Under His Hand

No sympathy.

I’m one sore little slut.

My jaw is aching. Hours spent in a gag, followed by several blow jobs is hard on a gal’s mouth.

The back of my thighs – the infamous ‘sweet spot’ – is welted and bruised from that f&*^ing misery stick.

It hurts to pee, it hurts to wipe, it hurts to sit, He’s fucked me so often and so hard that I don’t know why His dick hasn’t fallen off.

And today I had to wear the tack bra as we drove around town, going over bumps and Him reaching over to poke and stab and squeeze and, you know, just being Himself (mean). About 4 hours worth of mean.

I’m not complaining! It is as it should be – He’s the sadist and I’m His toy and I’m feeling well played with.


He’d just straight-armed me in the car as He hit the brakes, smashing me by my tack-covered tits to the back of the car seat while momentum carried my body forward, and laughed that maniacal laugh of His. And then He kinda snuffled, coughed, and groaned.

“My sinuses are acting up.” He whimpered (okay maybe He didn’t whimper exactly, but He was sure whining) and looked at me all pathetic-like.

That’s where I’m supposed to coo and pat His arm and ask if I can help somehow. The poor man, my Owner, my Master, my God– is suffering! I opened my mouth to utter out some words of comfort and my right nipple chose that moment to send a stabbing arrow of pain straight down my arm as a tack, helped by my seat belt, stuck smack in the center of it.

Sympathy failed me.

“You know what?” I snapped, yanking the seat belt off my tit. “I’m having a hard time being sympathetic to you right now, Master! I always have something hurting because of YOU. Forgive me if I cannot muster up an “awwww!” for your sinuses!”

For a moment He just stared at me, wide eyed and open-mouthed, shocked at my little outburst. Then He leaned forward and cracked. up. He patted my tits, still laughing – but He didn’t whine about His sinuses anymore.

Shortly after, He took me home, demanded another blow job in spite of my aching jaw –


“The pain passes, but the beauty remains.”


This is pretty much going to be pictures more than words. I don’t really know what to say about it all, to be honest.

This is an excellent example of why I don’t have, and don’t want, a safeword. Had I had one, I would have used it from the first squeeze. The pain was immense, overwhelming, exquisite. Had I had the option to end it, I would have taken it. I didn’t believe that I could take it.

But he did. He believed that not only could I, that I needed to.

Sometimes the mantra of “I’m not going to die” is the only thing that gets me through. That’s all I have to lean on and all I have to pull strength from.

I would miss out on so many things, so many realizations, so much ultimate pleasure, if I were given the power to stop it before he wanted it to stop. But worse than what I would miss out on? Is what HE would miss out on, and all because I don’t have the faith in me that he does.

There wasn’t a moment that he didn’t enjoy. From the anticipation of it to the climactic ending, he was thoroughly blissful, happy, powerful. I’d hate to have woken up this morning knowing that I had put even the slightest damper on that for him.

He enjoyed the dance. What bigger gift can I give him?

A short 5 minute clip is up at the clip store.

Pictures are behind the cut simply because there are so many of them.


17 hours and counting.


I’m supposed to make frequent updates but I am not going to post the hourly pictures he’s having me take. That just seems silly.

I’m tired. Soooo tired. Chores are… pffft… I did the dishes. And, um.. I guess that was it. I better step it up.

It’s hurting big time now. I don’t even wanna think about later tonight. Makes my bladder cramp.

I think he’s going to film it though. (who am I kidding? of course he is. I don’t expect I’ll be able to make it through that with any semblence of grace.)

I can’t take a shower because that would mean taking it off. That was weird being told that I can’t shower. I feel icky. He almost said no to any pictures too because it requires lifting the bra away for a sec, but he’ll be delighted to find out that doing that once every hour is making it ever so much worse. Lifting it up hurts really really bad and it barely settles back to a dull hum before I have to do it again.

I would not handle it very well if I had anything that caused me chronic pain I don’t think. I think I’m a short-term masochist you know? I like things that hurt for a real quick minute. This pro-longed suffering is for the birds.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not feeling some element of eroticy from it. I am. I’m definitely turned on and would masturbate if I could do it without moving my arms. I hope I can tap into that when he comes home.

What else? It’s kinda hard to think about anything else. My boobs hurt. Who gives a flying fuck about internal enslavement?? My boobs hurt! *snicker* Pain is a great thought director. “I’ll give you something to obsess about, cunt!”

I really should brush my hair and wash up and get dressed. But that involves arm movement. *whine* I really just want to stand perfectly still and not breathe very hard. Can I do that?

I am scared about tonight. I *know* it’s going to be awful. I know what he’s gonna do. I know I’m gonna cry.

But every time I think about it my thighs get a little wetter and my cunt twitches.

The joys of masochism. 😀


It’s alive!

Do you have any idea how often your tits and nipples pucker up into goosebumps? I don’t know if they’re doing it because of the bra or if they do it all the time and I only feel it because of the bra, but holy crap, it’s weird! It feels like I have two puppies squirming for postion in my shirt. It kinda gives me the willies.

 It’s hurting enough that I don’t even want to masturbate because that requires too much movement. Master even offered to allow it and I turned it down. Mark THAT on the calender.

 Needless to say, chores are very slow-going today.


ps. FREE: One cat  who thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to take flying leaps from the table to my chest for a hug. So hating her right now.

“Sometimes the littlest things in life are the hardest to take. You can sit on a mountain more comfortably than on a tack.”

He didn’t put it on until 8pm last night. I think because he has no intention of taking it off until late tonight. So my evening wasn’t so bad.

There was a vigorous fucking then, on my knees with my chest pressed into a pillow. The constant back and forth movement as he took me from behind was painful, but good painful, pushing climaxes out of me like a perverted Pez dispenser.

The night though.. was long. I was sore and aching, but what kept me from sleep wasn’t the pain I was in so much as the pain I was trying to avoid. I’m a side or belly sleeper normally, neither of which was possible with a bosom full o’ tacks.

I did sleep, of course, but not well and not much. It wasn’t excruciating at all, lying on my back gravity mostly worked in my favor. If I kept perfectly still and didn’t breathe, I could barely feel the tips of the tacks on my breasts. I would doze and then wake as soon as I went to roll over in my sleep.

This morning, Master was chipper, well rested. He noted even before I said anything that I hadn’t moved much through the night. “I may have to do this every night, cunt. You didn’t wake me up one time with all of your tossing and turning!”

I told him he was a funny guy. Har-de-har-har.

He found my crankiness even more amusing.

Getting out of bed was bad. BAD bad. Any change in position that causes things to shift and resettle is bad.

The worst though, was having to go outside. In the midst of a cold snap, the temp was 0F, and -9F with the wind chill (that’s -22C). We all know what happens to nipples when they get cold, yes? That movement while encased in tacks is a right bitch of a thing.

Right at this point, I’m irritated. I’m tired. It’s not a horrific pain but it’s just enough to piss me off. The underside of my breasts where it’s taking the brunt of the tacking feels like raw hamburger. Doing chores all day is going to suck big fat donkey balls. I also don’t think I’ll be taking frequent pictures because lifting the bra up to take the pic and then having to put it back is insanely, ridiculously ouchies. Unless he calls with some specific times to take pics, I’m avoiding that particular task.

And I am NOT going to Curves today. Can you imagine?? Ow.

Soo.. it’s half over already. I don’t expect it to get really, really bad until he comes home. I know he has plans. Not nice plans either. It’s not as bad as I had expected it to be, though I’ve only been up and moving for about 2 and a half hours. I may not think this way later today.

The current state of things:



This is how it’s gonna go.

Master is positively vibrating over today and tommorrow’s planned activities with that stupid, awful, hateful bra.

 I kept interjecting objections as he laid out the plan but he kept ignoring me.

 “So I’ll put it on you when I get home- 


“…today. And it stays on-


“…until I get home tomorrow-

“I ca-

“…with no exceptions. Got-

“n’t do it!”

…it, cunt?”

“Yes, Sir, but listen-

“So, if I get home at 5 o’clock today-


“… but I don’t come home until-

“What if I-

“…7 o’clock tomorrow night-

“can’t stand it!”

“…it stays on until I walk in the door.”

“I want a safeword.”

“Your safeword is this: ThankyouMastercanIpleasehavemore.”

Hmmph. Seems like I’m doing a whole lot of *hmmphing* lately. I KNOW I’m being an ungrateful, petulant, pouty little shit. But I also know exactly what that tack bra feels like. My reaction is entirely warranted!

 See how I justify myself? *beams*

 We did have a discussion about how it’s going to be done, a really real one where he did listen to my concerns. If I were to put it on this morning, and do a typical morning-to-morning 24 hour stint, I didn’t see how I would be able to act normally throughout the evening when the kids are home. Because I’d already be some 7 or 8 hours into wearing it and there is no way I could make it through the impromptu hugs that the kids give me without showing some sign of extreme discomfort. Nor would I be able to sit on the couch with them, watching tv, without grimacing or whining or grumping (because it hurts! Christ on a cracker!). So, he decided that if I don’t put it on until the evening, then I won’t be in that much pain throughout the evening hours. The morning might be a tad difficult but we’re only up for an hour before the kids leave for school. That leaves me home alone all day Friday for the remainder of the 24 hours until he gets home.

More than likely I’ll be wearing it well over 24 hours because I know he’s not going to take it off before bedtime Friday so he’s got a chance to do whatever mean and rotten things he wants to do after the kids go to bed.

 So that’s that. The Master plan (pun intended). Forgive me if I pray for a flash flood or a lightening strike to the toy closet between now and 5pm. I wonder if he’d notice if I rearrange the tacks. I could move the ones that I know are the worst (the bottom ones where the tit rests. Yep. Fuckers just dig right in.) and then file down the rest of them… 

I’m kidding! (now watch, he’s going to read this, think i DID file them down and sharpen them just in case!)

I’m obsessing. The waiting is sometimes worse than the actual event. Let’s just get on with it and get it over with, you know? I HATE this. Who’s stupid idea was it to make a freakin’ TACK bra anyway??

So okay. 24 hours. One day. Piece of cake. I can do this. *nods*

 Imma go find something else to babble about. I need the distraction. Oy.


Signing my own death warrant.

Or, an alternate title could be “Master is a conniving butthead.”

We were getting ready for bed, I was already in and naked, when he tossed the bullet vibe at me.

“Get yourself ready.” was all he said, before walking away and sitting across the room.

(What a meanie. Forcing me to masturbate! How awful. 😉 

So I’m lying there, naked, exposed, knees up and falling open, leaving all of my pink parts fully visible to him. That only heightens the arousal.

I’m lucky in this world of sexual frustration that I’m  pretty easy, I can reach orgasm quickly. But “get yourself ready” certainly does not mean “finish yourself off”. Even though I was ready in a very short amount of time, he apparently was not. It then became an exercise in control for me.

 I don’t do self-denial with a whole lot of enthusiasm or success (no! really?) but on the rare occasion that I can get into it, I find having to sit on the edge of orgasm is more fun than the actual orgasm itself. Such was the case this time. This is also the time when I’m horny enough that fantasies of various s&m activities sound like the best thing since sliced bread.

He just waits for it. Though I typically go about my business with quiet determination, when forced to wait and wait and wait and hold myself there, inevitably I’ll start to talk about what I’m picturing in my head. I’m apparently powerless to resist, because I do TRY to resist! I *know* that I don’t want to voice the things I imagine, not to him, not when knowing that once it’s spoken, once it’s *out there*, it ceases being my secret masturbation fodder and transforms into HIS mission in life.

But I speak up, my voice all husky with need. “You know what I want to do sometime?”

I wish that I could accurately describe the glint that begins to sparkle in his eye. The way the corners of his mouth twitch up when he hears my voice. The lilt in his voice when he responds with a very amused “What is it that you want to do, cunt?”

And I talk. I babble. I describe scenes of extreme pain and I request MORE meanness and MORE sadism and LESS caring and LESS empathy and MORE calculating coldness and LESS concern… it’s an unstoppable stream of filth and smut and perversion. String me up by my tits. Whip me until I can’t stand up. Beat me bloody. Cut me, poke me, fuck me, hurt me, hurt me, HURT ME. The whole time he just sits there, nodding, with the occasional “mm-hm” or “that sounds fun”. Until I start to run out of words.

“What else, cunt?”

“mmmm… the tack bra.” (I’m so close. So close to coming. Close enough that had I had a tack I would have jammed it into my nipple and shot that orgasm out my toes.) “Really make it hurt, Master.”

Him, his voice low and quiet, pulling the details from me. “Just the tack bra?”

“All day. 24 hours straight. Sleep in it and everything.”

“A whole day.”

“Mmmhmm. And then.. then.. when it’s really bad, when it hurts really bad? Grind it. Smash ’em.”

“Beat on them?”

“Yes!” (Another minute and I’m going over the edge. I won’t be able to stop it.) “And don’t, don’t be all Mr. Nice Guy. Don’t let me whine out of it.. and…stuff. You gotta be mean.”

At that point his demeanor changes. Gone is the gentle tenor in his voice. Gone is the amused glint in his eye. Gone is the easy atmosphere of whispering secrets. He straightens up in the chair, catches my eye and states, firmly, decisively. “I am DONE being ‘nice’ to you, little girl.”

Of course he is! He’s gotten all the info out of me that he needs for the time being. I’ve given him a fresh slew of ideas to work from, he’s coerced me into baring my soul so he can pluck what he wants out of it, so pat me on the head and send me on my way.

I went on my way. Much orgasming followed that conversation. The full fear didn’t really sneak in until the next morning.

“Um, Master? You know what I was saying last night? About the tack bra and that other stuff?”

“Yep.” (oh he’s cocky. So fucking cocky.)

I tried to play all cute, all ‘shucks Master, I’m a silly girl’ innocent look. “I didn’t mean it all you know.” (cheeky grins and eyelash batting) “I was just horny and stuff. Being goofy.”

“I know.” But that smile. I KNOW that Chesire cat grin of his.

“Soooo…” (hope springs eternal) “It’s all good then?”

“Sure it is! You can start your 24-hour tack bra session on Thursday.”

He pretends not to notice my jaw on the floor or the panicked expression on my face.

“It’s all good, cunt. It’s all very good.”

Hmmph. Good for which one of us I have no comment on.


Just stuff.

I had about a two hour window with no kids so I got to work on the tack bra. I am so not a crafty person. (When I was pregnant with my first kid I bought one of those cross stitch baby blankets because that’s what everyone seemed to be saying I *should* be doing. Susy Homemaker and all that. Well, she’s 14 now and she still doesn’t have a cross stitched baby blanket.) Anyhow, it took me a few tries to get something usable but I got it. I also need to buy more tacks to make the matching panty inserts. Master Satan, living up to His reputation.