“In the pain there is healing”

“Emotionally shattered on the inside instead of being physically battered on the outside.”

That’s a quote from DL’s toy’s blog post. The subject is emotional sadism, something that intrigues me, and her, but not something there seems to be a lot of talk about.

People are much more willing to share stories of physical sadism, even approving the fact that a sadist will often push a masochist beyond her “good pain” point, through to tears and snot and quivering panic over pain. That all seems part and parcel to the sadist/masochist dance.

Even if the girl claims to not be a pain-seeking masochist, there’s an atmosphere of “well, that’s what you signed up for!” that surrounds it. Unless SHE herself claimed that she was being beaten against her will and said that she felt abused, most of us fellow bdsm’ers butt out.

Not so much when you start diving into the emotional side of it. Even mild emotional sadism gets the stink eye. Start referring to your submissive as “Fat Ass”, “Worthless Bitch”, “Stupid Fuck” – and watch how quickly the protests fly. To me, name calling is mild, even such personal attacks as those.

Though even with name calling, there does seem to be an acceptance to it if the person on the receiving end of it clearly enjoys it. There is one girl I know whose ‘name’, given to her by her Dom, is Worthless Pig. I know a lot of people might cringe at such a mean cognomen, but for her, it’s a term of endearment. Her obvious affection for the nickname soothes the bristled fur of those who hear it.

But I want to go past the names to harsher instances of emotional sadism. I want to ask about those who don’t like it, and, for whatever reason… do it anyway.

For the purposes of clearer discussion (should there be any and I hope there is!), let’s leave out the notion of leaving the relationship. Use any reason that makes sense to you for why leaving is not an option, because what I’m really trying to get to is *how* to deal with the emotions and aftermath without having “Run away!” be one of those suggestions. What we are seeking is the thought process and the intensity of the emotions that follow such events from those who engage in it, as well as the thoughts from those who fantasize about it or wonder about it.

Scenario 1: The girl sees her Dom fairly infrequently. He’s legitimately busy, as the infrequent visits are not part of the emotional sadism. For her, the visits have become cherished, special events. She anticipates each visit with a child-like glee.

He knows how much she values this precious time and, because he’s a sadist, sometimes uses it to hurt her. Perhaps he comes for the visit and rather than interact with her, he locks her in a cage or in another room for the entirety of his time there, barely laying eyes on her, let alone speaking to her. Maybe he keeps her where she can see him, maybe he puts her away where she can only hear him. Whatever, the point is to to not give her that which she’s come to treasure- His attention.

It is not a punishment, it is not meant for any purpose other than for his amusement. To see the longing in her eyes, to know how much she’s suffering in the other room, alone and lonely, while he blithely watches the television.

Scenario 2: He shows up with another girl in tow when they, as a couple, have never discussed seeing other people. What they HAVE discussed is that he can do whatever he wants, the specifics of which hadn’t been clarified. He ties his sub to a chair next to the bed, and proceeds to play with and fuck the other girl in front of her. It is the sight of his sub sitting there, heart shattering, silent tears of hurt dripping down her cheeks that fuels him on as he uses the other woman.

Scenario 3: He tells his sub to find him another for a night. He specifies what she is to look like, taking all of his sub’s imagined or real body flaws and requesting that the new girl look better. As in, “Your tits are too small so make sure she has nice big ones. I want her to have a smaller ass than your fat one. And be sure she can suck dick better than you.”

To twist the knife even further, he places her in the next room and forces her to listen to his moans and grunts of pleasure as he fucks his “perfect” girl, while she, the “imperfect” one, is completely left out.

Scenario 4: Same circumstance as number 3, only the sub is forced to stand and watch as he points out the other girl’s more appealing attributes. “See? This is what boobs are supposed to look like.” or “Why can’t you deepthroat like she does?” Then he forces you to engage in belittling yourself by agreeing with, or repeating the same sentiments. “Yes, Master, my tits are hideous and her’s are beautiful.” etc. etc.

Scenario 5: [Insert your own personal hell here]

I’m curious to what any of you think is the purpose of such emotional sadism. Is there one at all, beyond that it might make his dick hard?

One thought I had, and that was echoed by toy on her blog, was that she’d lose some sense of self. While toy mentioned that as a less than desirable outcome (if I understood that correctly. Correct me if not, toy, please), it occured to me that losing some of her sense of self IS the point. One of them anyway.

I mean, it seems to me that to get a submissive to the point where they can handle such obviously soul shattering episodes, being able to suspend, if not shut off, your sense of self would seem of paramount importance. Perhaps then, the trick is in just how much to destroy and how dangerous would that be?

One of the comments over there, by Doll, said: “The problem with emotional sadism is that it could insidiously alter self belief until all confience is gone. It blurs the boundaries between being a submissive or becoming a doormat that just takes the shit off the boots of the sadist.”

And while I agree with that, somewhat, one has to wonder if being that kind of “doormat submissive” isn’t the goal of it all.

I realize that doormat is tossed around as an insult and submissive’s tend to fall all over themselves denying that they could ever be that dominated.. but me?

Honestly, I think it’s hot.

I find that kind of blind, thoughtless submission to BE the goal. A goal that I may or may not ever reach (I certainly don’t seem to be wired for it, but too, neither have we been able to engage in such practices that would completely obliterate my sense of self.)

I understand that in doing so, should we ever get to that place, it would open the door for him to be and do almost anything to me. At this point in time he is still maintaining my sense of self, still encouraging free thought, and, rebellion actually. I don’t expect that to always be the case, nor do I particularly enjoy this time period. I much preferred what we had before when we just dabbled in more extreme methods of control and personality/mental adjusments. I, for one, look forward to the obliteration of *me*.

As toy said in a reply: “it could also take the submission to a whole new level, positively speaking, right? There’s more possibilities of one hurting from it but all that aside, it could just be a new level of humility, subordination, objectification, and submission.”

As with anything else, if you want the possibility of great success, you have to be prepared for the possibility of great failure. But you’ll have neither one if you never try.

Maybe it will be just a coin toss on which way it will go, maybe success relies on the talents of the Dom or the inherent strength of the submissive. Who knows?

So I guess I’m hoping to hear from other’s who have been there or who will be there. There are people I know who are facing this and it’s difficult for them. Unfortunately, I seem to come at this from a different angle in that even just writing about it has gotten me all hot and bothered. I am eagerly anticipating scenarios such as those above, ready to dive headfirst into the pain and misery such things will surely spark in me, and damned be the after effects!

While some of the same insecurities and what-ifs roll around in my head, I’m soothed by a deeper sense of security. I know that *no matter what*, my time spent bound and broken on the floor is temporary, that no matter how low he will make me feel, I remain held in a higher place in his heart. The fear that I feel toward it is not one of abandonment. I’m not sure if perhaps that is the one tiny piece that changes it from not-okay to very-okay. Perhaps so.

However it all will work out for me, I am not in a position to personally offer words beyond what I have here, which is little help for them now I’m sure. Whenever I’m in a place where I need words that I don’t have, I turn to you fine people, as your experiences, thoughts and wisdom for outshine mine most days.

Input? Please? I will beg.

~cunt

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Sex is always the answer, it’s never a question.

Yesterday I met up with a couple of other small s-type girls for lunch. It’s really a lot of fun and I relate to this group of women so well that, literally, hours and hours pass before I know it and then I’m scrambling to get home. I didn’t get home yesterday until almost 4:30 in the afternoon! Yikes. Good thing I did chores in the morning and had dinner in the crock pot.

(Pat myself on the back for good planning. Good job, kaya! :D )

Anyway, one of the conversation questions was “What would you like to have happened in your life within the next year?” and my answer was that I would like to have the protocols and BDSM stuff become a higher priority than what they have been lately. I said that the line between being a normal vanilla wife and being a slave gets awful blurry awfully quickly.

It’s just all too easy to become complacent within our M/s relationship when we focus more on trying to avoid some of the curveballs life throws at us. Maintaining M/s to the level that we both prefer it takes work. Real work. Maintaining normalcy doesn’t. Or doesn’t seem to when compared to the other, I guess.

(And of course, even as I sit here talking about feeling like a vanilla wife, I can’t help but think of just how much of my day to day life would feel incredibly non-vanilla to a vanilla. But that’s not my topic today.)

As I was saying, I had said that I would like to have bdsm practices become more commonplace. I had also mentioned that in thinking that, I had to acknowledge that I could be more proactive myself. That I tend to fall back on thinking that, oh, he’s the leader and I’m the follower so I should just sit and gather dust while I wait for him to lead- when the truth is I should not be absolved of the work portion of keeping things high on the priority list. That I can’t fault him for not doing it if I’m not doing it either.

I don’t mean to make it sound like we’re wallowing in vanilla territory because it’s not that either. There are a myriad of things that happen throughout the day, and he does pay attention to things, and it’s not all bleak and dreary at ALL. But there are definitely areas that could use improvement and I was acknowledging that, in some cases, that improvement could start with ME, within myself, my attitude and my approach rather than taking the lazy way out and excusing myself because HE didn’t do this or say that or whatever.

Make sense?

No? lol. Too bad.

So yesterday evening, shortly after Master came home from work (which was shortly after *I* got home!), he started making sexual advances at me. And this is one area that we both know needs improvement. Sex.

Not the sex itself. He’s phenomenal in the sack and dammit, I am one lucky whore in that respect. What’s been off lately is the timing. Somehow, our timing together got totally screwed. Not only that, but the fact that his advances are coming at what I consider a “bad time” for me even factors in is totally whacked.

Part of it certainly is my continued lack of libido, which I am fairly convinced now is directly related to our lack of play. Because the fact is, when we do play, I get hornier than a two-peckered billy goat so I know it’s *there*, it’s just not getting “fed” as it used to. I don’t really worry about anymore because knowing it’s there and just a little starved right now is a pretty big comfort. I am not becoming non-sexual, I’m just hungry. Good enough.

So, having a lower desire means that when he wants to “do it” at odd times of the day, I’m more prone to try and weasel out of it. If I know it’s going to be just a wham-bam, or under the desk (I’m seriously hating that right now. Like, you don’t even know.) AND I have no desire for it? I’m just all… blah… and “do I hafta??” which, as you can imagine, isn’t conducive to creating happy-horny feelings for him.

Now, if we’re getting into bed and it’s going to be a good fuck with no pressing concerns like kids asking for homework help or dinner burning on the stove or whatever, then even though I still have a low desire, I’m less likely to try and excuse my way out of it.

Unfortunately, Master tends to be sleepy-tired by the time we get to bed and HE doesn’t want to do it then. He wants to fuck when he’s horny and has the energy. Like, when he gets home from work.

So, needless to say, it’s been kind of a hit and miss, with some mutual but understood frustration on both of our parts.

My frustration has been blanketed with some hella heavy guilt, too, though. I’m supposed to be the sex slave here, yanno? Oy.

Anyway, so after the conversation at lunch, and then he comes home and starts smooching on me and eyeing the bedroom, and then he asks me what I’m doing and says let’s go fuck.

Seriously, and this is so fucking sad- I gave him a rueful smile and pointed to the kitchen. “I can’t. I’m cooking.” which I was honestly doing, and to back up my words, right as I said that, the oven timer dinged. As I walked away, I jokingly quipped over my shoulder “Excuse me while I go tend to the real master of the house- the stove.”

He didn’t say anything. I mean, this is the norm around here lately. Unless I’m really NOT doing anything, somehow his needs have fallen to the bottom of the priority list. I just can’t fathom how cooking or homework or *whatever* started trumping his dick.

So I go into the kitchen and check on the biscuits. They aren’t quite done yet so I reset the timer for another 2 minutes and I’m standing there thinking. The conversation at lunch is echoing in my head, along with his quiet acceptance of me having walked away and it’s bothering me. Like, bothering me a LOT. And I just keep thinking, be proactive, cunt. THIS is not proactive. THIS is lazy. This is shameful. This is NOT slavery or bdsm. This is what you say you don’t want, yet this is what you DO?? Get with the program, woman!

I kind of look around the house a bit. B-man is in his room playing video games and probably won’t come out until I drag him out. Am had fallen asleep on the couch and probably wouldn’t wake up until I poked her. Jes is gone still. So what uber-important thing am I doing here? What is the worst that will happen? We’ll have cold biscuits for dinner. That’s what is keeping me from going and servicing my Master’s cock?? Srsly, cunt?

Let’s see. If I were him and my cock was twitching and I had a supposed sex slave who, ideally, is to service that cock whenever it twitches and instead she’s decided that watching biscuits brown is more important?? Uh… mayhaps there needs to be a lesson given about priorities. Or.. maybe that lesson should already be known and the next lesson is giving up.

Sad thoughts, yeah? Sobering thoughts.

But this is how we grow, right? I mean, I like to think that being brutally honest with myself about my failures means something.

I guess the real test is what I ultimately end up doing with these realizations. Not just for one day, but every day.

Well, I’m happy to report that we had cold biscuits for dinner. Onward and upward, Christian soldier!

~cunt

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Oppression is in the eye of the oppressed?

I’m still reading along over at Nine Deuce’s place. I thought it was decent that she’d posted a somewhat more reasonable explanatory post, but I was glad to see she’s getting it with both barrels by pro-bdsm bloggers, too.

And, I found it pretty ironic that she got all butt-hurt over an insult when she’s so insulting herself. But that’s not very nice of me. *snickering behind my hand*

However, what I want to talk about is the current, rather interesting conversation going on over there, that is, so far as I can tell, remaining polite and adult-like.

There are a lot of comparisons being made between being kinky and being homosexual. Chiefly, trying to equate the oppression of homosexuals with the (supposed) oppression of BDSMers.

There are certainly some correlations, I think. But I’m not sure it’s anywhere near the same.

Unless you happen to be both homosexual *and* kinky. Double whammy?

So homosexuals are fighting for their rights. Basic rights equal to the rights of straight people. The right to marriage, the right to adopt or raise their own child, the right to secured employment, the right to live in peace – and whatever else they are fighting for (I don’t want the focus to be on gay rights).

But what right, exactly, are BDSMers fighting for? What are we denied?

I think it IS true that there are severe injustices surrounding the kink world. I think there are people who are prosecuted who shouldn’t be, I think people get fired for no other reason than being kinky, I think people lose custody of their kids for no other reason than being kinky. I think people hide who they are, I think they feel shame and embarrassment, I think kinky people are prone to depressions and disorders, quite possibly due to feeling shunned society.

But does that equal oppression? In the same way that homosexuals are oppressed? Does it matter that it’s perhaps not as bad, does it have to be the same to be a valid complaint?

Would it be accurate to say that homosexuals are not nearly as oppressed as black people were (are)? Therefore, they cannot stake a claim on oppression either?

I do see a connection in the language being used though. For sure. How those people over there are talking about bdsm and our sexual practices is almost word for word how people talked about homosexuality. The same insults, the same spoken fears, the same suspicions. And I think that’s more than a little scary, to be honest.

I’ve been asking myself when it comes to my kinky self, what right would I fight for or what discrimination would I wish to end, if I could change anything.

I’m not forbidden from marrying my partner. I’m not worried that holding my partner’s hand in public will be cause to get my ass kicked. I’m not disallowed to be on my partner’s health insurance or from entering his ICU room.

We are recognized as a couple by society, recognized as a family by society. We’re accepted as a couple by friends and family.

We can go to his company Christmas party without raising an eyebrow or jeapordizing his job. He has a picture of me on his desk and introduces me as his wife.

It’s very mainstream. Very accepted. So what would I fight for? What is the basis for a claim of oppression?

Because there is no denying that we hide things, that we feel like we’re forced to put on an act for people, that we aren’t being true to ourselves unless we’re safely shut in behind closed doors.

I have no interest in some of the more in-your-face performances that other people might be fighting for. We don’t find it appropriate, even if it were widely accepted, to stroll around in a collar and leash or sit at his feet on the floor in a restaurant.

I don’t want to wear nipple clamps down Main Street. (As one comment said over at ND’s place)

I guess I’d fight for simple acceptance. I guess I’d like to not have to see the smirk on the waitress’s face when I turn to ask Master what I can order. I’d like to not have to hem and haw to vanilla acquaintances to stall for time to ask permission. I’d like to not have to lie when his answer is no.

I could do without being sneered at when I tell the cashier that she’ll have to ask my husband when she offers to sign me up for a store credit card.

I’d like to think that should Master be spotted at a kink event, his job is secure.

I’d like to not stumble over what to call him as we crisscross between the kink world and the vanilla world.

One world would be sweet, wouldn’t it?

So what say you on the idea that BDSMers are oppressed? Does that theory hold water for you?

The other debate going on over there is whether or not kink is an orientation or a choice.

My feeling is it can be both. It depends on the individual.

I believe that for some people it is a choice to be kinky, just as some people choose to be homosexual. I don’t think that’s equal to “faking it”, not at all. But I think it is a choice. They can find satisfaction and happiness making either choice. They can have functional and healthy relationships being straight or with a member of the same sex, and they can do the same when engaging in kink or when living completely vanilla.

I think for others it’s an orientation. I believe submission or dominance can be a person’s sexual orientation, just as homosexuality is other’s orientation. It’s not a choice and there isn’t the option of living fully when choosing a different lifestyle.

I’m not sure the people arguing over there quite comprehend that. They seem to believe that we’re choosing to be kinky and choosing to engage in these activities when we could just as easily choose not to.

They appear to see it as a question of logic and morals more so than a matter of orientation and being “wired” for it.

And really, this is where I begin to compare BDSM to homosexuality. If they can grasp the concepts of homosexuality, I’m hopeful they can grasp BDSM in that same way. But each time we try and go there, the homosexuals stand up and start screaming to stop equating their orientation with our sick, perverted choices.

We’re defiling the beauty of homosexuality, we’re belittling their battles, we’re trying to ride their coattails.

So what do you think? Do you think BDSMers are oppressed? Do you think we have anything to fight *for* or do you think we’re fighting for the sake of fighting?

Also, what are your thoughts on kink being a choice or an orientation?

Is there any merit in trying to get people to see being gay and being kinky as the same thing and therefore, worthy of the same acceptance?

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“There is nothing wrong with change, if it is in the right direction”

I swear somedays I don’t know what I’m doing here. I look back over the archives and I think to myself “who the fuck wrote that?”

I don’t recognize the thoughts and feelings of that person anymore. I’m not HER.

Life is fluid, we grow, we change, we evolve.

I feel like I’m saying good-bye to masochism. I don’t miss it. I don’t want it. I have none of that deep desire that I used to have for pain. No cravings, no longing, no buried greediness.

It slipped away as quietly and unnoticed as my craving for cigarettes did.

I could be wrong, but I think Master’s desire for sadism is somewhere in the graveyard with my desire for masochism. He mentions it more than I do, laments that it doesn’t happen, but it seems more of a perfunctory announcement than a heartfelt acknowledgment of something missing.

But maybe he really does miss it. Terribly.

I don’t feel like it’s missing. I feel like it’s gone. And I’m not sad about that. At all.

THAT’S where I get… scared. I’m not bothered that it’s gone; I’m bothered that it’s gone and I don’t care that it’s gone.

Seems like I should be, huh? Something that defined me for so long, something I jumped through hoops to have, made sacrifices to find, worked so goddamn hard to get, just up and vanishes and I … don’t care?

Adios, amigos. Nice knowing you. ~waves~

That’s it?

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not distressed or depressed or unhappy. I guess that’s why I’m baffled. I AM happy and content. I’m in love, deliriously so.

If I had a magic wand there isn’t anything I would change about MY life right now. I might change other people’s problems, but nothing in mine.

I’m just.. satisfied. I like our routine, I like the service, I like the quiet backdrop of D/s that colors everything we do.

But, if something that used to be so important to me can so quietly fade away….

What if everything else can, too?

There’s a popular question that floats around among the bdsm crowd, a sort of limit-tester, designed to force no-limit slaves into admitting they have some. What if Master ordered you to go vanilla?

It’s all “oh he would never!” or “I would do whatever he said”.

But what if the tables are turned? What if the slave, through no conscious or deliberate desire just… loses it. Loses the drive and the desire and it all just slips away?

Where does that leave him?

Where will that leave me?

I hate change.

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“Dreams are illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you.”

When I woke up this morning, I was trying to recapture the last hazy remnants of a dream but I couldn’t. I only remember that it was an incredibly happy dream and that’s it.

So I was thinking about dreams.

I used to have two reoccuring dreams as an adult. Nightmares more than dreams, but always the same, several times a week, vividly terrifying.

One was that someone(s) was breaking into my house. Dark, scary, faceless men, creeping through windows and doors, slinking down the hallway. Always, those men would be inbetween me and my children. I would try and scream, try to warn the kids to hide, and could never do more than whisper, could only watch helplessly as these dark figures crept closer and closer to the kids’ room.

I would struggle to consciousness, and then lay awake in the dark, sweating, terrified, listening to noises and have to convince myself it was only a dream.

That dream went on for years and years and years.

The other dream was not quite as terrifying as it was sad and frustrating. One of the things that I struggled with as a single, poor, parent was housing. It seemed I was always on the verge of being homeless, living paycheck to paycheck, and even at that, some of the places we lived weren’t really big enough or safe enough.

So I would have this dream that was always about housing. I’d have found some spectacular place to live, a place where everyone had a bedroom of their own and I’d be happily decorating it or arranging furniture – and then something would happen. I remember one in particular where the walls and floors disintegrated into swarms and swarms of roaches, falling on us and crawling on us and we had to run out of the house. Another house was slipping into the ocean, slowly sinking while we climbed out of windows, crying, not wanting to leave it but knowing we had to.

I know why I had those reoccuring dreams then. In the first one, I was well aware of the vulnerability of being a single woman with helpless kids under my care in a world where senseless violence happens on a daily basis. I had legitimate fears of break-ins and not being able to protect myself, much less my kids.

The second dream merely illustrated the difficulties of low-income, substandard housing and how every time it seemed I had my feet under me, some unforeseen circumstance would come along and knock me down.

I can remember being afraid to go to bed, staying up way later than I should when I had to be to work at 6 a.m. I remember piling weapons (knives, clubs – no guns) under and around my bed. Making sure the phone was in reach, the doors and windows were locked and barricaded.

Miserable nights. Miserable mornings. But I’m thankful for them now.

I’m glad I had those years of night terrors. I’m glad I had to claw my way out of sleep, tears on my face, heart pounding, stark terror preventing me from sleeping any longer that night.

Otherwise, I don’t think I’d fully appreciate the slow, easy waking, the half-hearted grab at wispy happiness from a cloudy dream, the ability to snuggle back down next to a warm and safe body, knowing my children are secure in their beds – and they each have one of their own that isn’t going to disappear from under their sleeping bodies.

I’d not understand the significance of looking forward to bedtime instead of dreading it, or how comforting it is to turn out the light and lie in the dark with nothing but his soft, even breathing for company rather than keeping my ears tuned and jumping at every squeak and thump.

Every life experience has been worth it. Everything that has shaped me, groomed me, or primed me for these moments today has been worth it.

Even those spooky little ol’ dreams.

And I don’t remember the last time I had a nightmare of any sort.

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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

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Respect My Authoritay!

Authoritay - Word use to show authority but in a bigger more dictatorial way, used by people who have more power over others or people that think they have more power than others. ~ Urban Dictionary

Awhile ago I was going to do an entry about the tv show “Wife Swap” but trashed it. A recent testy discussion over at Fetlife has resurrected my wife swap thoughts.

Wife Swap, if you’ve never watched it, is where they take one family and then find another family that is the exact opposite of everything held near and dear to them and then – duh- swap wives for two weeks.

During the first week, the wife has to live by the rules of the family. In the second week, she changes up all the rules and tries to enforce her way of life on them.

It’s all very dramatic and soap opera-ish, and of course, during the 5 minute follow-up flair, they’ve always learned valuable lessons about themselves and changed for the better – blah, blah, blah.

Many, many, *many* episodes feature a submissive wife (and they even use the word “submissive”) who has to swap with some corporate-climbing, fiercely independent, career woman who would rather eat dog shit than wait on some man.

My daughters, while watching the submissive wife episodes and seeing the dramatic conclusion where the dominant husband “sees the light” and stops expecting his woman to file his toenails, will hassle me about going on the show.

They joke about Master having to get his own drinks or fix his own plate. Even though we’ve (the kids and I) talked many times about it being my choice to serve him that way, etc. etc., it’s become a topic they like to razz me about.

They accept, with some amount of.. distaste, I suppose… that the lifestyle of a submissive woman, this old-fashioned arrangement, is what makes me happy. They also say that it is NOT the path for them.

And it doesn’t have to be. Master and I are not training them for it, nor do we push it on them as a “preferred” or “superior” way of being. It is *for us*, and we live it without shame, but it is not, obviously, for them.

God bless women’s lib. God bless the power of choice.

That is why Wife Swap would fail to make Master “see the light”. In that show, those dominant men and submissive women don’t see it as a choice. In many episodes, they are training their children to emulate their lifestyle. Whether due to religious or moral beliefs, they feel their chosen way of living is the superior one and they *want* their children to copy it. They deny them even the exposure to other options.

Those men believe they are, or should be, dominant over ALL women. Those women believe they should be submissive to ALL men. That that is the Natural Order and anything else is undesirable.

Master and I don’t believe that. We don’t preach that, we don’t think that, we don’t even come *close* to raising our kids with that philosophy.

We believe that it works for us. Specifically for us. He is dominant over me – not over women in general. I am submissive to him – not to men in general.

I will, mostly, respect the dominant position that a male, or a female, has chosen. I will respect it based soley on some imagined (to me) hierarchy in my world. Not to mention that Master himself expects that I respect another’s dominant position, male or female. (But that respect is within reason, which will be further illustrated in this post.)

Master treats dominant women, submissive women (except for me), dominant men and submissive men as his equals. He affords the most gentlemanly courtesy to everyone. He does not think himself “better than” any one of those groups of people.

Master doesn’t resent women in positions of power. He doesn’t have issues working along side, or even under, a female. He doesn’t trash-talk women, he doesn’t disrespect women, he doesn’t find them useless or worthless. (He does think women are lousy drivers, though. Man, that just burns my ass! But that’s another topic for another day.) He doesn’t think they can only function in the kitchen.

Neither do I. I do not think that woman’s lib is to blame for the breakdown of society. I don’t believe that only men can successfully navigate the corporate world. I don’t think my daughters are foolish to dream of better things than housewife drudgery.

Gone are the days when a woman needed a man to survive. Long, long, long gone. That caveman-esque way of life is no longer needed in today’s world. A woman’s only path to fulfillment is not to serve a man. If it ever was!

Probably some of this may sound at odds with other things I’ve said in the past. My views on a female president, for instance, certainly could have been misconstrued as mysoginistic or in support of male power. But as I tried so hard to express in that post, my views and where my comfort level lies are specific to me, and me only. I don’t, because I’m a smart cookie, include anyone else in those views. I don’t even expect anyone to agree with me. I don’t try and convince anyone else that I am right and they are wrong.

And I don’t raise my girls, or my son, to accept my word as gospel. Or to accept my choice as their only option.

We are very different, my girls and I. While my comfort lies in being dominated, in living my life according to the supposed “Natural Order”, while my path to happiness is heavily laden with servitute and submission, I do not think that any other chosen path is “unnatural” or a mistake.

My two girls’ path could be *anything*. My son’s path could be anything. What I make sure they get are options.

Take chores, for instance. In the households on that stupid tv show, the chores are divided up according to girl-chores and boy-chores. They are training their kids to follow that path. The Natural Order path, the path where boys do boy things and girls stay in the house and cook.

I don’t do that here with my kids. There is no differing between boy/girl work. B-man does laundry and dishes, the same as the girls’ do. And the girls can take out the trash and mow the lawn just like a boy.

There is no difference between my expectations from them either – at least not based on gender. I tailor my expectations, and how I relate to them, based on their individual personalities, needs, and wants.

If my son even so much as hints that he “deserves” to be waited on because he’s a boy, I’ll smack him down quicker than shit. Nobody “deserves” anything based solely on the genitalia swinging between your legs.

My girls don’t deserve to be servants merely because of their gender and my son doesn’t deserve to be dominant because of his.

Neither will my son have “squandered away” his supposed birthright to dominance should he choose to be an equal to his mate. There is no birthright to dominance and submission.

There is choice. There is personality. There is personal happiness.

What makes someone dominant? I have no idea. I don’t think it’s a penis and ball sack, but beyond that I really have no opinion. I spent enough time trying to figure out why I was a submissive that I no longer waste the time trying to figure out why anyone else is what they are.

The question that sparked the heated debate over on FL was essentially – “Since the primary role and path to fulfillment for a female is to serve a man”, [...] is it a waste of time (to educate) girls as they are raised?

The question itself, I thought, was ignorant. Quite frankly, it pissed me off. I abhor the very idea of “grooming” children toward a certain path. Denying them exposure and opportunity is, imo, appalling. Absolutely should not be tolerated or condoned or even entertained as semi-acceptable.

(At that point right there, and then further evidenced by subsequent posts from the same OP, that respect that I mentioned earlier that I’m supposed to show another dominant? Gone. No longer required. I have my own (and Master’s) pre-set, pre-defined acceptable standards of dominance, and that just violated all of them. Not only is that dominant no longer my superior, he’s beneath me – in character, in integrity, in values, and frankly, in brains. I will not speak to him like he’s entitled to my submission, I will not offer him niceties or curb my tongue based on his imagined position. I’ll speak to him like the ignorant ass that he is showing himself to be.)

If indeed, one believes in the natural order of things, that men are naturally dominant and women are naturally submissive, if that’s how things naturally occur, then there would be no reason not to educate your children and expose them to other ways of life. Because wouldn’t they “naturally” fall in line with the “natural order”?

I mean, let’s be serious here. I long to have lived in the Victorian era, when women were property, and options were limited and rights didn’t exist. I’d give my left tit to have a society in the present day where one could live outwardly with those principals. But I would never, ever wish that for my child. What makes it so alluring to me now is knowing what else is out there. It’s having been exposed, having *lived* as an independent woman. Why on earth would I want to take that away from someone? Why would anyone even consider narrowing another’s options?

I’m submissive because I choose to be. If I were submissive because I *had* to be, would I find it nearly as fulfilling? I don’t think so.

God. That topic just gets my goat.

….

….

I was asked “What gives a man the entitlement to require submission from a woman, if it is not his gender?”

My answer – Nothing. Absolutely nothing entitles a man to require, expect or deserve submission from a woman. Entitlement and birthright have no place in my world. I think it’s a ridiculous notion.

Master is dominant for reasons known only to him. In order for me to believe that dominance is a birthright entitled to him by his gender, I’d also have to believe that my own son is entitled to my submission (by birthright -ain’t gonna happen), that my doctor is entitled to my submission, that my brother is entitled to my submission, that my neighbor is –

Or worse, I’d have to believe that any male who isn’t an egotistical dominant ass is flawed in some way. Any male who didn’t want my submission was “unnatural”.

And I don’t believe that. I believe in personal choice, by both parties. I believe in mitigating circumstances that lead some people to D/s. I believe in pairing up with the person whose personality fits yours.

Why is he dominant? Because I submit to him. Without the other, we would be “nothing more than an egotistical arrogant self important bastard taking advantage of someone else who to stupid know better.”

Or worse, he’d be an egotistical ass thinking he deserves something that he doesn’t.

Personally, I think all doms are egotistical asses. I think it comes with the territory – a requirement, almost. I think the “flawed” part comes in when they con’t control it and begin thinking they can dominate outside of their little circle.

So I was admonished in the group for being disrespectful and rude (who? me? mouthy and opinionated? *le gasp!*), which wasn’t surprising because my hot-headed reply for that kind of dom to kiss my ass didn’t fall in with the “natural order” of female submissive-ness.

See where that sense of entitlement bites ya? I rather felt I was entitled to speak my mind since I’m not one of them “natural” submissive who falls to my knees at the sight of the big burly caveman and he felt he was entitled to lady-like, submissively-worded, gentle objections.

I guess we were both let down based on our misplaced sense of entitlement.

At which point I left the group. Not necessarily in an “I’m taking my ball and going home” huff, more of an “I don’t think I fit in here” kind of way.

Honestly, I really really do like and admire the moderators of that group. (Just not that particular OP) I have the utmost respect for them, as a couple.

I think she is just about the hottest thing on two legs.

I don’t have to agree with their views any more than they have to agree with mine. I have no interest in surrounding myself only with those who agree with me. I sincerely DO hope there hasn’t been damage done to what is, to me, an invaluable friendship.

But I really only bite my tongue for one person. I accept that my unwillingess to play by other’s rules may be costly. I accept that how we do this, the allowances he gives me, aren’t acceptable for others.

I guess I don’t know what else to say about it.

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“No object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly.”

It seems like people still want to believe that we’re a normal family, playing at submission and dominance. That, you know, sure, it’s cute and fun to spank and order me around for a bit, but when things get serious he’s obligated somehow to treat me as an equal. That underneath it all we don’t really do this whole Boss/cunt thang, except to get our rocks off.

Someone commented awhile back, asking why it has to be all or nothing.

Because it does.

If it isn’t – it’s not good enough. Not for me and not for him. That’s not a value judgment against how anyone else does it, I only know how it works for us. It is, always has been and always will be, a matter of He says, I do. Or I leave. I either submit or I don’t, that choice is mine, of course, but to not submit means to end the relationship because our relationship is not one based on equals or on negotiation or partnership. It’s one based on dominance and submission.

But he’s not only going to be asking me to submit to a beating or to suck his dick or to shovel the driveway.

It’s not always pretty. Slavery isn’t pretty, submission isn’t pretty, and if it always has to be, if that’s the only way it sits comfortable for someone – well, I’m probably not the person to be reading.

I know that I’ve hinted around to the Big Limit that I smacked against having something to do with the kids. I know I presented it as me standing up for the noble cause of motherhood.

I’m, perhaps, not nearly as noble as I tried to be. But neither is he an ogre.

It was interesting, I thought, that when I was detailing having hit a limit, people were quick to reassure me that finding a limit where I previously thought I had none was a-okay, normal and expected. But when it came time to say that perhaps it wasn’t MY limit so much as HIM finding a limit, people were pretty quick to judge that that is not allowed on his part. I heard how he knew what he was getting into when it started and he can’t back out now and that’s not right and blah blah blah –

But why don’t those same sentiments apply to me? I knew what I was getting into with as much possible forethought as he did.

It’s common, I’ve noticed, to extend sympathy and understanding to the submissive party of a relationship in crisis, yet people condemn, without trial or even knowledge of the issues, the dominant party. Even though those same people will say that doms aren’t Gods, doms are human, doms make mistakes. Apparently those mistake only extend as far as a stray whip strike?

Could he not have realized, some 5 years later, that taking on a woman and her 3 kids was a lot more involved than he thought? Can he not then say, look, I’m in this for the long haul with you but there have to be some limitations because I’m not an endless well of money? I’m not a brick wall of support? I’m human and tired and I need to have some sort of end in sight?

Our kids can live here until they are 30 for all he cares, as long as they are making an effort to improve themselves. Go to work or go to school and the door is open for as long as it’s needed. But he’s not a free ride for anyone. That’s not a dominant stance, it’s a reasonable and healthy parental stance.

Jes quit school and has made no effort to find even a part-time job at McDonalds. And now she’s pregnant.

She can stay here and we’ll happily help her with anything she needs *as long as* she makes some effort to improve her situation.

What she wants is to have us rent her an apartment in another state where the baby’s daddy lives, give her the car and help her pay for the baby, so she can play house with her boyfriend; who, btw, has another baby on the way with a different girl.

He’s 17 and has no job with two kids on the way. Jes’ll be 17 soon, has no job and no education.

We argued and things were said that were taken out of context. I didn’t give him the chance to explain himself because I complicated the issue by reacting so quickly (taking off my collar and saying I was leaving), and once that was out there, the focus of Jes and what to do about her was lost.

I had a knee-jerk reaction to Master’s refusal to go along with Jes’s plan. I resented that because he controls the purse strings, I couldn’t decide on my own to go along with Jes’s plan. I immediately, and probably correctly, assumed that if I don’t give her what she wants, I’ll never see that baby. Jes is a good manipulator and I’m an easy target. I also thought there was no way in hell I’d not adopt that baby if Jes wants to go that route.

What Master is saying isn’t unreasonable. If she wants to stay here, we’ll support her 100%. He’ll support her child. But she has to either go back to school or look for a job (within reasonable expectations for her health and abilities). She’s going to be a mother, she’s no longer got the luxury of just being a confused teenager. Time to step up and pay the piper.

But if she wants to go, if she wants to play grown-up, then she’s on her own. I will “abandon” her to the bed she made. And I (probably) cannot adopt it. I am struggling, still, with knowing that. Even though I know there are a hundred factors that could change it, accepting that no matter what, it’s not a decision I’ll get to make is hard.

~sigh~

It’s far more complicated and detailed than this, but you’d all have to come live here to get the whole of it. You’d have to know Jes to even come close to understanding most of it.

……

I’m getting off track.

If I am allowed, with open-arm acceptance, to have my limits, then so is he. If I’m cheered when I draw a line in the sand, let’s not boo him when he does the same.

It’s just not nice. It’s not fair.

Well. I keep thinking I should say more, try some other way of wording it to pretty it up or something, but this is it. These are the curveballs that life throws you and you do the best you can with them. Not beautiful, not always.

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Not feeling bloggy

I don’t know what’s going on with me lately. I just ain’t feelin’ it. I guess that happens sometimes. With Master traveling though, He expects a daily entry and I am struggling with that.

There was an amusing little exchange between Master and I before He left.  One of the things I do for Him that is very much a slave-ish, service-y thing (to us) is to wait for Him outside the shower, towel in hand, and wipe Him dry when He’s finished showering. On this day I was in the shower, and He was standing outside and we were chit chatting about something or other. Anyway I opened the shower door and there He stands, towel in hand, waiting to dry me off.

I very much had a deer-in-headlights moment. Immediately, the urge to obey without question hit and I started toward Him. But right on the heels of that was the internal slave wiring slamming on the brakes, screaming, no-no-no-no, reverse reverse! I kind of stuttered that way for a bit, one foot in the shower, one out,  while He stood there patiently waiting. And grinning.

Fucker. He knows what that does to me.

Finally I just tentatively reached for my towel. “Weird.” I said, pleadingly. “Too weird. Weird weird weird. Can I just have it, please?” He threw it at me, laughing.

I really have strangely strong reactions to the idea of Him serving, or servicing, me in any way. But I somehow separate that from old-fashioned, gentlemanly mannerisms. For instance, He will almost always open doors for me and will actually get a little pissy if I reach the door first and open it ahead of Him. Yet I don’t see that as a service to me, even though it is.

I absolutely am not, cannot be, comfortable with Him performing oral sex on me. It’s not that it doesn’t feel good, not that He isn’t very good at it, not that I would even think to deny it to Him if/when He wants to do it. But I cannot pull my head away from the repeating thought of being serviced to enjoy it on any level whatsoever. He likes to 69, but it such an emotionally uncomfortable process for me, that I’m stiff as a board, totally unresponsive, even though I’m also servicing HIM at the same time, it just.. fucks with my head in the most stupid way. But I can do a reverse 69, with Him on top fucking my mouth while He also does other wickedly sinful things between my legs. That works well for me.

Yet I recognize the paradox between how, when He caters to my silly reactions to being serviced, He is, actually servicing me by default.

Oy.

Course I get that He’s not going to do anything He doesn’t want to do. Or, even, that He isn’t going to NOT do something that He wants to do. Had He wanted to dry me off, He’d have put up with my stuttering hesitation for all of 2 seconds before snapping His fingers and pointing at the floor in front of Him where I’d have stood with my arms held out like a good little statue while He fluffed the towel over me.

And my brain would have twitched the whole time.

I remember, a long time ago, I had an argument (on the internet. What a surprise! kaya was arguing on the net! Heh.) with a master over the concept of whether or not a master *should* do things that make a slave feel useful. His position was that a master should NOT be motivated to do, or not do, anything based soley on how the slave feels about it. My position was that a master should.

Here’s the example we used.  The slave is outside, or otherwise busy with something and Master wants a coffee refill. Does the master do the easiest and fastest thing, which is to serve himself his own coffee, even knowing that to do so will make the slave feel badly.  Or does he hunt down the busy slave, have her stop what she’s doing so she can serve him purely to allow her to feel useful?

I’ve since changed my opinion. I no longer think that the master should do anything at all based on how it makes the slave feel. I think mastery is, by it’s very nature, a selfish, self-centered personality trait. Too much leaning the other way and one has to wonder who is serving who. Or whom is serving whom. (Grammar. I suck at it.)

Although, I also think that too much of not letting the slave feel useful and slave-like is detrimental, too. Maybe, once again, in all things – balance.  

Master naturally leans more toward the ‘hunt down the busy slave and make her get the coffee’ than the other anyway. On the occasion that He does serve Himself because I am elsewhere or because He’s just closer to it, I notice it. I do more than notice it, I *feel* it. Like a quick little jab to the gut.

I’ve yet to decide if that’s a good thing or not. I’m reacting, perhaps petulantly, that He’s doing “my” job and taking from me that which makes me feel useful. But I’m also noticing, and internally marking, an area that may require more active anticipatory service.  Maybe to check the status of His coffee before I go downstairs to do laundry? Or, whatever it may be.

Ah, slaves. We’re a difficult lot.

Well. I am, at least. :D

~cunt

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Mittelschmerz!

Think I just cussed you out in German? ;-)

Painful ovulation, when severe, is referred to as mittelschmerz, a German word that means “middle pain.” Most women who experience painful ovulation usually report a nagging pain that begins as a sharp twinge and diminishes into a dull ache for the next day or so.[...]Pain in the abdomen can occur during intercourse or it can be aggravated by intercourse…

In other words, it feels like someone has stabbed a hot poker into your side. Sex during mittelschmerz feels like someone is repeatedly stabbing a hot poker into your side. A hot poker with spikes that are coated in tobasco sauce and covered with razor wire.

It hurts.

Yesterday was my mittelschmerz day. Accompanied by the beginnings of a killer headache and I was in fine form. Well, fine form for anyone with the option of popping two aspirin and curling up in bed with a good book to ride out the discomfort that is. Not so fine form for a slave with a horny Master.

I informed Him of my pain, both in my head and in my side. I wasn’t trying to use them as excuses so much as an exchange of pertinent information. Just as if He’d told me He was going to drive the car into town I would tell Him it was low on gas. I offer the information and He does with it what He will.

He acknowledged my pain. And pointed me to my hands and knees anyway. C’est la vie.

I did ask Him if He would start out slow, just to give my body time to adjust (in hopes that my ovaries would find a place to hide) and probably He thinks He did start slow. But He didn’t. At least, it didn’t feel slow on my end. But more than likely, the only thing that can be slow enough at that moment is not at all.

I’m not going to sugarcoat the pain of it. Sometimes, whatever it is we are doing turns into a self-lecture. For real, I could be a motivational speaker to reluctant masochists everywhere! I’m *that* good at talking myself into ‘taking it like a man’.

At some point, and perhaps it was my white-knuckled grip on the carpet or my frequent hissing that gave it away, but He asked me if it hurt. I assume “no shit, Sherlock!” wasn’t the answer He was looking for. A simple “yes, Sir” did the trick. Enough to spur Him into the faster-deeper-harder part.

There are times when I’m reading a journal somewhere and, especially if it’s someone I know or have been reading for a long time, I’ll find myself getting angry at the sadist for his “mistreatment” of my friend. Even with my passing knowledge of masochism and the how and why of our make-up, I still have a hard time easily accepting that they want this.

I remember the first time I watched Taylor and Carrie play, I literally plonked myself down behind Master’s leg. I had to turn away a time or two. I squeezed His leg and bit my lip and made big round saucer eyes of shock at Him when He’d peek down at me. He, on the other hand, loved it. He got hard. He gave me wiggly eyebrows while I looked on in indignation on Carrie’s behalf.

Fact is, sometimes it just doesn’t look very pretty in the moment. Now, almost immediately after their play had finished, when I saw the dopey look on Carrie’s face, the flush of excitement, the energy, the rush – well, I’m all on board with it. But to see it so personally, so up close, to watch her struggle and cry, to hear the sounds of his fist pounding into her flesh and her echoing yelp of pain – it’s.. disturbing.

I think I might have told Master that Taylor was a mean old bastard. (Sorry Taylor!)

So, I was debating about mentioning Master’s use of me yesterday here at all. Because I know, since I do it myself, how some people are going to react to the very idea that He’d be callous enough, mean enough, to use me so harshly at a time like that.

Because I don’t think there is a way to communicate, accurately, why I need that sort of treatment. How, had He chosen instead to put me to bed and coddle my ailments instead of pleasing Himself first, something inside of me would have withered and turned black. It just isn’t pretty as it happens.

The pretty comes later.

I got down on my knees and put my head on the floor. I gripped into the carpet hard enough to tear a few fingernails. I cocked my ass in the air and held my position as He tore into me – or so it felt. I hissed and breathed through each agonizing thrust, every one feeling like something ripping away in my side. When I sensed Him getting close I asked Him to take me hard(er) and fast(er), I wanted to savor every ridiculously painful moment in as much un-pretty glory as I could stand, and He did, almost knocking me over into a somersault as the pain reached a magnificent crescendo.

I came just after He did, right when He stopped thrusting, right when the pain dropped down a notch. I didn’t orgasm from the pain, not at all. It wasn’t erotic pain in any sense. I came from the use, the callousness, the insensitive cruelty.

After I’d righted myself and wiped the wetness from my eyes and looked up at Him, I whined a small and pitiful “that hurt” and He nodded, gave a curt “I know” and slammed His wet, sticky cock in my mouth to clean it off.

And then the pretty comes. It’s in the air and in our expressions and in our eyes. It’s in the lingering touches and small secret smiles. The emotions we feel. The energy we radiate, His powerful and hard, mine compliant and docile.

So should anyone think that Master is a mean old bastard and wish to rescue me from His maltreatment, please don’t. As Master likes to say “It’s all good.”

And when it’s good, it’s very good.

~cunt

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