two sandwiches if not. A piece of fruit, a snack cake.

The part of morning service that I love to hate? Having to go out and start his truck. It’s cold, windy, snowy. I’m still in thin pj’s. I throw on a coat, slip on my boots and head out into the dark. Unplug the block heater, scrape the snow and ice off the windows, set the defroster just right, bring in the previous days coffee cup.

That moment in the dark early morning when I step outside is when I feel the most submissive. There are times when I hate having to do it, like when it’s below zero and the wind is whipping – but if he ever stopped expecting me to do it? I’d be so sad. I love that I hate doing it and have to do it anyway. Masochists. We’re such a weirdly wired bunch.

After that is about when he’s finishing up in the shower and calls me in to dry him off. I’m noticing that he’s calling me in there less and less often and I’m struggling a bit with that. I have to keep reminding myself that service isn’t for ME, it’s for HIM and if he, for whatever reason, is doing it himself, I can’t get petulant about it.

I get to get my own cup of coffee then, and take a quick pee if there is time. I’m usually doing the pee-pee dance by then. I sit at the table with him while he eats and watches the news. We’ll talk a little bit about the day and if there is anything he expects me to have done before he comes home, an errand ran or the snow cleared, this is when he lets me know. We discuss the coming night’s planned menu if I have it. If I need permission for something that day, that’s the time to ask. Otherwise I am s.o.l. as he can be hard to get ahold of once he’s out the door.

The very, very best part comes next.

He sits down on the steps to put his boots on. I sit on the step directly behind him and give him a little bit of a massage as he’s putting on his boots. Then he leans back against me, I put my head on his shoulder and we take just a few minutes to connect. We talk about how much we are in love, tell each other that we’ll miss the other that day. I tell him to drive safe and come home in one piece, he tells me to be careful and take care of myself.

We stand up, eye to eye because the only way I can be eye to eye with him is to stand on the steps while he stands on the floor, and he crushes me in a bear hug, plants a solid, almost-painful kiss on my lips, and gives me a couple of nipple tweaks or ass slaps for good measure. I mean, we can’t be TOO sappy, right?

Then he’s gone, and there’s a quiet stillness as he leaves.

Of course, then the kids get up and all hell breaks loose. But I love those early mornings with him. It is the very best part of my day and I am so thankful that he gives me the opportunity to serve him this way instead of sending me off to work and serving him with an income. There isn’t a paycheck in the world that is worth missing out on this.

Happy Birthday, Master. I love you.

~cunt

‘Cause I’d rather feel pain than nothing at all…

I’ve been thinking about sex and pain. Or, more accurately, painful sex. The deeply-felt, internal pain with intercourse, not sex with accompanied pain in other places.

I’ve been checked out by the doctor and, according to him, my female parts are all in fine working order. There is no obvious reason for the pelvic pain that often accompanies sex. So I figure it’s just a damn good thing I’m a masochist, otherwise, I’d be screwed.

Heh. I said screwed.

The other day, Master’d sent me under the desk for His favorite sexual pasttime of under-the-desk fucking. There is a definite disconnect that occurs with under-the-desk fucking. I can’t see Him, I can’t touch Him, I can’t talk to Him and I really can’t hear Him. His voice, on the rare occasion He tries to talk to me down there, is muffled, far off, distant.

Which is all well and good and as it should be and whatever other smarmy phrase fits here. That IS the purpose of the under-the-desk fucking. I am, as Master tells me, a masturbation tool, nothing more, nothing less. He’s happily lost in His own little world, looking at porn, reading porn, watching porn videos. I’m forgotten, silent, a “thing”. It’s the grown-up equivalent of locking himself in the bathroom with mom’s handlotion and the JC Penney catalogue opened to the women’s underwear section.

I am allowed to get myself off if I want to. But my pleasure during an under-the-desk occasion is not His concern. In other circumstances He’s a very generous lover, making sure I’ve orgasmed several times before coming Himself, but under the desk is different. I am the pocket pussy and pocket pussies don’t need consideration. He’d not worry that the pocket pussy was pleasured and so, down there, He doesn’t worry if I am pleased. If I am, it’s all my own doing, with my thoughts and my fingers and the rythmic pumping of His cock in my unmoving cunt.

I’ve gotten quite good at it over the years. I can come, I can have out-of-this-world orgasms that zing through my entire body and make my eyes cross, and not move one half of an inch out of position or make one audible sound. Other than the pulse of my cunt around His cock, a sure-fire indication of my doings, He’d have no clue to my pleasures I don’t think. And I can continue to hold perfectly still and perfectly silent through that awfully intense, highly sensitive, immediate post-orgasmic minute as He carries on pumping in and out of me.

And I can hold perfectly still and remain almost silent as He pounds away at me through deep, internal pelvic pain.

On this occasion, His deep thrusts and the constant pelvic pressure that spiked with each upward thrust was feeling divine. It was feeling good. I kept catching myself thrusting back against Him each time He stabbed in, trying to deepen and harden the upshot, to raise the pain up a notch. He rose to the unspoken challenge and began slamming me, knocking into me so hard that I fell forward, smashing my face into the carpet and getting rugburn on my forehead.

The pain was intense, but just right. And later, after I’d crawled out and sucked Him of my juices, I sat on the floor cradling my abdomen and waiting for the sharp cramp to fade to a dull ache. He sat in a chair and I noticed that He was cradling His groin.

“Ow.” He said. I looked at Him quizzically. Ow was usually my line.

“Ow?” I repeated.

He nodded. “When I fuck you like that, there’s no give. It hurts sometimes.”

I blinked. “It hurts YOU?” I was confused and… appalled. He hurt? For my pleasure? My brain was twitching. He’d never indicated that fucking me so violently caused Him anything but extreme yum. “But…. why?”

Misunderstanding what I was asking an explanation for, He reached out and began jabbing His finger on the unweilding wood of the desk. “It’s like fucking this,” He said, His fingertip bending with each jab. “Whatever my dick is hitting inside of you doesn’t give. Too long and too hard and my dick gets sore.”

“But why do You do it?” I asked again. “If it hurts, I mean.”

He just smiled knowingly, in that secretive, there-are-things-you-don’t-need-to-know way, that is, I think, particular to evil dominants, and patted me on the head. “Oh, you’ll figure it out soon enough.” and off He went, leaving me to hate not being able to stamp my feet and demand that I be told what I want to know when I want to know it. (Which is maddening, really, don’t you think? I think so.)

I’m not going to claim that after a fuck of that sort I walk bowlegged, or that I’m hunched over in pain. Nothing quite that dramatic. I do sit a bit gingerly. I do ache in my pelvic region. I do cringe at the thought of fucking again anytime soon.

And by soon I mean anytime in the next week. But Master tends to have other ideas. No surprise there, really.

It was the next day though. I would say He waited a whole day in order to let me recover, but that would be a lie. The only thing that happens in a days time is swelling, bruising, and increased tenderness. Just the touch of His cock against my pussy lips and I hissed.

And He smiled. He… leered.

“Hurt?” He asked, pressing harder against me.

“Yes, Sir.” I answered between whimpers.

“You’re tight. Swollen.” He said, more to Himself than to me, still pressing, pushing, forging entrance through the bruised tissue. Again I whimpered out a “yes, Sir”. He pinned my legs back and in simple, missionary style sex, with not a toy around, no bondage, no smacking, no effort, He made me cry.

This was not the good pain that I bucked back against, this was deeper, sharper, more intimate. A pain I couldn’t harness and direct. A pain that consumed my mind and my body, a pain that took every ounce of willpower I had to not resist, leaving nothing left to control the whimpers and quiet cries that flowed on each breath, nothing left to control the trembles that racked my limbs, nothing left to mask my face. Genuine, naked, vulnerable pain.

He drank it in, He leaned His ear close to my mouth so as to not miss a single whimper and He hurt me. “This is why,” He said, barely rocking His hips against mine while I shivered beneath Him. “So easy.” He breathed.

When a single, unchecked, gutteral sob escaped from my lips to caress His earlobe, He softly cried out “Oh. God.” and shuddered to an orgasm.

Later, still feeling exposed and vulnerable, I curled up close to Him, seeking reassurance and comfort. He pulled me to Him and let me find my own way back. I always do.

“You’re mean.” I accused, tracing my finger around His nipple.

“Yes.” He said.

“That really hurt.” I pouted, feeling around for any hint of regret or apology on His part.

“Good.”

I grinned against His chest. “Bastard.” I said affectionately. He laughed, the sound echoing through His chest and into my ear. I sighed, contented. Sore and achy – but happy.

It is as it should be.

So glad He’s home.

~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:

What’s love got to do with it?

I’ve been mentioning here and there that I want to do a post about love and I have the time right now to do it, but of course today is one of those days where my thoughts are flitting about like butterflies on crack so no promises on this making a lick of sense.

Sometimes I think love is a death sentence for M/s. It could be the only time where unrequited love is preferred. Because, at least for me, my love for HIM is necessary, something I draw on when it comes to service and submission. I could not find pleasure in half of what I do if I didn’t love him as deeply and fiercely as I do.

But his love for me, when it comes to parts and pieces of Ms/ and sadism – is like a wet blanket.

It’s a trap. A trap that he opens and I fall into, a place where we both end up spinning in circles for a time, not sure what’s holding us down until finally, one of us (me, usually) will sit up and go “Ah-ha! You’re loving me again. Loving me too much.”

What will happen is that I’ll end up with a case of the “wifies”. Girlfriend syndrome, I’ve heard it called. A time when expectations dip into romance and tenderness, when I begin to think I deserve to be treated more as an equal than a subordinate, when I assign more importance to my needs than to his, when I expect to be courted and wooed and romanced into sex and service. When I can sit on the couch, with my feet up, and ask HIM to fetch ME something.

A time when his requests are met with an eyeroll instead of a pleasant nod, when he’s answered with grunts or heavy sighs instead of “Yes Master”, a time when I stomp away, scowling, and thinking to myself, “what about ME, you selfish prick? I’m tired and I’m stressed and my head aches and.. and.. and.. etc. etc.! What makes YOU so special?”

What makes this so hard for him to see is because he loves me as deeply and fiercely as I love him. He doesn’t immediately see it for what it is. Instead, he lets the love, and the natural urge to please the one you love, override what should be the response of a Master. He responds as my husband, with gentleness and concern. He babies me, pets me.

It’s not long before we are both sitting here, scratching our heads, wondering what the hell happened to that mean old Sadist and his docile submissive.

They are buried somewhere under the heavy, wet blanket of loving husband and wife.

I know it’s not just us, either. I read and I see other long-term couples, living together, trying to make it work, slipping and sliding into the same love-trap. Clawing their way out only to slide back in without notice some few months later.

I see more who give up the fight for good. It’s easier to live as husband and wife. That’s what makes it such an easy pit to fall in to. It’s less work, the only consequence being a twinge of remembrance, a flash of want, overshadowed by a reminder of how much damn WORK it is to maintain the whole M/s thing, how you can’t take a day off, you can’t let anything slide, you have to be Johnny-on-the-spot ALL THE TIME and *sigh*…. easier to not have it.

So we fight and we fight, over and over again, to keep on keepin’ on. Less ’Scott and Tess’, more ’Master and cunt’.

But then I ask myself, “self, do you really want it any other way? Oh sure it sounds all sorts of “fun” to have that uncaring person of your fantasies ordering you about with no consideration to your feelings. But, let’s look at this honestly for a moment. Would you really want to have to suck a dick when you have a migraine? Would you truly want to be sent outside to shovel snow in the midst of the stomach flu, or pushed under the desk when you’re so tired you can’t see straight or… OR, for goodness sake, have access to watching American Idol taken away?? Worked and fucked and worked and fucked to the bone, to the very edges of your sanity? Or… is it nice to know that this person who hurts you in ways that you like (and in some ways that you dont), this man who fucks you senseless, who holds you to standards that are high but not unreachable.. this man cares about you, worries over your feelings, never wants to hurt you beyond repair, would do nothing, ever, to cause you emotional pain, consults you on matters of the heart, rubs your cheek as you cry, testing and feeling and proving that he’s not pushed you too hard, too far. Really, would you want that to change, cunt?”

No. For God’s sake, no.

If it is that there has to be a balance for us, a tightrope walk between love and sadism, and if we are prone to falling off now and then, the fact that we always, ALWAYS fall to the side of too much love gives me profound hope for our future. Because it is fact that someday, far into the future (I hope), M/s and s&m will be laid to the side – like a pair of pants we no longer fit into. Age and health will someday force us out of it. And at least I know that what we’ll be left with once stripped of those M/s clothes, is a deeply forged love, a connection proven time and time again to be our natural state.

“He loves me too much.” My chief complaint. But one I make with a smug and satisfied smile.

At least for today. Another day, I’ll be lamenting those early days of callous sadism before love was in the mix. I’ll be begging him to hate me, just a little, just for a little while, because underneath my wifely loving heart lies the soul of a masochist, starving for a plate of mean.

So, there you have it; butterfly thoughts on crack.

“You never find yourself until you face the truth”

What is your nastiest closed eyes midnight fantasy that you go to when the vibe is just perfection and i want details.

I have been avoiding this question for weeks. It’s not as easy as you think. (Because I let nothing be easy, you understand. Ms. Difficult, that’s me. In fact, last night Master elected not to hogtie and face fuck me because I made it too difficult. ~le sigh~ Some days it simply does not pay to get out of bed. )

/self-pity

Okay. Fantasy.

I have one fantasy that I almost always end up in “when the vibe is just perfection”. No matter what simpler fantasy I may have started out with, or what bit of porn I may have been watching, when the going gets good I generally let my mind dip into the same end of the perverted pool.

It is me, naked and dirty, chained by a welded shut chain looped around my neck, to a corner of a kitchen in a run down hovel of a house. When I let things get really detailed, the chain that secures me to that corner is just long enough to reach the parts of the house that are necessary for me to be of any use to my captor. But I rarely worry myself over those non-painful, non-sexual details, except in a very abstract manner.

There is a man. Older, out of shape, unshaven.. and dirty. Smelly, unkempt. There has to be some element of repulsion and disgust. The acts that I must perform cannot be erotic or enticing. It has to be something that, in real life, I would absolutely not want to do, but in the fantasy it is a do-or-die scenario. This man likes, needs, to know that I am disgusted, but that also I do what I’m told without a moments hesitation. Or else.

The fantasy always begins the same way. I’m in the corner, on display. ’On display’ varies according to my mood, I guess. Sometimes I’m standing, hands on my head. Sometimes I’m simply kneeling. Sometimes- most times- I’m kneeling with my head on the floor, hands reached behind me to spread myself skin-tearing wide (Insert various horrific punishments for being caught not ’on display’). The man enters, grimy, sweaty, and sits at the table to the meal that I’ve prepared for him. A meal that I, of course, am not allowed to eat. Once he is sitting he grunts for me (in the fantasy my ’name’ is bitch. It used to be cunt, but more on that in a bit), I crawl from my corner to under the table where I’m set to work cleaning his filthy feet, dirt and all, with my tongue while he eats.

From the kitchen he drags me to the living room by my hair, where he reclines in a chair to watch tv and my tongue bath moves from his feet to his crotch. With copious amounts of derogatory name calling, smacks and slaps to my head and face, hair pulling of the sort that rips out chunks of hair, and rough face fucking, I thoroughly clean his stinky cock and balls. Once cleaned and aroused, one of two things happens.

The “nicer” one: I’m flipped around and ass fucked. Quick, no lube, harsh. Nothing more involved than if my ass were his hand, wrapping around his dick to masturbate, I’m used and discarded, sent back to the corner to await another time of use.

The other, and favorite, one: I’m secured to the floor in front of him, by rope or chain, on display in much the same manner as described above. On my knees, face pressed to the floor, hands secured to my ankles. My ass and cunt is fully exposed and open to be kicked, slapped, scraped with his filthy toenails. Poked, prodded, hurt. The “abuse” ramps up and up the longer I fantasize, until my unprotected cunt is being whipped and beaten to a darkly bruised mass of flesh. I imagine his laughter as I scream and beg, the mocking of my suffering as he works to hurt me, causing me extreme pain that he finds nothing more than humorous.

And of course there will be, at some point near the end, more plundering of the damaged asshole and bleeding cunt, more laughing as I cry.. until, finally, the fantasy drives me into a shuddering orgasm and I tuck it away until the next time.

Now, why did I find this so difficult to write? Well, I’ll tell ya!

The man is a faceless, nameless wretch of a human. At one time, it used to be Master’s face and Master’s name as I worked myself through that fantasy. It’s not anymore. In fact, trying to interject Master into the fantasy in some capacity ruins the fantasy for me.

I struggled with that for a long time. Did it mean that I didn’t love him as I used to? Did it mean I was subconsciously wishing for someone else, a different dom or sadist? Had I lost respect or was it some other equally dooming prophecy? The guilt I felt over not fantasizing about my own Master was intense. I was ashamed, embarrassed, worried. I asked myself how I would feel to know Master was fantasizing about another woman, a different slave. Someone else for him to hurt and torture. How devastated would I be to know that I wasn’t “good enough” to fulfill his fantasies?

It was a bad time, bad thoughts. You know me; always borrowing trouble and making things worse than they really are.

But here’s what I’ve come up with. Master no longer fits the bill of that faceless man because he is not repulsive to me. He does not disgust me, he’s not stinky or filthy. And, he cares about me. About my health, my safety. As much as he may hurt me, it’s never, ever on a permanent or damaging level, because it is not do-or-die, and he fully intends to keep me around long enough to earn my keep. But more importantly, he loves me. And I love him.

All of those things, the love and affection and tenderness that we share, makes that fantasy impossible to have with him in it. There is no tenderness or caring in that fantasy. That “man” has to see me as a totally worthless object, there cannot be any regard for my feelings or safety or future. Once that comes into play, it’s ruined. And that’s why, while Master was that man once, he’s not anymore. And cannot be.

That’s also why the name in the fantasy switched from cunt to bitch. Cunt is Master’s name for me. It no longer signifies anything objectifying or demeaning. Cunt is as normal to me as Tess is.

Also, I’ve found out that Master does have fantasies about other women. Women that he does not care for, women that are objects to him, that he can hurt beyond repair and it matters not to him because he’s not invested in their future or happiness. Women that, he says, he could cut loose on and completely fuck up.

I’m okay with that. Sort of.

Love is a tricky addition to a bdsm relationship, in ways you’d never see coming.