Under His Hand

The journal of a slave

“How long a minute is depends on what side of the bathroom door you’re on”

I didn’t have to work this morning and was looking forward to sleeping in. I woke up at 5am. Apparently, these days, that qualifies as “sleeping in”. My bladder, used to being emptied at least one hour prior to 5am, sat hot and heavy and painfully full in my gut.

I lay still for a while, trying to convince my bladder that it didn’t need to go as badly as it felt like it did. Sometimes that works. My bladder replied by sending me a sharp, shooting cramp. Message received then.

Master was deeply asleep and I rolled over, gently nudging Him with my knee, hoping that would wake Him up because I really hate having to poke Him awake. But all He did was grab my leg and pull it over Him as He often does. He likes to sleep with my leg across His groin area (and typically, I like to sleep that way. Except for when it places unwanted pressure on my bladder by curling me in half!) I settled in to wait. His alarm would be ringing in about a half an hour anyway. Surely I could suffer that long.

When the alarm buzzed, I made a quick move to pull my leg back and He lightly, and for just a second, tightened His grip on it. That means “don’t move” in M/s-ese, in case you were wondering. He tapped the snooze button and mumbled “One more.” One more means 9 more minutes of sleep. Or, in my case, 9 more minutes of my back teeth floating.

Relaxing was out of the question. It wasn’t the type of gotta-pee-urgency that had you thinking you were going to wet the bed at any minute, it was the type that just hurt. Pressure and spearing pain can make 9 minutes seem like 9 hours.

When the alarm buzzed again, I was successful in getting my leg back at least. “Time to get up?” I asked brightly, already shimmying toward the end of the bed as He reached over and smacked at the clock. “I have to pee.”

“No.” He said and wrapped His arms around me, tugging me back against Him, spoon-style. “Not yet. You can wait.” His arm tucked tightly around my midsection and another sharper cramp exploded in my bladder.

“I really have to go.” I whimpered quietly. And I did. I mean I really, REALLY had to go.

“I bet if I stick my dick down your throat and facefuck you for a while, you won’t have to go so bad, will you cunt?” Meaning, of course, that if He DID stick His dick down my throat and facefuck me for awhile, I’d gag uncontrollably and, consequently, piss all over myself in the process, and thusly, not have to get up to use the bathroom. (Oh the wonderous keepsakes of childbirth on a woman’s body, eh?)

“No Sir.” and I settled down for another 9 hour minute wait.

I do not recall if there were just one, or two more snooze-button naps for Him after that. I was lost in concentrating on not (and fantasizing about) pissing the bed. How good it would feel, how my bladder, now sending regular stabs of pain as a reminder of being full to the point of popping, would actually hurt as it emptied, but in that “god that feels good” kinda ouchy way. How warm and wet it would be, flowing over my legs, how vindicitively spitefully justified I would feel in pissing all over Master’s lap as He insisted upon squeezing me so tightly against Him and refusing to let me up to the bathroom, yet, how embarrassingly humiliating that would be and how *angry* He would be and how *awful* the consequences would be…. and telling myself, again and again, that I am 37 years old, for fuckssake, and I haven’t pissed the bed in *at least* 30+ years and no way am I going to NOW. But god damn, I had to GO and when you have to go that badly it is impossible to think of anything but peeing. I think my eyeballs had turned yellow.

Finally, finally, He gave a heavy sigh as the clock nagged Him again and rolled over, releasing His death grip on my abdomen. “Let’s go” He said, prodding me – as if I’d been comfortably resting and was reluctant to get up. I bit back things like “It’s about fucking time” and “I’m just about to explode over here” and “Holy fucking Christ on a cracker Master! My bladder is not an Olympic swimming pool!” and instead said, simply, “May I go to the bathroom please Sir?”

He didn’t answer right away and I had a small moment of panic where I was *sure* He was going to say no. Sure He was going to make me wait through His shower, through making coffee (running water, one of His favorites), through taking the dog out to pee first (because I do not rate above the dog you know!), through breakfast.. and then maybe.. maybe.. He’d let me go.

I think I would have cried.

“Yeah.” He said, and I scurried to the bathroom before He changed His mind. It was as blissfully wonderful as I had been imagining it to be. When I have to go that badly, it doesn’t stream out in a rush, but trickles, slowly and endlessly. Goosebumps rippled down my arms, my eyes crossed and I moaned in absolute pleasure. Heavenly, delectable release. A good orgasm would have paled in comparison.

When I had finished and was leaving the bathroom, still grinning goofily, I ran smack into Master’s form. He gripped my hair and tugged my head back to stare down into my startled eyes.

“Thank you…?” He prompted.

“Thank You Master.” I dutifully recited. Something dark and dangerous danced in His eyes as He looked down at me. More and more often He inches toward controlling, and making as painful and/or humiliating as possible, my bathroom needs. Denying me a toilet, having me use the yard as the dog does, making me lose control of it as He hurts or fucks me beyond the ability to hold it, watching me squirm in agitation with the need to perform such a basic bodily function, smirking at me as I beg permission – I think, had today not been a work day – I’d have not relieved myself in the bathroom at all this morning. I think that I’d be wearing it, both my own and His, right now.

And I’m disappointed that I’m not.

We have GOT to win the lottery. Dammit.

~cunt

Pottymouth

So as I said yesterday, Master had wanted to hogtie and face fuck me the other night. But then we got into a snit.

It was one of those incredibly ridiculous things that seems to take on a life of it’s own. Like arguing over a spoon, you know? No point, no real dissension, just two people saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and not being adult enough to curb it.

I was getting the stuff out for his planned fun; the jaw spreader and the cuffs. I asked him a question, an either/or question about the plans. His answer? No. But it wasn’t a yes or no question, dammit. No to which one? Both? Neither? It just rubbed me the wrong way. I know, stupid, right?

I got snippy when I asked for clarification on the ’no’, and he snapped back, so I snapped back even harder. Then he was like, "you know, I’m about two seconds away from saying ’fuck it’ about this" and I was like, "yeah well, so am I!" so he threw down the stuff and stomped away and I huffed and went to bed –

Just.. dumb. Very dumb.

Soooo… no bad deed goes unpunished, dontcha know. Master’s preferred method of dealing with a pottymouth is to show me exactly what a pottymouth’s use is.

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I just hate that. It’s bad enough that I have to be all humbled and feel stupid for blowing up in the first place, coupled with the humiliation of being that close in contact with the toilet (which is just not pleasant, ever), on top of hearing him remind me in exact words that I’m a pottymouth, AND that I really, really dislike the taste of urine something awful… just not a good time. At all.

I know some people do the whole pee-drinking thing with success, and it’s all kinds of service-oriented – but for me, it contains a high enough dose of squick factor that the service aspect is wiped out, and the objectification is overshadowed. And.. I just hate it. The end. I hate it a tiny bit less when it’s done simply because he wants to and I can somewhat grab a hold of how perverted it is, but even then, it tastes bad and the aftertaste is bad and he *always* gets it up my nose. Always! On purpose, I might add. The essence of it hangs around for-fucking-ever when it’s marinating in your sinus cavity. (In fact, the other day in the shower, he waited until I needed to breathe, knowing I’d have suck air in through my nose because my mouth was full of piss, and he shot it right up there letting me snort in a damn healthy dose of urine. Have I mentioned that he’s a bastard? Yeah. He is.)

So! That was my day. How was yours? :(

~cunt

“You’re gonna get it up the ass, no matter what you do.”

Yesterday we tried out the butt funnel.

It doesn’t work. It needs improvement.

It was fun though. Using my body orifices as Master’s toilet is just one of my hot buttons. It’s got nothing to do with the enema aspect, as we dabbled in enemas and found nothing erotic about them at all. It’s definitely the objectification process that’s hot. (That’s hot, says Paris.)

I was told that the funnel wouldn’t be long enough to pass the sphincter and that was true. It wasn’t. Plus, the funnel itself can’t be angled up (unless I could stand on my head, which I cannot). So! We pretty well knew we’d have to change the design, we just didn’t know how until we used it.

Here’s me waiting.

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Here’s Master contemplating the angle.

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Here’s the attempt. Now that pink looking stuff? We can only assume it’s the soap I used to lube up the end of the funnel (which actually wasn’t pink soap) or it’s just the way the light hit it. Master doesn’t generally pee in technicolor pink. ;) And look, he peed all over his foot. (tee hee)

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So! Here’s what we’re going to do. Master thinks the funnel should have a tube on it, a long one that enters the ass. That way he can move the funnel around without it pulling out of my butt. That gives him more maneuvering room, because he doesn’t think he should have to kneel behind me (*snicker*). Plus, gravity will work on pulling the urine down into my ass, and the longer tube will allow for it to be pushed in deeper, past the sphincters.

Should be easy enough to do.

They have a similar one at Extreme Restraints, but it ends in a butt plug which is not what we want. We want something that is easily and quickly slid in, used, and slid out. Much like the end of an enema hose I suppose. He is also able to piss in my ass simply by shoving his cock up my ass, but, like the butt plug, that takes too much fussing around. He has to be semi-erect at least, plus there needs to be lube involved, and I’m not so much with the *shoving* of anything in my ass. The purpose of the butt funnel is supposed to be quick, easy peasy lemon squeezy, Master has to pee, I bend over, it’s done. Ta-fucking-da, cunt.

I suppose if we ever get to the point where Master rarely needs to use the actual toilet to pee in, it’ll make cleaning the bathroom a lot easier for me. Men and their splashing! Sheesh.

~cunt

Fucking crop.

I don’t even think I want to post. Bah.. like *that* ever matters.

I’m way over the three a week requirement lately. I should count them. I deserve a gold star or *something*.

This.. emotional nakedness is exhausting!

Okay… enough lollygagging.

Last night…. seems a lot of posts start that way.. “last night”… I’ll have to google-thesaurus on “last night”.

Yesterday evening…(heh).. Master beat the hell outta me with His crop.

No…. see. That’s not right. Well.. it IS true. But it sounds icky.

Okay okay… He was absolutely relentless with the crop. If I could have maintained any rational thought I would have counted the strokes. A thousand? Ten thousand? A millionbazillion! At least! The pictures just don’t show it. I’m telling you, my ass was on FIRE and it barely looks pink in the picture. And not many marks today either which truly burns my ass. I love marks.

He was… sadistic (way too mild a word here)… I was sobbing within the first ten minutes I think. Hard hard strokes.

And more! than the crop… the face fucking.. making me gag myself (what a fucking mind bender THAT was). And, did I mention, it was one of my best and most favorite masturbation fantasies? One that I don’t recall even talking about before. To be ordered, which entailed being trained enough, to throat fuck His cock. Now I’m sure that I wasn’t completely satisfactory… but still… I was proud of myself.

I puked. It’s not that Master or I have any kind of puke fetish by any means. It just feels to me, that throat fucking past the point of puking.. not stopping for *any* reason… is…. extreme? I don’t know. You are all probably just thinking it’s gross and here I am practically bragging about it.

Anyway.. I puked. He wiped His messy balls and cock in my hair. He whipped me some more with the crop. Did I mention they were hard strokes? I’m surprised the crop isn’t broken. I think my ass is..lol.

He spit on me.. He pissed on me. I can’t even imagine how lovely I must have looked.. with slobber and puke drying in my hair and on my face, spittle running down my cheek, urine soaking me. I will never, in a million years, understand what fuels a sadist. Never.

We showered, thank the lord for that. He tied me up to the wooden pony and cropped my tits… I was done, though. Exhausted, mentally and physically, and still sobbing at this point. He didn’t leave me there for long (thank You Master), letting me down and pushing me into the cage.

The cage.. my refuge. And yes Sir, I was thinking that as You shut the door. You mocked it as You locked the door, mocked me feeling safe in there. But I did.

Adrenaline overload.. mental fatigue.. whatever the reason… as soon as You walked away, I was out. It was a brief nap.. probably more my mind’s attempt to revamp than actual sleep. When I woke, You were gone.. my head was pounding.. I felt cramped and stuffed and I hurt in places I forgot I had.

And I was afraid.. afraid that You weren’t done with me yet. Afraid that calling out to You would kick things up again. I didn’t like that. I didn’t like feeling like I couldn’t count on You. I had to talk myself into it.. to convince myself that no matter what the scene, no matter what the activity, if I *need* You.. You are there. And You were.

And You weren’t done with me yet. You did let me out for an aspirin… and back into the cage. I don’t know how long… I was sooo tired. At that point, I just wanted.. needed.. to know that You still loved me.

How can You… or anyone… be *in love* with a person… and be as sadistic as You are. I’m glad it happens that way, or masochists would be SOL… but I don’t get it.

All the crying and sobbing that I do.. has not too much to do with pain. I don’t think. After all, I gave birth to three kids and shed not one tear and as bad as Your toys are, they ain’t shit compared to labor pains! It has more to do with Your attitude… Your cruelness towards me. That’s what breaks me.

What are You thinking… what are You feeling.. as I lay there at Your feet crying? What thoughts run through Your head as You raise the crop to strike me again? Do You hesitate? Inside, do You? What is it, what happens to You, to me, when You decide You are done?

Does it take You awhile to come back to me? It takes me a long time to find my way back to You. I’m ashamed … embarrassed.. humiliated. I’m mortified by my bodies reactions… still fighting the old demons… aroused by such inhumane treatment…worried… that You are changing Your opinion of me every time my pussy clenches and squirts.

This morning though… I was back, You were back. You still love me. I am more in love with You. Gentle hugs and tender kisses… those are nice, after a night like last night.

And did I… did I honestly *ask* if we could do this again tonight?? I will never in a million years understand what fuels a masochist. Never..;)

kaya

Hell Test

HELL LEVEL 3
Raw score: 95%
There’s a special place in Hell for you: the basement penthouse. You scored the nastiest possible on the Sexual Hell Test. You have no sexual restraint whatsoever. You’ll take pleasure however you can get it, and my guess is you get it a lot. If for some reason you don’t right now, you will soon, as people in your category only tend to spiral down ever deeper into the abyss of carnality and delicious sin. Congratulations.

I, personally, think that this category is the best. Paradoxically, sexual liberation and indulgence can only bring you closer to purity and honesty.

AVOID: all but level 3 hellions like yourself. You wouldn’t want to ruin anyone, now would you?

My test tracked 1 variable How you compared to other people your age and gender:

free online dating free online dating
You scored higher than 99% on hellish

Link: The Sexual HELL Test written by jason_bateman on OkCupid Free Online Dating

Silly Test anyway.. hehe

In my own personal hell… last night Master got all sadistic and mean… imagine that.

I don’t know why I have such issues separating scenes from actual anger. Why I end up believing that He is mad at me.. punishing me.. when He isn’t. He’s just… doing His thing.

Maybe I’m not supposed to separate it. The head-space I get to, the place He leads me to… is, well, heady. I’m subbed-out.. contrite.. as low as I can be. Mindless obedience.

Alligator clips on nipples, pulled up high to keep me on my toes, spreader bar, lots of pussy slapping. Dragged into the bathroom and shoved over the toilet, licking the rim… His cock pushed into my mouth as He emptied it… piss going up my nose, down my throat, in my eyes (wow that burns), kneeling on the floor in front of Him, urine dripping from my hair, running down my body… shoving His cock down my throat… making me puke over it. And the words.. the name calling… the degradation… standing with my back to Him in the shower while He washes Himself, crying to the wall, standing there dripping and stinking, emotionally alone. Instructed to wash His back.. His ass… and to lick it then, to tongue His asshole… “how clean did you get it, cunt?” ……

NOT punishment… NOT anger… part of the ride.

Keep chanting that…’it’s all part of the ride’…

kaya