Forever Is A Long Time.

Forever: continually; incessantly; always.

This is one of those times where I am not in love with being a slave; when the normally secure-feeling of restrictions feels suffocating, binding, irritating.

I want to stretch my wings. I want to talk freely without fear of repercussions. I want to do what I want to do without having to submit it in writing, in triplicate, have the equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition to explain, wait for the domly stamp of approval (or denial)-

I just want to say “Hey. I’m going here and I’m doing this and I’ll be back later. Buh-bye.” and have that be enough. A peck on the cheek, a happy farewell of “Have fun, baby” or “I’ll see ya later.” and walk on out the door.

I want to come home from said outing without being nervous, without having to hand in receipts to be poured over, questioned on what’s-this and what’s-that and why’d-you-get-that. Without having to justify every purchase, every stop, every move.

I want to sit on the couch instead of cleaning if a good book has my attention. I want to feel like a contributor rather than a burden. I want to have an equal sense of ownership over possessions and have the ability to extend that to others.

I want to be able to offer criticisms that aren’t responded to in kind. I want every mistake to not ruin an entire day. I want repercussions, if there must be some, to be reasonable, sensible and pertinent to the mistake- and to not include people who had nothing to do with it.

I want to have the freedom to have my own thoughts, opinions and goals. I want the freedom to disagree- and to be heard.

I want the freedom to be wrong.

I want to shake myself free of the tools of manipulation and control that hang over my head, over my life; the things that shove me down and hold me there, trapped and squashed, every time I try and rise up. I want out from under the heavy blanket that is HIM.

I want to breathe.

The land of rainbows and unicorns seems far, far away. I feel like a permanent resident of some barren, Stephen King-esque wasteland of tumbeweeds and hot wind and hungry crows waiting to peck your eyes out should you fall.

His methods of enforcing his rights, of getting his way, of asserting his ownership can be tasteless. This is one of those times where the grass is greener on the other side and I’m pressed up against the fence of his control, having to swallow the bitter facts of my fate.

Of my life.

I am not always in love with being owned.

But I am always owned.

Now where’d that fucking unicorn go?

~cunt

Reminders

I’ve got two different topics here, both inspired by Chloe, cuz she rocks with the inspiration.

First, she wrote this bit on Culture Shock, which you should go read.

A short synopsis for those of you who won’t listen and go read it, you obstinate boobs: A woman she knows came from Iran, born and raised to be a submissive wife and how her submissive ways do NOT rely on her husband being dominant. She just IS. It’s a state of BEING. Not an active exchange of D/s. She is submissive regardless.

Here’s where I leave Chloe’s thoughts and start my own. Because Chloe’s post was just the spark, Fetlife (of course!) added fuel to the fire.

What happens on Fet is this: Some poor person makes a comment, something to the effect of “Master did so-n-so to remind me of my place.” Or “I need my collar to remind me of my place.” Or “We use ritual and protocal to remind me of my place.”

See the common thread there? Someone actually states that they need reminded of their place sometimes.

And all holy hell breaks loose on Fetlife. The holier-than-thou Submissives move in for the kill. Like a pack of Queen Bees, they snark and shame that poor girl into silence.

THEY do not need reminded of their place.

THEY do not understand how someone can forget their place.

THEY chose, and committed to being a slave, and therefore, the angels have smiled upon them and they shit perfect rainbows of submission.

THEY do not need reminded that they are mothers, or women, or wives, so how does one ever need to be reminded that they are slaves??

They shake their heads, tsk, roll their eyes, scoff.. just, yanno, generally be big bitches.

Women are SO GOOD at being bitches. So very good. I do think that may be why I decided not to be a lesbian after all. *nods* (And that I really really like cock, but that has nothing to do with this convo.)

So, in Chloe’s post, she was talking about how it’s the cultural norm for women in Iran to be submissive to their husbands, and how cool it is to witness that sort of marital D/s without the labels and the angst and the internet forum discussions. Watching D/s in its most organic form, I admit, would be pretty damn cool.

She also said she is working on (or has achieved?) that sort of organic submission herself. Where her submissiveness is not dependent on his dominance, how it just becomes the natural state of being and ceases relying on HIM to keep her in place. She stays there because… well, because. Because it just IS.

Now, don’t get me wrong here. I think Chloe is on to something profound and neat and it is definitely a goal to strive for.

But.

Cuz there is always a but.

D/s is not the cultural norm in our society (which Chloe readily acknowledges), therefore, to me, it seems completely reasonable that women *today* who *choose* to submit, who haven’t been born and bred to do so, DO require a consistent and constant “force” from the other side to help them maintain that place.

At the very least, needing that active dominance is not, should not be, a shameful admission.

Just as one could say that if you are going to be a submissive then just be a submissive without requiring certain acts from your dominant, then shouldn’t it also be that if one is going to be a dominant, then just be dominant regardless of your submissive’s behaviors?

I’m really trying to imagine Master ordering me around if I *weren’t* submissive and how well that would NOT work.

I understand the point of just being submissive, of not relying so heavily upon the active dances, of finding the peace that reigns when it just is what it is.

Because, that’s really nice. And, I think I’m there actually. There’s not a system in place where my submission depends *entirely* upon his actions. Somehow, because he’s really really good at what he does, he’s taken my original kink, that need to be forced into submission, and turned it around so that doing it while being ignored, has become even kinkier than being forced (beaten into it).

I’m being forced by non-force. How fucked up is THAT?

However, there IS a give and take. There has to be because I am not an altruistic servant. I do require acts of dominance, they DO remind me of my place, I DO begin to falter without them, I AM fueled by his actions, and I DO need things from him.

Fortunately, dominance is also HIS state of being. It’s not work for him to be consistent and constant with his requirements. It just IS.

Therefore, I can just BE, as well.

Without some instances and acts of dominance and submission, we’re not M/s. We’re just… an old married couple, cruising along with the cultural norm. And that is so NOT what I want in this lifetime.

Which brings me to my next topic, which isn’t one of the original two that I mentioned earlier. In fact, I probably won’t get to the original second topic.

Anyway.

About that force fetish. I still have it.

It’s really strong too. It’s… deep-seated. It itches. It niggles at my brain, my soul! It’s- okay okay. It’s not quite THAT melodramatic, but close!

See, what I wanted when I first began fantasizing about BDSM was to be forced to do *everything*. To have my every move, my every activity of daily living be determined by a force other than myself. That doesn’t mean somene standing over me telling me what to eat weilding a whip- well, yes, actually it did. That is what I fantasized about, in my more extreme moments.

Mostly, the fantasy centered around having dire consequences for not obeying.

And by dire, I mean, banning me from American Idol or something.

No, not really. I’d hate that actually.

Remember when I talked about that Stephen King book about the abused wife? Rose Madder? That’s what I fantasized about. Getting to a place where to NOT obey ceased being an option.

And so, yanno, Master really doesn’t roll that way. Because, he’s not an abuser. And because he doesn’t think submission should require that much work.

He’s right.

So, after many months of figuring that out for myself and learning to submit out of more… pure… desires, I was still left with the very real, and very much unfulfilled, force fetish.

The other day, when I said I was playing up the martyr angle? I meant that! I am playing it up. Because that’s about the only way I can scratch that itch. It’s the only way we’ve found where he gets the easy submission he wants and I get the forcing I want.

There are SO MANY things about bdsm that I hate. That I really really loathe. And I am SO TIRED of having to pretend to enjoy them. It’s like, if I don’t pretend to enjoy it, then someone thinks badly of Master, and that really kills me, yanno? He’s such a good guy.

For instance, I don’t like pain. I just like having to endure it because there is no choice NOT to. I don’t crave the pain, I crave the humiliation of being beaten like a dog, of being tied down and hurt, of being forced to accept what I hate.

I think it works that way for a lot of people. At least, a lot of who I talk to say the same thing. It’s not the specific acts that pull you in, it’s the overall allure of being forced to do that which one hates.

So, I’m just not going to worry anymore about trying to save face. Even Master’s. He’s a big boy, he can handle the scrutiny (like how I tossed him under the bus? tee hee)

I’m not going to say “Oh yes I love it” whenever the question is asked, because I don’t love it. I hate it. I just love that he makes me do it anyway.

Sometimes I think even HE wants me to say that I love it when I don’t.

Sometimes I wish he’d get a touch more “abusive” with me. I wish he were more.. comfortable.. being thought of as an abuser. But that’s.. wow.. that’s really not fair to him.

God. The pressure people put you under to ease their own minds.

*wistful sigh*

This post is pretty weird, huh? Probably I should have chosen easier topics to get my groove back before going all crazy with letting my thoughts poor out.

Ah well. It is what it is, as Master would say.

Actually, this COULD be a prime example of me NEEDING one of those overt acts of dominance to remind me of my place. I told you I start to falter without them!

~cunt

Logic and Reason

There is logic and reason to the bedtime.

As I said yesterday, bedtime is not a new thing. It’s been standard operating procedure since we’ve been together. When he goes to bed, I go to bed. And it has a purpose even.

Bedtime, the time when HE goes to bed, is when he is most likely to require service. From foot rubs to back massages to sucking dick to fucking to being the go-n-gimme-cunt. (As in “Go and gimme a glass of water, cunt” or “Go and gimme something to eat, cunt.”)

So it’s not purposeless, not “for my health”, not “because he can” (entirely anyway). It’s because 99% of the time, he has a use for me.

And 99% of the time, I don’t even hesitate, or think anything of it. I just follow him to the bedroom.

He’s also not mean or unreasonable about it. Sometimes he’s really tired and wants to crawl into bed at Early o’clock, at which point I still follow him to the bedroom and wait around long enough for him to decide if he wants or needs anything and then he’ll dismiss me back to my other duties.

Other times, if he’s feeling generous and there’s a tv show on that I like to watch that runs late, he’ll tell me I can stay up and finish watching it. Other times, he tells me to DVR it and get my ass to bed.

It’s never been a problem before. Ever. Like.. ever.

Sometimes I’ll drag my feet a little bit and whine that I’m not tired but he simply tells me to shut up and read a book then.

It’s seriously just not been anything that’s gotten under my skin to the point that it did the other day. It’s never been anything that’s made me feel like an incompetent child.

I am going to chalk it up to a combination of hormones, stress and the fact that there hasn’t been hands on control and I just reacted to the order. Intellectual whiplash sounds good. *nods*

So last night, he goes to the bedroom and I follow him and he turns around and nonchalantly says “You don’t have to go to bed if you don’t want to.”

And I damn near start to cry. I know what he’s doing. Reverse psychology is the oldest trick in the book!

Because it works.

Of course I want him to want me in bed with him. I want him to need me, to use me.

How does it feel to think I’m NOT needed for service?

Sucks, dude. Sucks rotten eggs.

So I sucked his dick extra special good to make up for being a stoopid brat.

I’m no less… confuzzled on the whole child vs. slave conundrum. But maybe it’s just going to be that if I’m in a relationship that involves rules and punishment and not just service or expectations, then at times I’m going to feel like a child.

Because it does mimic parenting. But that does not make me a child. I’m gonna have to rectify this in my head.

It’s weird though, to be out in the living room being the parent and enforcing rules to the kids and then stepping into that other world where I have to check the authority figure at the door because *my* authority figure is sitting on the bed, tapping his foot, ready to lay down HIS rules on my ass.

Anyway. Enough about that for now.

This week is *crazy* for appointments. Yesterday, Master had an eye doctor appt. Today, Am has a doctors appt. this morning and The Boy has a dentist appt. this afternoon. I have a doctors appt. tomorrow, Jes had a doctor’s appt. on Friday and I *think* Am has an orthodontist appt. sometime this week, too. I should go look that up before I miss it.

So. Yeah. Thank the powers that be for decent health insurance. Jeebus.

Am’s teeth are really looking good. None of us have perfectly straight teeth but Am’s were truly bad. She had one of those smiles where it was the first thing you noticed and the first thing you thought was “Wow. She should get those fixed.” So, even though it’s been uber-expensive (and ask me sometime about the incompetent dentist in Wis. who bilked us out of a thousand dollars. Grr!) I don’t regret a penny of it. (Except for that grand! Grrs!)

I fully expect that she’ll get them taken off soon. Her top teeth are nice and straight and there’s just the tiniest little gap left to close from where they had to pull a tooth on the bottom. So worth it for her self-esteem. I wish I’d have gotten braces when I was kid. It’s not anything I’d ever do now, as an adult, and my smile is always something I’m self-conscious about because of a crooked tooth. So, yeah, I’m glad for her. She needed it so bad.

~~*~~

No baby yet, obviously. I keep telling Jes to do jumping jacks or something so we can get the show on the road, but she’s not listening. *shrug*

And, don’t tell anyone I told you this, but Master is getting excited/giddy. I knew he would. He is so going to fall hard for this kid.

~~*~~

I am so not amused by the Michael Jackson jokes.

Unfortunately, Master and the kids are hella amused so I’m subjected to them several times a day.

I loved him. He was my first (and only!) celebrity crush.

I wonder if my Thriller album will be worth anything now? It’s the original album, bought when it was first released, when I was but a wee teenager and it’s in mint condition!

Offers?

Kidding. Y’all ain’t getting it. I spent too much time kissing that middle fold out pic.

~~*~~

I’m off to get chores done before the running starts.

I wonder, since we’re going with the whole parent/child thing, if I can put in for getting an allowance for doing chores.

Comfort Zone

Moms will get this:

You know when your sweet little one is nagging at you? Like, they’re standing there tugging at your sleeve or tapping your arm and going “Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom. Mom. Mom? Mom. MOM!”

And you don’t hear them? Or feel them.

It’s like we become immune to interference when we’re trying to do something. It’s a survival skill! A finely honed talent. An admirable ability.

But. If I could offer a little tidbit of advice from the kaya files?

Don’t do that to The Boss Man.

Not a good idea.

I was engrossed in *cough*Fetlife*cough* and didn’t hear him or feel the glass that he was tapping on my elbow.

A biff upside the head though? That’s an attention-getter, let me tell ya!

Master was home sick the last two days so now the house is a mess.

What? That doesn’t make sense? Sure it does!

I don’t clean when he’s home. I can’t.

I follow him around like a needy puppy. I’ll wander away from him for a minute or two but eventually I just kind of.. drift back to him. If he would only walk with me as I clean, I’d not have this mess!

Completely his fault.

The first day that he stayed home, I’d made prior plans to go help a friend (The Squirter) with some stuff. He would have let me go, but… it just doesn’t feel right. I should be here to fetch kleenex and stuff, right?

Maybe I’m too clingy. I…. hover.

He says it’s just the way he wants it though. It’s one thing for him to say “cunt, you’re staying right here by my side.” and have me obey.

It’s another thing entirely to have me to the point where there is nowhere else I can comfortably be. Nowhere else that feels right. When we’re in separate rooms there’s a nagging sense of something missing. I get nervous, edgy. That same feeling you get when you leave for vacation and you can’t remember if you shut the iron off.

That feeling goes away the second he’s back in sight, within touch.

I don’t feel that way when he goes to work and I’m at home. I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

That feeling is multiplied by a million if I leave the house without him. Getting groceries when he elects to stay home is a nightmare. My stomach churns, my hands tremble, I can’t think. Without a list, I’d stand in the aisles like a dumbass. I’ve done it before.

The longer it takes me to get the errands run, the worse I get. I’m practically pissing my pants in angst by the time I get in the door.

Some of it is fear, too. I know that. He can be strict, you know? He’s been known to get on my case if I’ve been gone longer than he thinks it should have taken, or gone somewhere that wasn’t where he thought I should go.

So, yeah. Right by his side is my comfort zone.

Now if only I could keep my attention in the same place my body is at, eh? There’d be a lot less head biffing going on.

~cunt

P.S. I have to send a huge Thank You! to luna for the new layout. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? Now I just need a new header. I wanna lose the quote and just have Under His Hand, and lose my ugly mug. I told Master we’ll have to mess around with taking some pictures.

Anyway, thank you so much Luna!

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I’ve been getting my rocks off to Master’s quiet control lately. We’ve exchanged those big scenes where he hammered nails through my flesh for more subtle dominance.

And I LIKE it.

It’s not really anything new, maybe it’s just that I notice and focus on it more because none of the other stuff is distracting me from it. Or maybe I’m desperate.

I mean, I’ve turned the fact that he picked out my new eyeglass frames, a set that I wouldn’t have chosen myself, into new masturbatory material.

LOL. Desperate. *nods*

Here’s something completely weird. As you all know, there’s been a wonderful lack of vulgar-kaya photos here at Under His Hand lately. (You may send Thank You cards to the email address listed to the left …hehe) That’s not because he’s suddenly decided that I don’t have to post them anymore, it’s because we just aren’t playing like we used to.

Not because we’re done with it or anything, but because of a lack of time, energy, privacy, blah blah blah.

So, as is typical of The Way of Things™… the less you do, the less you want. As we’ve been doing way less, I really hardly think about it. I certainly don’t pine away for it and, to be honest, if he were to throw all the toys away right this very minute, I’d help him bag them up.

Well, except for the glass dildos. I really like those.

And my bullet vibe.

Maybe keep one set of clamps cuz sometimes I still clamp my own nipples when I masturbate and that’s really dang frustrating to not have the super-owie clamps when you’re in the mood for super-owie and all you can find is a stupid set of clothespins that you can’t even FEEL, ffs!

So there. Clovers, Bullet and Glass. That’s all I need.

And the whip.

But that’s all.

Well, okay, maybe I’d ask him to keep the toys but that’s not even pertinent to where I’m trying to go with this entry. So nevermind all of that.

My point is– we don’t post pictures of that nature hardly ever anymore and I don’t miss that. Like, at all.

I kept waiting and waiting for my stats to fall when we kind of moved away from the more in-your-face posts but they never did. So now, sometimes we’ll be doing something and I’ll think “man, this would make a great shot for the blog!” and then I’ll just dismiss it completely. So the weird thing is that you all still read and now I’m worried that if I do have to start posting pictures of my nasty hairy cunt (and it is. Oh-Em-Gee! is it ever), then you’ll all run screaming into the night never to return.

It’s like I’ve come full circle. I used to be all, if I don’t post pictures they won’t read! and now I’m all, if I post pictures, they won’t read! Hee.

I think if he ever does get back into taking pictures and posting them, I’ll probably be back at square one with the “but I don’t wannaaaaa!” Lucy Ricardo-wail.

I’m really good at that, btw. The wail. My grandma and I spent many many hours watching Lucy. You know what’s funny about it? There was a pretty darn strong D/s theme that ran through them shows and even way back then, it made me squirmy in my seat. Lucy even got turned over Ricky’s knee a time or two. I knew I was going to marry Ricky and then I was going to throw flour around the kitchen and stomp my feet until he spanked me back into obedience.

*nods*

I had a life plan.

Anyway.

Speaking of life plans. Here’s a doozy. Maybe y’all can help us figure this one out.

Master’s got a job promotion on the table right now.

Not here. Same company- different town.

The town we just moved from.

Oy.

So here’s the pros and cons list that I’ve got so far:

Pros:

1. It’s mostly a desk job which is safer and easier for him. Gets him out of the elements.

2. Pay raise.

3. Going to the store for groceries is not a major event, requiring that we pack emergency camping gear in the trunk.

4. The kids REALLY miss living there. They are doing fine here and have made a decent circle of friends- but given the choice to “go home”? They’d jump at it. They’d cry tears of happiness.

5. Closer to family, both mine and his.

6. Closer to friends that I really miss. (waves to Carrie! w00t!)

7. HUGE, huge advancement opportunities for him within the company.

8. The economy scares me bunches in this area.

9. Because we wouldn’t see each other all the time, we’ll play and fuck more when we do. That’s how it works! That’s how it’s always worked.

10. In a few years, we’d be sitting pretty. Fer realz.

Cons:

1. We really like this house. Omg. I kiss the walls I love it so much.

2. We really like this yard.

3. We LOVE the people we’ve met up here. We’ve made some terrific friends who are kinky and sexy and everything.

4. If he doesn’t take the offer, nothing changes with his current position. He’s not in danger of a layoff or a paycut or anything.

5. He likes his current position and the people he works with.

6. He’d lose his company vehicle.

7. Moving. Ugh.

8. The economy is bad everywhere.

9. We’d be living seperate during the week again, he’d come home on weekends (or I’d go there). It’s temporary- if 4 years can be considered temporary.

10. In a few years, we’ll have the isolation we’ve wanted.

I could probably add more but… pffft. I just go in circles anyway. Ultimately it’s his decision to make and I’ll support it, but even he’s on the fence.

He doesn’t want to move but he knows there are opportunities…

I, of course, want both. I want to pick up this house and our sexy kinky friends and move them back to Wisconsin with us.

What? It could happen. Dream big!

~cunt

Is it real or is it memorex?

There was an interesting thread on Fetlife (where else!?) that I was following before I went out of town. And since I had a total of 16 hours of driving time packed into 4 days, I had lots of time to think about it.

Here’s the question: Slavery? For real or playing?

Pretty much everyone was falling all over themselves to reassure themselves anyone reading that they were REAL. No playing for them, nuh uh, no way Jose, they are teh serious slabes!

And so, yanno, I disagreed.

Sort of. I did and I didn’t.

Here’s what I said on the thead.

It’s an illusion that only works because the two people involved believe in it enough to make it their own personal “reality”.

Nobody is really a slave, bound and held in the same manners that real-life slaves are. Nobody is owned. Nobody is property.

It’s mindgames and headfucks and brainwashing- and it works because we make it work. Because we’re dedicated to making it work and because we put equal effort into making it “real” for us. I am a slave, he is my owner and that’s how we live. That’s our reality, our day to day life and it’s how we choose to live.

But it isn’t real. None of y’all are. Stand in a police station one time and tell an officer that you’re an owned slave and your owner won’t let you leave. Face it, the only people believing in your “reality”, is the pair of you.

Well that went over like a fart in church.

One person said that in her definition of ‘real’, if it influenced how she behaved everday, then it was real.

Interestingly enough, that same person in that same comment slammed Goreans by referring to their chosen lifestyle as “gorean games”. I was amused. Even after I pointed it out she failed to see the irony. Hee.

I mean, what better case is there for people who are influenced to behave a certain way by something other than Gorean folk? And why are they playing games but she is A Real Boy Slave?

But to answer this question, “what better case is there for people who are influenced to behave a certain way by something other than Gorean folk?” even better-

I immediately thought of the bible. Religion.

Does just believing in it make it real, though? What does define ‘real’ and ‘reality’?

It’s real to them, I assume. And I’m certainly not up for barging into church and challenging their reality.

Except for when they lose sight of.. well.. of reality.

For instance, the woman whose daughter died of diabetes last year. According to her religious beliefs, prayer was going to save her child.

She is now in prison. Convicted of reckless homicide, possible 25 years.

So is it the law that defines what is real? Society? Society makes the laws, the laws dictate reality?

Later in that thread I said:

There are things that are real. I am human. I am a female. I am a mother.

I choose to live as a slave and conduct my life as closely as possibly to those ideals and practicies. But no amount of wanting it to be so is going to make me become owned property.

None of that is to say that I wake up every morning and prepare to play the game of M/s. I don’t see it that way at all, and I don’t think thats what you or anyone else does. It is a way of life and there is little thought behind it anymore. It just IS. Slavery, Mastery, ownership. It’s just there. It exists within us.

But one can’t pretend that the law and society support my lifestyle. Or yours. That is the reality.

It was argued then that society and the law aren’t what decides what can or cannot be real. That I give them too much credit.

Blacks, women, homosexuality. Examples of where society, and the law, have been wrong. Failed.

Same sex couples aren’t recognized by the law- are they not real then? An illusion?

So I’m confused. Perplexed.

What defines reality? It HAS to be something more than what one believes. There has to be something more definitive than that.

Wordnet.web defines reality in two opposing ways. It says:

reality: all of your experiences that determine how things appear to you.

And then it says:

reality: the state of the world as it really is rather than as you might want it to be.

That website didn’t help a bit.

6 or 7 months ago I decided I was going to leave this relationship. I remember still how shockingly easy it was to pull my head out of the clouds and know that I could leave. That for all the words, the scars, the brainwashing, all I had to do was open the door and-

Go.

Just. go.

He could not stop me. I was a free thinking independent adult with all of the rights and privileges offered as such.

I am not owned property outside of Master’s and my tiny little world.

I am not a slave outside of our world.

I am not a cunt – (Hush out there in the peanut gallery!)

It is not real.

Except I couldn’t go. I didn’t go. I wanted to go and I was set to go and I was ready to go and I couldn’t go.

I am still, all these months later, unsure of what is reality and what isn’t.

I know what I know.

Yet I live what I live.

Maybe I don’t know what I think I know.

Bah.

Maybe I just need beat and fucked.

*nods*

Wife vs. Slave- The Cage Match

For once, this isn’t my internal battle. Not that I don’t ever find myself confusing the roles, that’s just not my post for today.

There’s an interesting debate going on over at Fet. about marriage proposals. The original question was about the idea of a slave being ordered to marry their Master rather than being asked and given the option of refusing.

The replies were a mixed bag as they usually are, though it seemed to lean more heavily toward the Master having to ask and the slave having the option of saying no.

And that seriously, seriously confuses me.

It just highlights the extreme differences in how people view M/s. Which doesn’t surprise me, except… Yeah. It does. Every time I’m confronted with how differently M/s is viewed, I’m surprised all over again. I can’t help it. I’m naive or stupid or whatever.

To me, it just seems very backwards to be M/s and then see a marriage proposal as optional.

I guess I see the commitment to being his slave as an already binding and permanent role so the very concept of having the option of refusing marriage- or refusing anything for that matter- is.. weird.

As I said over there: I take my commitment as his slave far more serously than marriage. I’ve been married before- it didn’t work. I have not been anyone else’s slave. That only works with him, so, for me, that’s a much deeper commitment.

Dissolve the marriage and we’d still be Master and slave. Dissolve the M/s- and we’d not be together. It’s not the marriage that binds us.

It’s almost like first birthing a kid and then later asking him if you can be his parent. You’re already the parent, there is no choosing after the fact.

Likewise, he already owned me. On what basis could I have possibly refused a marriage proposal??

I don’t know. Another case of me coming from Mars or something. Very very odd.

So what do you think?

Would you find an order to get married to be hot or not? (It’s hot in my book. A-fucking-men. Take my ass! Own it! Rawr!)

Do you see M/s as more of a partnership or, hmm, something less “extreme” as a marriage? Because that was the impression I was getting through reading the thread; that while accepting him/her as your Master was one thing, marriage was something else entirely and should not be entered into “lightly”– whereas I come from the complete opposite direction, that M/s should not be entered into “lightly”.

Of course, it was all ruined for me anyway as soon as the words “true” and “gift” entered into the convo. Gah. Stoopid romanticizing of M/s anyway. Leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Pa-tooey!

~cunt

Blurred Lines

It’s been a couple of blucky days.

The other day, Master told me I was getting a bit too critical toward him. I’m treating him like a husband, and expecting from him the behaviors and mannerisms of a husband.

Husband and wife is a title, a formality for practical purposes. It makes certain legal/financial matters easier.

But it makes other things harder.

I’ve let husband and wife and all it encompasses replace Master and slave.

I’ve got a lot to think about.

I might take a couple of days, if he grants me permission that is, and try and find my focus. Back off of things that are distracting me.

Y’all behave (better than I am anyway).

~cunt

Down With The Sickness

I think I’m just dropping. And it sucks.

My mind is blank, I couldn’t make a coherent post if you paid me for it.

I’ve slept more in the last two days than I have in the last week I think. 12 hours today, 10 or so yesterday.

I’m still tired. Unsettled. Antsy- but sleepy.

Last night, Master ordered pizza. Cooking was too complicated.

I finally put the sheets in the wash today, they were bloody. Sad Disgusting as it sounds, I took a strange sort of comfort sleeping on bedsheets that were spotted and smeared with blood that snuck away from me at night, blood from cuts and pokes, wounds, that he’d inflicted on me throughout the days.

Now, it’ll be gone, washed away- it’s too final.

I’m crying because I had to wash bedsheets.

Good Lord.

Fucking subdrop.

Bear with me. It’s been a long time since I’ve dropped this hard. I’ll come around.

~cunt

Stupid Is As Stupid Does.

Yesterday, I went to the store and I got to buy this silly little rubbermaid bowl and lid storage thing that goes in your cabinet. It cost all of $10.

I was excited. Like, hand-clapping giggles kind of excited.

Master laughed at(with?) me, remarking on how giddy I was over it.

But, for real, this is how simple my pleasures are these days. I become giddy over a ten dollar rubbermaid storage container.

There are some days when things like that bother me. It’s not just that I have simple pleasures or that my life is simple, but that I’m starting to FEEL simple. I think simple, I live simple. I brain simple.

I tell myself that I can’t be bothered with trying to participate in the more intelligent, theoretic discussions that occur here and there on the net, even those that revolve around bdsm. Truth is, I probably couldn’t participate, even if I tried.

My simpleness isn’t evidenced only by my non-participation of in-depth conversations, it’s highly evidenced in my day to day activities. For instance, I am currently reading my way through the Harry Potter books (for the first time), reading one book and then watching the movie. And enjoying it. Lots.

At the store yesterday Master also bought me a child’s suncatcher kit. You know, the clear plastic ones that come with the row of miniature paints? And I picked it out. Butterflies and Flowers.

Look what I made last week, also from a child’s kit:

(Am said my fence posts looked like penises (penii?). I think she’s right.)

Anyway, as I said, some days it really bothers me. I often don’t feel “good enough” for other people and am only comfortable with him. (The point, perhaps?)

Other days, I have to wonder what good it would do to be a brainiac, what use Master would have for that when my main purpose is dick sucking and come swallowing (of which, I am a distinguished road scholar!). He wants me to know gardening and how to run a house as cheaply as possible. He wants me to raise egg-laying hens.

I guess when he wants intellectually stimulating conversation, he goes elsewhere. When he wants an ass to fuck, he comes to me.

I’ve stumbled over this before. I had an inkling some years ago that he was “dumbing me down”. And I don’t think it’s because he doesn’t value intellect or that he has a particular problem with intelligent, self-confident women. In fact, I know he doesn’t. He’s just not that way.

He just doesn’t want that from me. He never tells me I’m stupid, ever. He always tells me I’m smart– but I sense that he’s directing the area of my “smarts”, de-valuing (perhaps) the areas that are of no benefit to him.

I do have a very specific purpose to him. He’s making those purposes be my only priority. More brainwashing?

The things you didn’t know you were signing up for, you know?

I’ll sit down and paint my suncatches and enjoy the fuck out of it. Then, sometime today, I’ll give him a blow job or cock my ass in the air and he’ll enjoy the fuck out of that.

I dunno. It all sounds like it should be very very fucked up.

Probably it is– and I’m too stupid to care.

~cunt