Submission For Dummies.

Recently, Kitten in Chains wrote a spectacular piece about pleasing your dominant.

(Note: I’m chopping her post up to hell and back but I urge you all to go read it in its entirety. Trust me. Go. Read. Tell her of her insane awesome-ness. kthnxbi.)

How to please your Man (or Lady) in Three Easy Steps! And I quote:

“Step One to pleasing your Master

That’s it. Shut up. Listen. Do what he says.”

Simple, eh? Kinda makes one who has struggled with this feel a bit like a twit when you realize just how simple it really is. Shut up, listen, do it. Easy-peazy.

Kitten goes on to simplify it even further by telling you what NOT to do:

“Confucius say read 10 self help books, then work on self, then become one with self, then journal about it, then watch three very very special episodes of Oprah, then read 99 articles written by 99 different slaves with dynamics TOTALLY different than yours. Finally go to 7 Cons, attend four workshops on self talk, self esteem, and other things that begin with “self”. THEN you will be ready to please your owner.”

Don’t debate it. Don’t think about it. For Fucks Sake, don’t blog about it. Don’t ask the girls on the internet chat channel and forum what you should be feeling about what he told you to do. Don’t post it on a FetLife group. Don’t consult your horoscope, his horoscope, or the tarot. Just DO what HE says you should Do. Preferably, you should try to do what he says when he says you should do it.”

I don’t know if the rest of you found her post to be as hilarious as I did, but no matter how many times I read it, and I’ve read it several times, I am still giggling by the end. And applauding. Clap-n-giggle. It’s a new craze.

I think what gets me about her words is how I see myself in them not-so-long-ago. Or, more accurately, how I see myself *still* in her words. The bit about For Fucks Sake, don’t blog about it.? Cracks me UP.

Because just how much time do we waste trying to find that deeper meaning? Or trying to stumble upon the hidden secret of submission? Driving ourselves *crazy* trying to “get it” when all it takes to “get it” is to shut up, listen and do what He says. There is no secret, no deeper meaning, nothing to “get”.

Which is maybe a bit of a letdown, but a funny one so that’s okay.

There was a recent thread on Fetlife called “Too Perfect?” that ties neatly (I think anyway) into Kitten’s theory of 3 steps to success. The question on the FL thread was, as you can probably figure out from the title, is there such a thing as being too perfect in submission, and if so, wouldn’t the dom get bored with your perfect-ness.

Most of the responders fell all over themselves assuring themselves that perfection is not possible, that they will never be perfect, it’s unattainable, blah blah blah. Or, yanno, something along those lines. I, however, because it seems I’m always the voice of contention around there, said that perfection (perfect submission) within your relationship most certainly IS possible. Not only is it possible, if it ain’t happening, it’s because you choose not to be perfect for Him. Or Her.

Once you’ve become aware of what the expectations are, once you’re past the meet ‘n greet stage and are firmly embedded in an M/s relationship, perfection is easily within your reach. And you can have it too! By following Kitten’s 3 Steps to Pleasing.

I’m not saying I’m a perfect person because God knows I am as flawed as they come. But I’m not trying to be perfect for everyone. That *would* be impossible. I am trying to be perfect for one single person and that is NOT impossible. And any time, every single time, that He is not pleased and I have not been “perfect”, it’s because I CHOSE not to be. I chose whatever action or inaction it took to make Him displeased, to be less than perfect for Him.

I could say that perfection is impossible, but that would a self-deluding lie. It would be an excuse to absolve myself of responsibility. It would be a handy, and widely accepted, scapegoat. “I can’t please Him ALL THE TIME! Nobody is perfect, ffs!”

Bullshit. Pleasing Him, even perfectly pleasing Him, ain’t all that difficult. Shut up. Listen. Do what He says.

Piece of cake. ;-)

~cunt

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Trust vs. Control

I hear things like this a lot:

“If He trusted you, He wouldn’t need to read your emails.”

“Master knows I can handle myself so He doesn’t have to “babysit” me.”

This one, from another thread: “if you need to keep your partner in a box, they aren’t your partner.” or this one “if you have to brainwash her to the point where she can’t leave, you aren’t a dom, you’re a weak, insecure, fool who can’t keep her by any other means.”

“He actually PRE-READS your fucking email? On what planet is this not indicitive of a TERRIBLE case of insecurity on his part?”

“What does that say about the women that are brainless enough to obey”

So, what I have to ask is – what part of control don’t they understand? Why does it have to be indicative of a lack of trust or insecurity? Could it POSSIBLY be just one more measure of control?

Seems like bdsm has a lot to do with control. But maybe I’ve been misinformed. ;)

There are some people who get into bdsm for more than just kinky sex. Some dominants actually want to control “stuff” and some submissives want their “stuff” controlled, including such inane things as emails and friends lists.

What smacks of insecurity is the propensity people have to put down a kink they don’t have/understand/want.

I have a Master who controls such silly things as my emails. I think, and call me crazy here, that this is HARDLY an indication of being distrustful or insecure. As evidence of what I consider His trust and security, let me point out that I am, currently, sitting alone in His house, with two of His credit cards snug in my purse, the keys to both His car and His truck hanging by the door while He’s at work, and I can guarantee that He won’t be home for at least the next 10 hours. I am not chained to anything (though I’d like to be!). Yet I am not inviting the neighbor over for raunchy sex, I am not shopping with His credit cards, I am not cruising around town picking up hookers. I could, as I certainly have the means, but I’m not, nor does He think I will and I know this because He leaves every morning and leaves those items in my possession, perfectly convinced they will be right where He left them. As I will be right where He left me.

But that He reads my emails and pre-approves the books I read, He’s insecure and doesn’t trust me, nor does He really have control over me.

???

Baffles me. Honestly and truly.

What DOES this say about the women who are brainless enough to obey?

Um.. maybe that we’re submissive. ;-)

~cunt

(x-posted to FL)

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“To achieve your goal you need to know and be able to utilize all the resources available to you.”

It all started when I was unpacking the DVDs. I began to brood over the word ‘utilize’.

I tease Master about having a DVD fetish, but the truth is – Master has a DVD fetish. He has somewhere in the neighborhood of more than 500 and less than 1,000. He has… lots.

One time several years ago, in a moment of extreme boredom, I alphabetized His DVDs. He found that to be a grandly wonderous thing. I found it helpful considering that I was usually the one searching for whatever movie He wanted to watch, but I also found it difficult to maintain. People (Master, kids, myself) would just stick a movie back wherever after they’d watched it, plus any new ones that He bought meant having to slide the whole mess of them over in order to make room in whatever letter section it was meant to be in. Often, after I’d spend an hour or so rearranging and realphabetizing, I’d walk into another room and find a forgotten pile of movies that needed to be put away. Eventually, it just fell by the wayside.

Now and then Master would remark how much He’d liked having those DVDs alphabetized. I know He liked it. The pro-active, eager-to-please side of me would occasionally consider doing it. The lazy side of me would promptly talk myself out of it. The stubborn side of me would think “well, then tell me to do it already!”

As I was unpacking the DVDs and thinking, jeez, if I’m going to alphabetize these things, now would be the perfect time to do it, was when the brooding began. I could not, cannot, figure out why, if He likes something done, He won’t TELL me that He likes it that way and to keep it that way. He has a perfectly willing slave right at His fingertips. It’s my daily goal to make His life easier, better, more pleasant, even when it comes to some silly little thing like an organized DVD shelf.

Now I *get* that just having Him say “oh hey! I like that!” should be enough of an “order” for me to do it. In most things, that is enough. I don’t always need specific commands to know what it is that I am supposed to do to keep things smooth and easy for Him. He doesn’t wake up every day and tell me to go make coffee and breakfast – I just do it. (Though I ask Him every morning what He wants for breakfast even though 99% of the time the answer is the same. But it seems important to me, and to Him, that I not ever begin to *assume* that I know what He wants for breakfast even if He does have the same thing almost every day.) I don’t stand there like a brainless idiot waiting to be told what to do, I am generally proactive and anticipatory of His likes and dislikes, wants, needs and preferences.

However – and this is why I did not alphabetize the DVDs when I unpacked them – sometimes, a slave just needs to hear it.

You know how a person in a relationship can know perfectly well and with all their heart that they are loved, but sometimes, you just need to hear an “I love you”? Sometimes it needs to be verbalized, said outloud, hearing with the ears what the mind and heart already know. It means something. And that’s where I was. I know I’m a slave and I know what His expectations of me are – but maybe now and then, I need to hear it. I need to know that I’m doing it because He told me to and not just because I wanted to do one more proactive thing on my own.

Perhaps I’m heading down a path that I shouldn’t. I don’t know.

I just keep thinking that some of these seemingly innocent, or even silly, protocols or routines, things that are generally prevalent during the early stages of M/s but that tend to disappear over time are far more important than one gives them credit for. At what point does what I do completely on my own and without direction from Master erode from M/s into just a helpful, loving wife taking care of her husband?

Could it be something as simple as M/s verbiage? Sure I can organize these DVDs without Master saying a word and know I’m doing something that He likes, which is satisfying to me in it’s own right. Or, I can be told that He expects me to organize those DVDs and to keep them that way, and each and every single time I put a DVD away I’m reminded by His words and His tone of why I am doing it and what my place is in this relationship, which is immensely more satisfying and serves to keep this relationship from degenerating into your standard vanilla marriage.

Am I His wife sleeping next to Him in bed or am I His property, chained and locked where He wants me to be? Am I His loving wife cooking His breakfast before work or am I His servant, taking His order and filling it as best I can? Am I His lover or am I His fuckdoll? His friend or His subordinate?

I may have a place in all of those roles. But one manner of treatment raises the expectations of one side, the other manner of treatment raises the other. It’s very difficult to maintain the expectations and headspace of property, servant, fuckdoll, when the treatment implies friend, wife and lover.

i999shadow wrote a piece on Fetlife a bit ago that kinda-sorta aligned with my thinking here. She titled it “She/he needs me, she/he needs me not”. I quote:

On the one hand, there is the strong belief in the slave/sub that is independent, confident, in control, has it all together, can handle anything, will take care of the partner and all their stuff, and works for a living. We sometimes refer to them as the ‘warrior slave’.

Every now and then, this little voice in the back of my head says “Well HELL…. WHY would anyone that is happy, stable, financially secure, baggage free, totally in control, competent and stable need to have a TPE– and what the hell would the dominant find to control fer chrissakes??? Outside of playtime, what would that bottom/sub/slave have to turn over– and why would any top/dom/etc. WANT them to turn it over– after all, they are handling it just fine as it is, thank-you-very-much.

I find myself becoming more like the “warrior slave” and I find myself wondering the things in her last paragraph. What is there to control if I’m doing it all on my own? If I no longer need direction or commands or reminders – if I’m handling it all just fine, tyvm, outside of Him tying me down so He can make me cry, what are we morphing into?

Utilize! Utilize me.

*sigh*

Last night, I broached the subject. I’d been stewing on it and I know He’s not a mind reader so I simply asked Him.

Master? If You liked having those DVDs alphabetized, why don’t You just *tell* me to do it?

He was quiet for a little while; probably because He knows I never ask some out of the blue question like that without there being some huge “thing” fueling it.

So we discussed utilization. And we discussed expectations. We discussed roles and use and meaning.

And balance. I *am* here to be proactive and anticipatory. I can work very well on my own and make His life run smooth in the process. But when that gets out of balance? It erodes at the foundation of our M/s.

I don’t need to be chained in because I might wander off in the night.
What I need is that physical reminder.

I don’t need to wear a collar because my neck gets cold.
What I need is the visual reminder.

I don’t need to be told what to do because I’m brainless.
What I need is verbal reaffirmation.

And about those DVDs? Of course He wants them alphabetized. And kept that way. It sounds so small, and yet it’s so huge. Symbolism can be found in the strangest of places.

~cunt

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Playing by the Rules

I remember back before I had any real-life bdsm experiences, when I had just discovered it on the internet, before I even knew that people actually lived it – when I was a wee grasshopper – I was filled with the “shoulds” of it all.

What a Master *should* do and what a Master *should* say and how a Master *should* act. The things that a naive clueless submissive dreams of I suppose.

I wrote a contract once. Silly thing it was. Full of detailed responses that a Master *should* have in response to very detailed trangressions that a submissive would probably make. I remember showing it to someone once, and they laughed at it.

It hurt my feelers. It didn’t even occur to me that by detailing what the Master should do, I wasn’t letting Him be in charge. I was writing a script, mine and his, without realizing it. I was merely detailing my fantasies. Oh I suppose in a fictional Beauty-series moment, the contract was great. It certainly provided me with hours of masturbation material anyway.

I don’t have that contract anymore; it was written several years (and several computer hard drives) ago. If tasked with re-producing it today, I probably could not recapture the gullibility and innocence I had then. I think I would feel so incredibly stupid, now that I know reality from fantasy, that I could not do it with any amount of sincerity. And that shows through in writing, don’t you think?

Even after I had been well-educated on how Master was going to do things His way regardless of my silly preconceived notions, it took even longer to stop feeling a little bit embarrassed when I’d get bogged down in comparing Him to other Doms who were doing those things that I had once thought to be required. And even longer than that to stop feeling ashamed when another submissive would ask, shocked and disapproving, “He lets you do that?!?”

Shame and embarrassment morphed into a subdued sort of longing for awhile. At some point, the longing turned into reluctant acceptance and from there, a healthy respect began to grow. It’s rather awe-inspiring to think back on what I was when I came into this relatonship compared to what I am now, and how He got me here. How He’s trained me and changed me and re-created me. We both came into this with a very clear idea of what we wanted from the other, what behaviors and actions would fit our desires, and without any help from me, in fact, in the face of sometimes very active resistance from me, He was still able to “win”. I did not change Him a fraction, yet He’s totally re-wired me. When one talks of evidence of dominance, I’d say it lies, not in the welts on one’s backside, but inside of the one being dominated. I am the evidence, not the marks I carry.

I suppose you’d not believe me if I told you I started this entry with the intention of talking about shaving, huh? I was going to discuss how far off His rules and whims are from what I thought they “should be” when I first became His. That, and the recent comment discussion around the “He lets you talk like that??” had me thinking about the shoulds of it all.

He hasn’t let me shave in about 2 months. It’s getting pretty gnarly, starting to grow down my thighs. I joked that at this rate by the time the snow flies I won’t have to wear pants. I don’t know if He’ll let me shave again ever, nor do I care really. I’m no longer disgusted over pubic hair, it doesn’t make me feel dirty or gross. He’s mentioned a time or two that He’ll make me post pictures and I just shrug. If He does or doesn’t, I don’t mind either way. You’ve all seen my cootch in all manners of hairy stages, from bald to furry, so it’s no biggie.

I DID think though, that someone would comment that He should make me shave.

Well anyway, this entry kinda went nowhere fast so I’m abandoning it.

~cunt

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Victim head vs. Slave head

One day last week, after Master had left for work, I went back into the bedroom, shut the door and let the kids fend for themselves for the morning. Usually in the morning, I cook breakfast, pack lunches, help with hair and makeup, bustle around making sure each one has homework papers and milk money and book bags. I ask if they’ve had enough to eat, if they want more, fuss over them. You know, all of that fun mommy stuff.

I don’t do it because I have to; at their ages they are certainly capable of doing all of that stuff for themselves. In fact, when I was working they DID do that stuff by themselves. But they do want me to do it, like that I do it, and now have a better appreciation for me for doing it. Which was entirely the reason why I didn’t do it that one day last week.

They’d not just stopped appreciating it, they’d gone beyond expectation and far into entitlement, accompanied by indignation and rudeness. I may be the slave around here, but it’s not to them. Best to nip that behavior right in the bud, I think.

When they came home that afternoon and began to complain about the lack of “doing my job” that morning, we had a nice long talk about what my responsibility as a parent is- and is not – and what parts of it I do based soley on what they deserve and earn, as well as what I do because I enjoy it, and how my enjoyment of it is dependent on their response to it. It seems a pretty simple concept that should they label me as a bitch, I damn well better be on my best bitch behavior and earn that label.

Shortly after that day I read the phrase “You’re in victim head…you need to get into slave head.” from Just_W on Fetlife in response to another poster (not me) and about a totally different situation (not mine) , along with the another comment from julietsierra, also from Fetlife, from the same thread that said “I’d also say that the notion of “victim head” is an interesting concept. It implies that you’re owed something, that your trust has earned you something and that if it doesn’t work out the way you perceive it should that somehow your own personal balance sheet is kind of out of balance.” that it occured to me that that is exactly what I was thinking that morning when I deliberately went back to bed and forced myself not to care what, or if, they ate or if they forgot some vital homework page. Because the exchange between myself and the kids *is* based on a system of checks and balances, beyond what it is that I’m required to do as a mom, and it had gotten way off balance. I felt “victimized”; used and taken advantage of.

I do not have to provide a car so they can skip the hour and a half bus ride to and from school. I do not have to provide the three of them with cell phones. I do not have to cook eggs and bacon at 6a.m. or make baloney sandwiches or show them how to put on eye shadow or chase them down when homework papers are left on the table or a hundred other things I could list. And if those things aren’t wanted, appreciated, or needed, there are other things I can do with my time. At their age, it’s not too early for them to understand that the world works this way, based upon a balance sheet and a somewhat even exchange of services.

What I’ve been thinking about since then though, is how the balance sheet simply does not apply to my relationship with Master. Though we do indeed have an “exchange of services”, to put it clinically, it’s not a balanced exchanged. It’s certainly not one where I can refuse to do something based on the notion that He’s not appreciative enough of what I do, all in order to teach Him a lesson.

But that is something He could do. And has done.

It’s also something I have tried to do, tried to rationalize, tried to make my reality. I was stuck in “victim head”, not yet fully understanding or accepting just what it is that my submission meant when it came to detaching myself from the concepts that I had previously lived under for my entire life.

It seemed logical to me for a very long time that if I do A, He then has to do B. And if He does not do B after I have done A, then I get to stop doing A until He does B based soley on the fact that the balance sheet was no longer balanced. I know, though I’m too lazy to go look, that I’ve made several posts on this very concept. The post about “getting paid” comes to mind.

I’m not taking back what I said then, or contradicting myself. I think I very much believed what I wrote then. But I also know that that is not what I believe anymore. All of this is a growth process, just as most everything is. You have to learn to walk before you can run.

I’ve watched now, the balance sheet between Master and I become so far unbalanced that it finally fell apart. And I did not die. The earth did not shake on it’s axis. I have not sunk into a hole of misery and despair. What I sank into was “slave head”.

I’ve realized how much work it was trying to keep that sheet balanced. I’ve discovered how much less stressful my day is when I’m not constantly tallying up my list of A’s against His list of B’s. I’ve found a very deep pleasure in submitting without getting paid, without expectation or want of getting paid. And I’ve found something extremely giddy, something that was previously missing, when I DO get paid. It’s no longer something that I feel I deserve or have earned, something that before I think I felt rather righteously justified in receiving. Submission now feels very pure.

But it wasn’t easy to get here, it really wasn’t. What it looks like from the other side, what I remember it looking like before I let myself get here, was a very bleak, martyr-ish existence. One where I could never be happy again, where I’d be nothing more than a glorified maid-for-free, because after all, if I didn’t stand up for myself and demand that I get what I had coming, who would?? I went into it kicking and screaming. Master is a patient man, but He’s not a saint. Goodness no. He has His limits, and I certainly tested this one.

I wish I could accurately explain the blinding, crippling fear that is so often involved when you have to take these leaps of faith along the M/s path. I am not ashamed of my resistance because I believe it to be an entirely rational fear, worthy of hesitation. Of course I wish I could go back and tell my old self that what’s on the other side is actually pretty good and to stop being such a twit, but really, would I have this amount of joy and appreciation had I not struggled so hard with it?

I see other people I know, friends and enemies alike, still frantically trying to balance the accountant’s sheet. I’m quietly rooting for you.

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Don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone.

This pic came through on a yahoo mailing list I’m on. It seemed to apply to my life right about now. ;-)

The last couple of weeks have been really good for us. They’ve been busy and stressful but under (over? around?) all the stress we’ve been reestablishing some basics on the M/s front.

Some of it is the natural ebb and flow of life. Sometimes things are hot and heavy, sometimes it wans, but never does it change the core of our relationship. But there for a little while it seemed things were seriously wonky for us. I know it showed here, and while I’m not even coming close to trying to excuse anything I’ve said because I continue to stand behind my words – and mean them when I say them- I know the delivery was pretty snarky. Even Master was shocked (disappointed? Definintely not pleased) with some of what I said. Some of the comments pointing out things like boredom, dissatisfaction, etc., weren’t so far off the mark.

Master and I had gotten into a rut of sorts. There was a lot of talk and not a lot of action – from either of us. It was too easy to put things off, to give in to the tired and the sore and the television and why-do-today-what-you-can-put-off-until-tomorrow mindset. Probably we were somewhat aware of the damage it was doing, but too far in the rut to fix it.

The really stupid thing about it all is that the fixes are so simple, so easy. The last little while we’ve both been kinda dumbstruck with the sheer simplicity that we so thoroughly missed. We’re looking at each other and going “that was it??”

For the first time in very close to a year I’ve had a slight return of the desire and hope and expectation. All of those things I had buried and turned off, things I would pull out maybe one at a time, but never together, I can feel swimming around under the surface. It’s a little scary yet to let them all come out at once, once burned twice shy and all of that nonsense, but to know it’s not dead is pretty spectacular.

Basically all we did was remove the distractions and make a few purchases.

Maybe all of you do this, maybe none of you do, but you know how when you’re kinky and you’re walking through a store, you look at things differently? Instead of only focusing on the intended purpose of an object, you cock your head and wonder how it can be perverted? Clamps are picked up and pinched experimentally on the webbing between your thumb and finger, rope is fondled, instruments are whacked against palms and always there are the secret looks and waggled eyebrows and grins and giggles between the two of you?

Yeah, we’d stopped doing that. Completely. He would try and I would just shake my head, not engage in the banter. Because there were (are) about 100 items sitting at home that had never been touched. Bought in the same manner, the same “oh this looks fun! I could pervert this!”, taken home and sat on a shelf and never used. There would be plans, talk, diagrams, discussions.. and no delivery.

No delivery = no hope = no interest = boredom.

I’m certainly not laying the blame at Master’s feet. I was just as apathetic as He was. I was tired, and while I was perfectly happy to complain about what HE wasn’t doing, I took zero initiative to do anything myself.

Part of what has helped, believe it or not, was removing the possibility of certain things. When it’s not there mocking me with it’s un-use, I can’t long for it. I don’t have to tamp down the desire. I don’t have disappointment because I don’t have expectation for specific activities. Because they can’t happen. It’s not His choice not to do it, it’s not the kids or time or too tired or any of the 800 excuses that were used. It simply cannot happen.

I’m not lying in bed staring up at dusty eyebolts in the ceiling. I’m not walking past the unopened cunt cupboard 20 times a day. The toy closet is not here. I’m not reminded in a thousand different ways of what I *could* have.

There is no television in our bedroom now. I think having a t.v. in a bedroom is the worst thing for a relationship. It was a distraction, something else to pay attention to instead of each other. We’ve fucked more since we’ve moved here than we did in the last month or two before. It was too easy to crawl in bed, flip on the tv and get interested in a program or a movie and not get interested in each other.

There is no computer in the bedroom. We have an office and the computer is very much removed now from the rest of our house. You know what would happen when the comp was in the bedroom? One of us would pop on “just to check mail!” when the other would be getting into bed. And we all know what happens with internet time, right? The one in bed, usually me, would already be sawing logs before the other had finished. And then! To make matters worse, rather than wake the sleeping one up for satisfaction? Masturbation. We were just so *kind* to each other, you know? The “aww, she’s sleeping. She has to work tomorrow so I’ll just take care of myself. I love her too much to wake her up for a quick fuck. Poor precious sleepy-head”.

I cannot even detail with any accuracy the chasm that was forming. The disconnect.

I’m not even sure it’s fully felt when you’re in it. Not until later, like now, when it’s not there and you realize just how much you’ve missed, how far apart you drifted.

The purchase that made the other huge difference was a new bed. I’m not going to say what the whole bedroom set cost because there is this other blogger that I read now and then and she’s always talking about how much money they make or what they spent on this or that and I find that really tacky (imagine that. Me finding something tacky. Heh.) so all I will say is that it cost a lot. But it was totally worth it.

The other bed that we had, that I loved purely for it’s bondage opportunities, was an old iron-barred thing. And it was small, just a standard double sized bed. Master is 6’4″ tall. He didn’t even FIT on the bed. Plus it was so. noisy. It creaked like a rusty swing set. Anyone in the house knew what we were doing on that bed. More often than not we’d move to the floor just to avoid the “ummmmm.. I know what you two were doing last night!” comments from the peanut gallery in the morning. But being old and tired with achy joints made the floor not-so-appealing sometimes. :-( And the new bed also has bars for bondage purposes. *beams*

When we went to the furniture store, Master flat out told the salesman that He wanted a bed that was absolutely silent, AND told him why(!), while I hid my face behind the newspaper advertisement. Srsly. The man has no shame. How embarrassing.

He bought a king-size bed. Besides His size and wanting to actually fit on it, there was another reason why He went big. He’s always had a preference for me to sleep inbetween His legs, using His cock as a perverted pacifier. It’s something that we’ve previously only been able to do when we’d spend the night in a hotel because they always have the big beds there. In our old bed, try as we might, there was just no way to arrange ourselves with any comfort (for Him) for me to lay between His legs. This bed? Could have 3 sluts between His legs with room to spare I think. The bed is ginormous. I can lay across it sideways and still not be off either edge. Master laughs at me when He sees me lying in it alone. He says it swallows me. Feels like it too! I feel like I could get lost in it.

(Master said I couldn’t ‘girlify’ His stuff. :-( )

(tee hee. We has a peeping tom-cat)

Needless to say, the return to the ritual of nightly blow jobs while He relaxes with a book, curling up with my head on His thigh and His cock in my mouth, focusing not on grocery lists or work stuff, but only on how to fall asleep without biting – major improvement in head space, lemme tell ya. My jaw is sore! But I’d rather have that than the inner turmoil I was in before.

Speaking of work, now that I’m not working, it’s pretty clear how much that affected what we had going on, too. It wasn’t just having a job because clearly people work and maintain relationships. It’s not that I think M/s can’t be done when combined with a job at all. But the specific hours of the job I had when combined with the service portion of what it is that He wants, it was literally a death sentence to OUR M/s style. There are two times of the day when my service to Him is personal, meaningful, and important. The early morning when I make His breakfast, serve Him coffee, pack His lunch and be generally available for whatever He wants/needs, and at the end of the day when He’s going to bed. He likes His feet lotioned and massaged, His back rubbed, and His cock sucked at night.

Both of those times of the day were shot with the job I had. I was at work before He even got up and I was snoring before He was even ready for bed. That’s not to say that I won’t have a job here, if the right one comes along, it just won’t be one that can interfere as that one did. And He’s said that me working is not a necessity nor a priority. He wants me to focus on Him and on improving service. No more tired and cranky, no more feeling imposed upon, no more falling asleep before He’s satisfied, no more distractions.

He moved here with a clear plan in mind and it appears to be working out considerably well. I’m sure there will be ebbs and flows here too. I’m sure we’ll be revisiting things as we always seem to do. It’s just nice to be in a semi-stable and comforting place. I’m going to work on staying here for a while.

I’m off to mud drywall. Is there a more tedious and messy task than that? Ugh.

~cunt

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“If one dream should fall and break into a thousand pieces, never be afraid to pick one of those pieces up and begin again.”

On the long and boring drive to retrieve my children from Granny’s house today I gave lots of thought to the comments given to my expectation/desire dilemma of the past week. I cannot reply to each comment individually, but many of you were saying much the same thing so I think I can reply appropriately to each message in this post.

First, I seriously considered the depression comments. Believe me when I say that I do not see the need for medication, or therapy, as a weakness or as anything to be ashamed of so I’d not dismiss the possibility of depression for those reasons. However, I have come to the conclusion that I am not suffering from any sort of clinical depression, at least not of the variety that might warrant treatment.

I think it *is* a depressing situation, and it’s certainly not anything that causes me happy-happy-joy-joy feelings. But in my every day doings, and how I cope each day, I’m quite content and happy, pleasant and capable. I do not exhibit other signs of depression. My “problem” is completely limited to that one specific thing and has not (yet) affected other areas. Having said that, I think it may have the potential to become something that bleeds over into other areas, therefore, due to your comments, it is something Master and I will keep a watchful eye on.

The next common suggestion was communication. What can I say about this. It’s not anything I can argue with as being “bad” advice. It’s kinda like snatching a marothon runner up at the finish line and advising them to “breathe! You just gotta breathe!”. Totally inarguable as something vital – yet also really, really obvious and inane and a tad insulting.

I really do hate to say that I was insulted by advice that I’m sure was not meant to be insulting, it’s just that I had hoped that I’d put forth the impression that I was able to think of breathing on my own without being told to, you know?

Here’s another thing about communication. There can come a time when communication becomes excessive to the point of being a hindrance rather than an aid. There was a time when I needed, and Master required, that I spill every thought, where I was open and honest and transparent, where He needed to know me in order to control me. We’re just not there anymore. He knows me, and He knows enough about me, that my continued blatherings are as interesting as Seinfeld reruns.

I know that I no longer need to repeat old information to Him like a broken record, just as well as I know that He needs to hear the new information because He’s not a mind reader. I gave up the “well if you loved me enough, you’d know what was wrong!” game a long time ago.

Wants vs. Needs was next. Now there’s an endless debate, eh? Master decided on my needs long ago. I have four basic needs – air, food, water, shelter. Everything else is a want. I may think my want is a need because I long for it with every cell in my body, but that longing does not magically transform it into a need. There may be wants that make me a better person, a person easier to live with or better able to serve, but again, that only gets to be a need if Master *needs* me to be that person. He can, and does, change what He *needs* from me on a daily basis, thereby adjusting the catering to my *wants*.

Whether or not He comes to the conclusion that I *need* something else, or something more, from Him in order to maintain my purpose in His life remains to be seen. I’m not approaching this problem of mine from the postion that He *needs* to fix it. Because it wasn’t a problem that HE identified (which would have acknowledged that it’s a problem for *Him*) my approach, and my question to you all here was what can *I* do, or what have you all done, to cope with this.

Expectations and Disappointment. Align my desires with His, lose the expectations, and voila! no more disappointment. Sage advice really, if that’s what I was trying to do. I guess I wasn’t able to clarify that that’s what I had already done, which, in essence, is the “new” problem.

Oh I admit this was a huge issue for me once upon a time. I had my expectations, mostly unrealistic I might add. I came into this with some hugely fantastical ideas of what it should be like, of how He would act and how I would act and how life would be. And I was sorely disappointed when reality kicked my ass. It was a job to pull my head out of the clouds and align myself with Him. It was a job to not be as annoying as a chihauhau on crack, bouncing and yapping around His ankles, going “play with me! play with me! PLAY WITH ME! yap yap yap!” It was a job to learn to not be devastated when play was put aside in favor of sleep, food and paychecks.

But I did it, see. I stopped expecting and I stopped being disappointed. I rolled with the punches (pun optional). If whatever happened, then – whatever happened happened. Or didn’t happen. I did my stuff, my service stuff as He wanted, without constantly thinking about what I would get out of it or when I would “get paid”, accepting, finally, that I’m not going to get paid, it’s not about what *I* get out of it, and either way, I still have to do what I do. His expectations didn’t change, mine had to.

There’s no build up of resentment. There may have been early on but that proved pretty quickly to be a useless waste of energy.

So when I read the comments advising me to align my desires and drop my expectations all I could think was I did! I have. Mission accomplished. And as a result of doing that – now I have this. This.. apathy… and what do I do about *that*.

Walk away. Leave. Do it or don’t do it (but ‘shut the fuck about it’ seemed to be the rest of the message). I despise this as advice. Seriously. Not everyone is looking for a way out, nor should giving up be encouraged so readily. There are instances where “get out” is appropriate immediate advice, but I am not one of them nor do I think I’ve ever given the impression that I need that. And honestly, how discouraging is it to hear that the only “fix” for your situation is to abandon it? Or that it’s not okay to whine about it (if I am whining and I’m not decided that I am yet) without someone dooming a relationship to failure. Besides, unless you’ve only just started reading me today, you should already know this – leaving is not an option. Period.

I’m more than willing to have the whole “can I or can’t I leave” discussion if anyone is interested, but for now let’s just scratch that off as an option. So since it’s not an option, what I’d really like to do is find a way to deal with this *within* the confines of the relationship.

Which leads me to “harden the fuck up and deal”. That’s really not bad advice. That’s also what I’ve been doing for months. I’m ‘dealing’. I’ll continue to ‘deal’ because, thus far, there is nothing more I CAN do. I thought I could talk about it and maybe find something more attractive than “harden the fuck up and deal”, something more pleasant – but maybe there isn’t anything.

I am still deeply considering the accepting of the acceptance, which ties neatly into being Master’s puppet. There is truth in that if He wanted me to return to that eager, greedy, yapping painslut who begged for it, He knows how to create that again, just as He knows how to shut it(me) off. Perhaps He needs to do His own experiments with me, creating and destroying multiple times in multiple ways before He can decide which of me better suits His needs. Maybe I suit Him now, as is, and indefinitely shelving what I once was will continue on. Maybe beating me while I hang there, impassive and detached, excites Him. Beating me until the pain trumps the apathy; a moment of triumph not quite equalled when I’m otherwise so willing.

If He were here, He’d pop me in the mouth and tell me to stop fucking analyzing everything to death.

Now there’s some sound advice that I should take.

G’night

~cunt

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“I keep clicking these damn shoes, but nothing happens”

(my response to a comment a few posts back)

I think, possibly, the phrase of ” all day fantasizing about something” has been taken literally when, for me at least, it’s not. I understand what you mean, and should it actually be the case where I were sitting here all day building up fantasies, then the let-down would indeed be understandable, and my own fault to boot.

But I see it, I mean it, as a more abstract idea of “all day fantasizing”. In that, this is the situation that He created, the focus that He wanted and fostered and sacrificed to make. He systematically eliminated, with great skill and determination, the outside distractions that prevented me from focusing on slavery and service and usefulness (etc. etc.) He demanded, still demands, that my number one priority is being His slave, of always being mindful that what I do is in service to Him. I don’t *just* clean the house because I’m a housewife. I clean it the way He wants it cleaned because He wants it cleaned on the day He wants it cleaned. Which may sound like I’m trying to romanticize the simple fact of cleaning the fucking house like every other person has to do, but it’s not meant to be that way at all. It has been beaten, sometimes literally, into me that every act, every move is done for Him or because of Him, or because He allows it.

The very existence of my day IS focusing on slavery. Not hours spent daydreaming about it, hours spent doing it. So yeah, I focus and focus and focus on the mean, awful, rotten but lively things about it because I cannot NOT do so anymore.

Maybe that makes no sense. I don’t know up from down anymore.

You’ve hit something right on the head though. And that’s the manipulation, the topping from the bottom, the bargaining.

I well remember the bratting, and I think we’ve moved far past that. Except in instances where we both know it’s happening and it’s actually happening in a teasing, enjoyable manner, we’ve conquered that beast.

However, to lay this particular beast open for Him feels much, MUCH the same way. Here I am saying “Look, if you don’t beat me/use me as I need to be beaten and used, I’m left to fall down this rabbit hole of angst and depression and self-denial” is it not exactly the same thing? Am I not saying “do it my way, as I need it, or else”? It feels like I am, when in fact, I do not mean to be. I’m merely acknowledging the problem without expectation that He can or will do diddly squat about it. In fact, I’m more searching for ways that *I* can “fix” it because I dare say that whether He acknowledges it as a “problem” for Him, I do not anticipate that He’s going to change or alter what He does with me anymore than He ever has.

~~*~~

There are still a lot of comments to explore and absorb and try on for size and either reject or embrace as usuable, applicable, advice. I’m also trying not to systematically reject each one based on “nobody gets it, nobody gets ME, because I am special and unique and blah blah blah…” because I am not even though I wish I were. ;-)

The thing is, this isn’t a new “problem”, not something that’s plaguing me now out of the blue. It’s not even a new topic of conversation between Master and I, nor is it a subject of heated debate. It’s just something that is, something that happens. Which is nobody’s fault and I’m not looking to lay blame, unless of course I can demand a refund from the Universe.

What brought it up so poignantly for me was, though I try really hard to bury even the lack of desire that comes from burying the expectations (I have a literal graveyard in my head I think), on this occasion I was not able to. When Master pulled me to Him at one point, either Friday or Saturday, and began the dirty talk of what He wished to do to me, I reacted. By not reacting.

Kinda threw Him for a loop, to be honest. Of course I have times where I’m not in the mood but these moments of being in the dead zone, which are a far cry different than a “mood” are not only happening more frequently, but stronger. It is disturbing.

I remained in that dead zone throughout an entire session. I felt.. nothing.

I was cut and I was whipped and I was flogged and I was fucked and I was clamped and I was spit on, slapped, paddled and pissed on.

And I felt nothing.

Nothing.

I felt dead.

Never before has that feeling persisted throughout an entire scene. I may feel it going in, that familiar lack of desire, but always before it’s been tapped and opened and I am not able to resist the pull of masochism and slavery and use. I did not try to resist it this time either. I waited for it to come as it always has, the endorphins, the adrenaline, whatever it is that makes me tick – I waited for it, until it was over and I was showered and bandaged and left silently crying and telling Him that it was gone.

It was quite the emotionally disturbing scene for me.

But there is more and is not all so doom-n-gloom as this was. Unfortunately, work awaits me as it is my ‘two-for-Tuesday’ workday where I do both the morning and afternoon shift. So off I go to be a productive and responsible member of society!

~cunt

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“If you must play, decide on three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time”

(First, I want to apologize for not being present sometimes when the conversation in the comments gets as interesting as it often does. Well, I don’t apologize for not being here when I’m off being where He’s told me to be, but I do feel like I sometimes put something out there and then sort of “abandon” the topic when He pulls me away. I hope any of you who comment know that I never intend to be rude, and that I do read, and appreciate, all of your words. Since Master is leaving ~sob~ I hope I can catch up with what’s been said. I don’t always like having to choose between comment or post, but such is life and in this short amount of time that I have right now, I want to post. So get on with it then, right? :D )

Three and a half years ago I quit smoking. I was a wonderful smoker too. Extremely dedicated to the art of it. I’d been smoking since I was quite young, 13 or so, back when you could buy cigarettes without an ID and when a pack was a mere $0.75. Quite often my little group of ‘homies’ would pool our change, buy a pack at the gas station and then smoke the entire thing between us. Of course back then, smoking was still cool, the Marlboro Man was a sex symbol, cigarettes weren’t addictive and cancer wasn’t caused by tobacco. By the time “they” admitted that it did, I was well and truly addicted.

By the time I was 16 and able to finance my habit on my own, I smoked a pack, sometimes two packs a day – for the next 18 years. I smoked when I was pregnant, I smoked in front of my kids,(go on and beat me up for it, you cannot possibly beat me up more than I have myself. I was blessedly lucky that none of my kids, so far, suffered any ill-effects from my selfishness) I smoked all the time. I chain-smoked. Buying cigarettes, as the price began to rise, came first out of each paycheck. Before rent, before groceries, before anything, was cigarettes.

I enjoyed smoking. I liked it. I liked the taste, the feel, the smell. I liked holding it, I liked inhaling it and exhaling it. I liked having one (or six) with coffee. I liked having one after a meal. I liked getting that first deep drag on that first break at work. I loved having one after sex, and I liked to smoke while I was driving. Having the window down, radio on, arm out the window and a good tasting cigarette made a summer afternoon drive pleasant. But the best, the very very best cigarette of all, was with a drink, in a bar, hanging with some friends.

I look back on my smoking years with some fondness. Obviously. I know that for all the bad that surrounds smoking, that doesn’t subtract from the genuine enjoyment I got out of it, an enjoyment that I still miss.

You know what I didn’t enjoy, not one stinking tiny little iota? Quitting. Quitting smoking was without a doubt the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life. Smoking was(is) a horrific physical addiction, as well as a horrific mental addiction. People who want to say it’s “just a habit” are full o’ shit, because while part of kicking it IS kicking the habit of the ritual of smoking, there is a LOT more to it than breaking a simple habit.

Quitting smoking, and anyone who does smoke and who has ever tried, and either failed or succeeded in quitting, will likely agree, is a bitch. A big, fat, smelly, rotten bitch.

It sucked, from the very second I crushed out that last cigarette – the very. second. that I knew I would never have another one, was the very second I started craving one.

And it’s never stopped.

Sometimes it’s nothing more than a low buzz, like constant background noise, almost forgettable until I see someone with one, or catch a pleasant whiff and then that low, buzzing, background noise kicks up into a quick, high-frequency beep for a time.

Other times it’s a deep and stong pull. A heart-thumping, palm-sweating need where I can picture myself going through the motions of tapping one from the pack, settling it between my lips, the quick flash of the lighter and the harsh burn that I imagine that first puff will be. The sweet heaven of filled lungs, and the rush of nicotine coursing through me– light-headed euphoria.

There are two reasons why I have not smoked since Master handed me that last cigarette three and a half years ago. The first reason, and what should be the more important reason, is because Master has forbidden it. I say it *should be* because, well, because it should be – but it isn’t.

Not so long ago, a few short weeks, my friend from Illinois came to visit. She smokes. She and I used to smoke together. In fact, I dare say that our friendship’s roots can be traced to a smoking hut, where we met at work and took our breaks together. Over countless cups of coffee and hurriedly puffed cigarettes, in 15 minute intervals, we became, officially, BFF’s. (though she has not gotten me the cool BFF necklace. *pout*)

During her stay here, for one afternoon, Master left us alone together for several hours. We sat outside and she chain-smoked. And I craved, in that heart-thumping, palm-sweating-need kinda way, I drooled over her cigarettes. I wanted one. I needed one.

I got the shakes.

It wasn’t Master’s order that I would never smoke again that stopped me from begging one, just one quick puff from her. I’d already considered, and already knew, that I could do it and I could get away with it with relative ease, and probably relatively little guilt. (spoken like a true addict. rationalize and excuse.) I knew that she would give me one if I asked, and I also knew that for all her teasing about tattling (as she’s well aware of what our relationship entails), that she would not. Probably would not. And if she did, well.. it is easier to beg forgiveness than to ask for permission.

But what stopped me, what has stopped me every single time I’m face to face with the possibility of smoking a cigarette, is knowing that once it’s over and I’ve snubbed it out – I’ll have to quit again.

I have not forgotten, nor romanticized, the absolute hell that those first few weeks were. I do not ever, ever, ever, want to have to do that again. When I’m standing there, with my hands shaking and my mouth drying and my lips quivering with the possibility of one more cigarette and I think for just a moment about going through the process of quitting again? No thank you. I’d rather deal with that brief moment, and stuff that craving down, than feed it, awaken it, bring it back alive – and have to slay it again.

Count me out. I won once and once was hard enough.

Imagine for a moment, if once every 2 or 3 months, Master sat me down and handed me a couple of smokes. Imagine that He lit me up, poured me a drink, and sat with me, laughing and joking and creating this jolly good time around those smokes. And when I’d finished a couple, or even finished a day or two of indulging in chain-smoking, imagine that He crushed up the rest of the pack, tossed it in the garbage, forbid me from smoking again – and left me, once more, to quit.

On my own, no help, no support, no sympathy. No listening to complaints, no excuse for being cranky or crabby. To just quit – again.

Only to do it again some couple of weeks, or months, or days, later. Hand me cigarettes, create the setting where smoking is fun and glorious and indulgent – and then take it away. To quit again and again and again.

I would think, and perhaps I’m wrong, but I believe that no matter how badly I might crave that cigarette, no matter how much I may want to feed that desire, knowing the hell of quitting that will follow would make me shy away from each smoking session. To begin to see smoking, even given with His permission and without having coerced Him into it, to see it, know it, as the enemy. The prequel to having to quit, to stuff it down and kill it again.

And that is exactly how I have begun to approach scenes. It’s not about having unrealized expectations or about disappointment or about finding happiness in what I get. It’s not that AT ALL. I am, I HAVE accepted what He gives, no more and no less. I do not manipulate or coerce or beg or whine or plead for something more or even for something different.

What I can’t figure out, what I can’t seem to DO, is to be that happy, laughing masochist, or that happy smoker trotting out with the ashtray, joyfully accepting the process of quitting that I know is to follow.

Maybe there is no way. I know I cannot “fake it”, I know that I wear my emotions on my sleeve and that He knows, sees, feels, breathes my reluctance and my fear. I know that it’s difficult for Him to understand it. Here He is, giving me that which I crave and need, and I’m mentally sidling away, trying to find a corner of my mind to hide in because I know that if I hold a bit of me back, it’s easier to get back to where I’m safe. It’s easier to stuff it down and shut if off when life takes over again.

I’m not asking how to deal with the expectations. I’ve done that. I’m not asking how to deal with being disappointed as I’ve done that too. I’m not asking about fairness or needs or how to manipulate or how to behave or whose fault it is or if I should leave. None of that.

Maybe I don’t even know what I’m asking. Maybe I’m not asking anything because it’s unanswerable. Maybe it just IS. Maybe I’m just acknowledging that a piece of me is dying and it saddens me, scares me a little and maybe I’m fighting to hold on to something that I shouldn’t.

As always, when I let it be, something better usually awaits.

… to be continued…

~cunt

ps. I’m not sure that the smoking example fits. I thought it did when I was babbling away to Master earlier, but now it’s all fuzzy and has holes and… bah. I should not be allowed to post when He’s just driven off and left me alone. I’m quite…. unstable. Unstable but really wide awake, which sucks butt considering I have to be to work in 4 hours. Bugger. ;-)

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My thoughts exactly

From Carrie –

For me (and we’ve talked about this before, you and I) it’s kind of like…
We sit around half the day thinking about what we’d like to do and all the nasty, wonderful things we’d like our guys to do to us when they get home. We fantasize and devote a ton of our attention to anticipating these things…
And then Dude gets home and he just wants dinner and a quick blowjob and a good nights sleep.
So we bury the want for the night and move on.
This goes on for days, weeks, months sometimes…
We get agitated, whiny, bitchy, out of our proper “place” because we’re, while happy and content in general, perhaps not getting all the s/m and direct, in your face control and displays of power we crave.

So we get to a place where you bury it down deep and stop thinking about it all day, stop letting that desire be at the front of our minds.
Cuz that’s what we “should” do, right? Sit and patiently wait, serving and being in our proper places until our Dude has the time, the desire, the energy, whatever, to give us what he wants to.
I mean, it’s not the same if we force or guilt them into it, right?
And, besides, being a slave isn’t about us, right?

So we bury, and bury, and bury…
We modify our expectations…

And next thing you know…
Even though a part of you, deep inside, is aching for the things you’re not getting, another part of you can’t seem to let that ache, that need, that desire free anymore.
Even when you GET what you’ve been needing it’s not quite the same, not quite enough or something.
Because you’ve shoved that shit so deep inside to prevent the pain of not getting, to prevent being a whiny, needy, high maintenance bitch that it’s just not possible to free it.

I mean, you can.
But it’s dusty. It’s rusty. It’s cautious. It’s scared.

It knows it’s going to have to go back to being buried, that it’s only being let out for a little bit and that’s kind of like asking a flower to grow, bud and bloom all in a single day.
It just doesn’t work that way.
The wild, uninhibited, craving response we give when our need, our desire, has been nurtured and fed regularly simply doesn’t happen when we’ve been burying that desire.

At least for me.
When I consciously let go of my expectations I have to smother the desire. Otherwise I get resentful. I get disappointed. Things don’t work right when I get disappointed and resentful.
I dunno.
I’m not making a lick of sense.

I know some folks manage to retain that sense of being a writhing, needing, aching thing despite having no expectations. Manage to want while still staying in their patient place.
I can’t.
When I drop my expectations the desire slowly but surely drops, as well.
I think it’s self protection.
It hurts less to wait if I make myself not really want it, if I’m not feeling rejected every time I don’t get it.

=============================

Word for word I couldn’t have said it any better, she said exactly what I was thinking.

I guess the next question is – then what?

(btw folks, if you’re in the market for some seriously hot and rough bdsm clips, check out Carrie’s clip store. I promise it’s worth it. They play hard, and since I know them, I can vouch for it being genuine. There ain’t no playing for the camera there.)

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