Lulz

Slave Labor

I haz it.

~S

Ornaments

A couple of days ago Swan made a post about her Christmas ornaments. I liked it so much I’m copying.

It’s all behind the cut because I’m too lazy to crop the pictures properly.

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It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…

Ev’rywhere you go!

I have snow pictures. When I took them I was all kinds of snow-happy. I’d even shoveled the walk before 7am, go-gettin’ little slave that I am!

But then Jes got her car stuck in the ditch and it cost me (cost Master) sixty-freaking-dollars to tow it out, so after that I was a snow-hating little bitch.

But the pictures were still pretty and since I have nothing else to share because I am pathetically desperate for bdsm sustenance, I’m going to post them anyway.

Behind the cut, of course.

~cunt

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“To torture a man you have to know his pleasures.”

Master is working insanely unreasonable hours lately. This leaves very little (read: zero) time for anything fun. I’m making the most of it by throwing myself into what I DO have, which is cooking and cleaning and giving body massages and masturbation and offering blow jobs. And assuring Him that I am perfectly fine without being beaten even as I secretly writhe in unscratched-itch discomfort.

And I am not whining or complaining about it, either. (Except here right now because I can.)

What I find is that the longer I go between beatings, the more I tend to want to stir up trouble in other places. Unfortunately, this lends credence to Master’s theory that I “need the bitch beaten out of me”.

I so hate it when He’s right.

But since I cannot have the bitch beated out of me, I’m going to wistfully go over past moments of being beated beyond the bitch and into the zenful state of cunthood. I’ll call this a loverly trip down torture lane.

Two of the most popular search phrases that lead people here to Under His Hand are “breast torture” and “cunt/pussy torture”. This pleases me. I like to know that other perverts are googling torture methods. It makes me feel a tiny bit less freakish. Or, at least, a little less alone in my freakishness. Welcome fellow freaks! Take off your coat and stay awhile.

It surprises me, really, to read that people so freely search for “torture”. As often as I hear that people won’t even use the word “beat” because of the negative connotations attached, I’m just -pleasantly- surprised. I hear “he touches me in such a manner as to cause moments of intense sensation that we mutually enjoy”. Well – fuck that. He beats me. I am not interested in romanticizing it or drawing balloon hearts around what it is that we do. He beats and I get beaten.

Now torture as a descriptive word might be pushing the envelope. Generally when speaking of torture methods, one pulls up mental images of medievel devices that ultimately end in a death of a gruesome and bloody, painful manner. I suppose if I’m going to be so vehemently against the romanticization of being “beaten” I should be equally opposed to romanticizing torture. But I’m not, cuz sometimes, “beaten” and “hurt” simply do not describe what I feel at the time of the particular torture. Maybe torture isn’t exactly it either, but it’s damn close enough.

In all honesty, some of His methods ARE classified as torturous. Just.. mildly. And perhaps it only falls under the “mild” category because I’m too damn willing to participate. Were 95% of these things done to an unwilling woman, she’d claim, and rightly so, that she’d been tortured. So, if we’re to isolate the actions from the consent, torture as a label fits pretty well.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

After watching that video yesterday, it occurred to me (and not for the first time) that one masochist’s pleasure is another’s torture. Behind the cut are some of my favorite breast and cunt torture moments of the last few months. Most are pictures I have posted before so probably nothing new to you regular folks.

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So last night I was sucking Master’s dick…

…and what’s new, eh? I swear I have His dick in my mouth so much that it oughta be getting pruney.

He said He was going to take a picture after He squirted all over my face but I gobbled it down too fast. Last night was a difficult blow job night anyway. My gag reflex was super touchy and my jaw was sore and He was reading His damn book and not concentrating on ME and I was just like, jeebus christ on a cracker man! Let’s do this already!

But He did come, eventually. (Was anyone else subjected by their kids to The Amanda Show on Nickelodeon for years on end? And if so, can you ever say eventually without saying it like she did on that show? Event-u-alleeeeeeeey! We cannot. None of us.)

You know what I did find on His dick though?? A callous! I shit you not the man has a callous on the side of His cock. I dunno if that says something good or bad, but I was utterly horribly fascinated with it.

Anyway, He snapped a pic of the whole sleeping between His legs with the perverted pacifier thing and I know some had trouble visualizing it so here ya go.

I don’t end up staying down there for the whole night. At some point, His cock slips out of my mouth while I sleep and He’ll need to turn over or something anyway. But that’s how it works.

I tried one time to read while I was down there, but I kinda felt like a whore in church. I couldn’t mesh the two activities together in my brain at all.

Yesterday I caught a little bird taking a bath in some rainwater that had collected on the lid of the bin I store the bird seed in. It was too cute. Now I must have a bird bath on the deck.

Where else can you get dicks and birds in one post, huh?

~Sas-crotch (*snort* Y’all crack me up!)

Home Corners

For those of you who just come here for the smut (including my own Master!), here, have another pic from the other night:

For those who come here for KITTY LOVE:

Am made a funny about our cats. She’s as much of an LOLCat lover as I am and she pointed out that we have Ceiling Cat and Basement Cat, which I knew. But did I also know we have Agnostic Cat? Yeah, she just can’t decide, she has a little of both in her. *snicker*

Now shoo. I’m about to get really boring.

There’s a couple of bloggers I read who do occasional posts titled Home Corners. I really like those posts because, while I certainly enjoy the smut and filth, I just like to see how people live. It adds a “realness” to them, I think. I see a pic of someone’s house and I feel closer to them than if I see a pic of their tits. Master said I can post “whatever I want” (/quote) so I am.

While I was putting clothes away this morning and tidying up the bedroom, I figured that was a good place to start. You’ve already seen the bed so why not the rest of the bedroom. If you’ve no interest in seeing boring pictures of my dressers, don’t go any further.

One of the (many many) sacrifices that came along with being His was my personal decorating style. I am your typical girly-girl. In my p.m. days (p.m. = pre-Master, tee hee) when decorating my own house, I leaned towards flowers and pink, lace doilies, frilly curtains, ruffles and swags and pastel colors. I hated earth tones. I hated brown especially. Black and deep reds were dreary, tans were boring, green was ‘pukey’. I liked violet, and periwinkle, fuschia. And flowers. Did I mention flowers? The bigger the better. I don’t think I had anything sitting anwhere that didn’t have a doily under it.

*sniffle* Come to think of it, I miss my doilies.

There were two styles of decor that made me shudder; Oriental and indian/animal. I had a baby blue country goose kitchen and a victorian/flower/lace bedroom and pink/lace/swag bathroom – my, it was purty.

Along with giving up access to other favorites, like music and tv, I had to give up my interior design tastes. Master forbids ‘girlification’. He likes manly-man shades and textures. He likes Oriental stuff. He likes wolves and eagles. He likes brown.

So while He’ll tell me that I have free reign to decorate and even hand me the credit card and tell me to go wild, I can only go wild within the parameters He’s laid down. The kitchen? Black and white with deep red accents. Living room? Oriental all the way. There’s even an oil painting of a geisha on the wall. Main bathroom? Hunter green and cream. Bedroom? Brown and wolves.

You might think that I walk through the house gagging or that I despise every single room. But that’s not how it ended up at all. When I walk into the bedroom and I’m assaulted with every shade of brown imaginable, with wolf pictures and plates, even one painted on a huge velvet dream catcher-indian-type-feathered wall hanging, and all I can smell is the lingering scents of His cologne, I’m not thinking “God I HATE this room!”. I’m thinking this is HIS room. This color, this smell, that picture, that bed. It’s His. It does not have my stamp on it, it’s not *me*, it’s not mine. It becomes kind of a daily reminder of not being an equal, not having say in things, and I like it. I like that I don’t like it, if that makes sense. I like that He doesn’t care. And so I take even better care of it than I think I would if it were pink frills and all mine.

I’m not sure I’m explaining this well or doing justice to what it is I feel. Maybe it’s not something that can be expressed (by me anyway).

Anyway, behind the cut is my first “home corners” post. Bedroom and drawers.

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Look Ma! No skin!

A couple of weeks ago, during a conversation with Master, I was trying to trick, manipulate, get Him to tell me what His plans were for the pubic hair. I just hate not knowing the why’s of it all, yanno? It niggles at me, but He wouldn’t tell me anydamnthing. (of course now that I’m aware of the duct tape plans, I’d just as soon NOT know, tyvm.)

But since He wasn’t talking then, I got petulant, as I’m wont to do when I don’t get my way and I huffed out a “Hmmph. You can’t humiliate me with it anyway! I’m beyond pubic hair humiliation. So there!”

He laughed at me. He said “Oh reeeEEEEAAAaaaally?” He shook His head. He said “you just never learn, do ya cunt?” He patted me on the rump. He said “we’ll see.”

*dramatic sigh*

Why oh why can’t I ever just shut the fuck up.

To continue with the humiliation that I challenged Him to do, I have more pictures of the latest Sasquatch sighting. (That’s what Master calls me now. Sasquatch. Idn’t He funny. *deadpan*)

I told you it was starting to grow down my thighs. I’d have preferred to have left that to your imagination, though. :-/

So His task for me today was to hang 20 clothespins from my pubic hair. No skin. Just from the hair.

I tried to get a close up so He could see what an evil bastard He is that I had no skin, just hair.

In all honesty, just standing there with the clothespins on wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be. Clothespins don’t weigh very much so there was minimal hair-pulling going on.

What was bad was the stupid 30-second dance I had to do for Him. Think 30 seconds is short? WRONG! It’s endless when you’re clattering bright sparkly blue clothespins fixed up with non-slip shelf paper from strands of your pubic hair. Endless I say.

Well ok. So trying to show “dancing” in still shots is next to impossible. Doesn’t matter. Trust me when I say it was fucking humiliating. And it’s recorded. Joy! A humiliation that will never end.

And in case you’re wondering, they didn’t fall off. They weren’t going anywhere. In fact, when I took them off, the non-slip liner was so stuck to the hair that it plucked strands out with them. That was pleasant. Not.

I respectfully withdraw my claim of being “beyond pubic hair humiliation”.

~sasquatch

There is more than one way to utilize a slave.

“It’s not gonna suck itself.” ~Taylor

~cunt

A Bad Hair Day

It was made clear to me why I haven’t been allowed to shave for the last two months.

Because, surprise surprise! Master is a sadist.

I’m not much of a masochist. In fact! I’ve just about decided that I was wholly mistaken in ever taking the label in the first place. Fer realz.

Cuz, pubic hair pulling just plain fucking hurts. More than it should. It defies logic. I think Master was more amused by my screams – which, on second thought, totally makes sense, doesn’t it? A sadist who likes to hear screaming. Duh, kaya.

Oh nevermind. I’m doomed. He’s clued me in on His next plan for my fuzzy snatch. Two words.

Duct Tape.
*sob*

Anyone have room for a scared pussy? I won’t eat much! You’ll hardly know I’m there. And I do windows!

The before shot – I was trying to be all sexy and alluring.

And then when I was happily wallowing in the feel of rope wound around my appendages and knowing I was going to get fucked. As in sex. Sex-fucked. Not fucked-up.

And then the fucking, that could have been done without the hair-handle, but what do I know?

And the after. Cool handprints, huh?

Behind the cut are more pictures that Master said I had to post. It’s been a long time since I’ve argued with Him about posting pictures, but then it’s been a long time since He’s made me post pictures. I thought I was over the angst of posting pictures that I think are… um… nasty.

Apparently I am not. And apparently Master is not bored of humiliating me in this manner. Needless to say, that argument (that consisted of Him saying “post this, this, that one, and that one” and me going “*gasp* But Master! I don’t wa-”, and Him replying “Do it and stfu, cunt”, and me mumbling “Yes Sir. *hmmph*”) was won by Him.

(But I’m begging you not to go back there!)

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The sad and the happy.

The sad: We lost a cat. Dusty, aka FatAss, aka Godzilla got outside about a week and a half ago. We’re not sure how or when, the last I remember seeing him was Friday night in the kitchen, feeding him some treats, but Saturday morning he didn’t show up for breakfast. Best we can figure, he must have snuck out when one of us took the dog out before bed that night.

He’s been outside before, but not in this semi-wilderness. I might mention that bear hunting season started recently. Oh you read that right; I said bear. As in wild BEARS.

As an aside; I grew up in the country but the biggest pest problems we had to worry about were the raccoons in the garbage and the skunks in the chicken house. We didn’t have bears. I’ve never seen a bear. I’ve never wanted to live in a place where bear hunting was a season.

(As another aside, outdoor bondage was kinda sorta scary-fun before, but now what with BEARS, it’s taken on a whole new meaning of scary and not-so-much of the fun.)

Anyway. Dusty hasn’t been seen. I think the worst part of losing a pet is not knowing what happened. Is he stuck somewhere, cold and hungry and suffering? Is he just lost? Dead? Eaten? I can’t think about it too much or I’ll cry.

We’ve done the standard lost pet routine, but I think it’s pretty unlikely that he’ll turn up now.

But now for the happy. Master let me go to the humane society. They were having a “2 fur 1″ special on cats and kittens. I got to adopt two kittens, about 4 months old, brothers, and just as sweet and lovable as all get out.

One is a ginger, like Master (tee hee) and darn near as demanding, too. When he wants to be petted, which is often, he doesn’t so much ask for it as he climbs up your body, drapes himself around your neck and bites your ears until he’s had enough. If you try to put him down, he twists around and hangs on with all claws until you submit. He’s quite the dom in orange fur.

Jes named him Tipsey, probably because he’s the clutsiest, most uncoordinated kitten I’ve ever seen. And he purrs so loud you can hear him in the next room. I am so in love with him.

The other one, Am named Sweeney Todd (because she’s all obsessed with Johnny Depp), but it fits him because he’s pure black (basement cat! ahh!) and rather aloof and dark. He can be just as affectionate as his ginger brother, but only if he wants to.

Annie, the stray we took in last year, is not so full of the happy at this invasion into “her” home. She’s not made friends with them yet. See?

Click for more pictures of cuteness!

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