“… or else it gets the hose again.”

Master has always had an interest in controlling my bathroom needs. Not only controlling them, which He thoroughly enjoys, but in making it difficult. I fondly remember the days when having to pee was as simple as just.. peeing. These days, needing the bathroom can be an event.

He’s told me probably a hundred times or more that someday I’ll be peeing outside. Not that I’ve never peed outside – I have. Many times, on drunken road trips where actually finding a bathroom was too much work, copping a squat while clinging to the car bumper so I didn’t totter over into my own puddle – yeah, I’ve done that a time or two. But even that was done because I wanted to, not because I HAD to. The idea of being inside my own house, with access to three bathrooms in perfect working order and to still be told to squat in the backyard like a dog? That’s a little difficult to wrap my head around.

It was easy for me to just nod and smile when He’d say those things. Where we lived before, we were surrounded by people. There was zero outdoor privacy and with all the city regulations on fences and stuff, there was zero chance of ever having outdoor privacy. So I dismissed His outdoor piddling threats. We were never going to *move*, for goodness sake! He owned the house, and He’d done work to it and He’d built the bedroom/dungeon/cunt cupboard. I was so safe from the outside!

*ahem*

I stand corrected.

I haven’t yet had to pee outside. But it’s coming. I’m resistant and I figured I could continue to be resistant because, seriously, I have pride and I have ego and I have been potty trained for years and years. One does not slide backward in mere seconds.

I should know better than to think I can “fight” Master on anything that He wants. But I rather think He enjoys this sort of battle. Oh it could be as simple as Him saying “do it NOW, cunt” and I’d drop and squirt like a frightened squid, but this is much more fun (for Him). I genuinely do not think pissing outside is hot or erotic or depraved or anything that would make me want it even on a darker, as-yet-unrealized level. So I’m digging in my heels and dodging and bargaining and avoiding and and and – so far, I’ve been on a toilet every time.

But yesterday – yesterday was close. Oh so close. I almost broke because He found a tool, a weapon, that is far more sadistic than anything I’ve experienced to date.

The ice-cold spray from the garden hose.

I’d asked to pee and He’d denied my request. (*More on that down below) So I held it, of course, because arguing or begging only seems to encourage Him with the outside stuff.

But then a bit later He took me outside anyway.

And tied me to the deck.

He said He was going to whip me until I pissed myself.

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“No one gets their way. Until they whip it.”

I’ve put off doing this post for too many days. Ugh. I tried to beg out of it, but no dice.

I was gonna title it: “Look at the fat girl tied to the chair!” but Master hates it when I insult “his” property. Bah.

Okay, enough about that. I’m fat. Deal, right? Right!

So! On to the posting then.

I wish I would have posted while the experience was still fresh in my mind instead of being a “omgz! I can’t show my gut on teh intrawebs, Master!!” ninny. Now it’s lost a lot of the spark.

This was directly following the breath play so I was in some weird headspace. Pretty zoned but super disconnected from him. Which is what he tends to do when he’s about to get mean. He distances himself from my emotions.

(I have a post I wanted to do about that – about love and s&m and such. Maybe this will remind me to do so.)

I have a shameful confession to make.

I will do my damnedest to play on Master’s feelings. It’s true. I try and manipulate the situation (by situation I mean scene) by tugging on his heartstrings. Looking pathetic, imploring sympathy with puppy dog eyes and crocodile tears, pleading whimpers… you name it, I do it. I’m not acting or trying to be sneaky or anything. I mean it when I do it. I’m responding honestly to the pain by “asking without asking” for him to dial it down a notch.

If he ignores that -and he does, often- then I’ll just tell him (if I’m not gagged) he’s going too hard/fast/whatever. It’s a statement of fact, a warning really, that grace is about to take a flying leap out the window if he keeps it up at that pace.

Which is what I did less than 60 seconds into the whipping. I’d run quickly through the whole heartstrings attempt which he paid not one second of attention to, and damn it, he really WAS whipping fucking hard. No warm up (unless the breath play was the warm up), it was full speed ahead right out the gate with the whip. I told him. That’s too hard, man!

So he gagged me.

I have another shameful confession to make.

I’ll try and make too much noise so that he HAS to dial it down a notch. *blush*

Thing is though, I really, really don’t think I can stand one more second of the pain when I start hollering and crying. I’m not making it out to be worse than what I think it is, it seriously hurts bad. He’s not always out to help me find my happy place or to sink into subspace or to just make me horny. When he wants it to just hurt, it’s just going to hurt and I’m not pretending otherwise. It’s pain, real pain. My reactions are not stellar performances when that’s his intent.

But I do know that he’s bound in some manner to keeping things fairly quiet. Keeping it on the down-low. So when I’m sitting there thinking I’m dying, I’m gonna holler like I’m dying. It’s survival instinct! Sometimes it works enough that even if he doesn’t stop completely, he’ll switch toys or switch spots, which is sometimes all I need to get a grip on things.

I tried that. I was really trying to get some serious sound around the gag. All I wanted was for him to slow down. The repetitive strikes of the whip so fast together – there just isn’t time to breath, you know? The pain builds and builds.. and I was already all fuckled up from the breath play and face slapping – I was in bad shape. That’s all there was to it. So I hollered. Loud.

I thought it had worked too, as he lowered the whip and took a step away – only to reach the stereo where he cranked the volume up higher. I knew I was sunk then. Up a shit creek without a paddle.

After that I was a mess. I utterly and completely lost it. He felt so far away, I was all alone with the pain and my tears. I don’t know really how to describe that distance or how badly it fucks with my psyche. Once I enter that space, everything hurts more than it otherwise would. My nerves are all ramped up, on edge, jittering.

I was sobbing. Sobbing. Drooling around the gag, snot running down my face, can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t connect. And him? He was so turned on he could hardly stand it.

When he was done hurting me, he left me alone for a bit, putting my stinging body into bed, handing me the bullet vibe, and telling me to calm down and get ready. It took me a bit to find a happy place. For a while I was angry-vibing, hating every second of that vibrator pressed against my over-sensitive body, cursing him for “ruining my good scene time”. It took a little bit, but I got there. I found a good place.

I always do though. Those kind of scenes, heavy ones, I need those way more than the lighter fluff scenes. I just don’t always know that at the time. It’s hell to get there, but what lies over the horizon is fucking wonderful. For both of us.

I don’t know if he wanted these pictures behind a cut or not, but I’m doing it anyway. He didn’t tell me I couldn’t.

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Ambivalence

I used to use the word “ambivalent” incorrectly. I thought it meant to not care one way or the other; to be apathetic about a decision or choice. Of course it doesn’t mean that at all. It means much the opposite in fact.

Latin in origin, from ambi meaning “both” and valentia meaning “strength”, ambivalence means having strong feelings, simultaneous and contradictory attitudes, toward an object or certain path.

I am ambivalent about slavery, I’ve decided. It is not a love-hate thing. A love-hate relationship would mean that I love being a slave but hate myself for doing it. That is not the case at all.

But this line right here fits me to a T: “a heightened ambivalence which is expressed in behavior by alternating obedience and rebellion, followed by self-reproach”.

See? I’m ambivalent.

While that bears further thought, there is something else that I am ambivalent about and that’s my real reason for posting today. The vocabulary lesson wasn’t in vain.

I am ambivalent about the whip. About being whipped. About asking to be whipped or told I’m going to be whipped.

It’s different than, say, spanking. Getting a spanking is almost normal. It used to be a standard part of childhood back in the day (still is I suppose), and I even remember it being used in schools as a youngster (Not that I ever was spanked by the principal! I was much too good). I seem to recall, when my own children were just entering elementary school, signing a paper forbidding the use of corporal punishment on them should they misbehave in class. So my guess is that using paddles in school has only recently been done away with.

And spanking wasn’t unheard of between a husband and wife either. A “naughty” wife was dealt with, by some husbands, in much the same way a naughty child was. So spanking feels, to me, like a much more acceptable practice. The history of spanking is presentable.

But the history of whipping is not so presentable. It’s not a clouded memory for most people. It’s not something that’s ever been shown in anything other than an extremely negative and unattractive way, bringing up feelings of revulsion and anger. Pictures of men and women, tied to posts and whipped to bloody ribbons. People strapped to machines or tools, whipped into working harder and faster. In movies, doesn’t the “slavedriver” *always* have a whip in hand, and isn’t he always quick to use it upon a slow worker?

Whipping is all wrapped up in shame and disgrace. That bleeds over into my enjoyment of it.

When I am enjoying it, that is.

It’s very strange, the things that pop into my head in the midst of a scene.

Master does not whip me to bloody ribbons. Yet. I know that he can, I know that he is capable of it. I’ve seen him flick a whip at a sturdy cardboard box and leave a 3 inch gash so I know that when it’s me on the receiving end and not a box, he’s holding back something awful.

I do not know if he will always hold back though. Nor do I know at what point he’ll “let loose” once I’ve been secured to the ceiling. There is a lot of fear coursing through me during a whipping… until the whip has been hung UP, and I have been hung DOWN.

Anywho, so I know I’m not taking anything over the top when he’s whipping me. I get some welts, sometimes they last days, sometimes only hours. Sometimes there is a little breaking of the skin, sometimes not. Sometimes it feels good, sometimes I’d like to set the whip on fire in the backyard and do a happy dance while it burns.

Sometimes he does it rather lightly (but still hurting!), but repetitively, over and over and over, quick little snaps, moving from spot to spot to spot, without pause and it drives me batshit crazy. It’s not even the pain so much as the constant flick, the never-ending bite.

I’d make the comparison between being stung once by a wasp, or being bitten by 300 fire ants, one at a time.

I am ambivalent on whether I’d choose the wasp or the ants. Both and neither, thank you.

My fear is the day when it becomes being stung by a wasp 300 times, one at a time.

I’ve never been stung by a wasp. Not even by a bee. I’ve built it up into epically painful proportions in my mind.

This particular occasion was a “300 ants, one at a time” type of whipping. Honestly, by the end of it, I’m whimpering like I’ve been skinned merely because I can’t catch my fucking breath. It’s insanity I tell you.

Pictures are behind the cut. And a clip is up at the Clip Store.

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Play Party

We went to a play party last night. It was a big one, a twice annual event where the big furniture is brought out and lots of people come and there are all manners of fetishes and such. It was very cool.

There was a cross, a frame, a bondage chair, spanking benches, and other things dangling from the ceiling. The atmosphere was amazing. You can’t walk into a place like that and NOT want to be naked and splayed across a piece of heavy black furniture, hurting. At least, I couldn’t.

 We’re going to have to invest in buying Master some leather…lol. Most of the Doms there were leather, head to toe (literally, from boots to hats).

 One man, wearing a white frilly tutu, spiked heels and a corset was simply gorgeous. I’m still in awe at how accepting, how open people are. Who knew this was out there? It’s awesome!

I walked around the entire night with cuffs and collar and a leash. In a bar! We were set up in a large open back room (like where they would have wedding receptions), but the bar part was open to the public still. While it wasn’t crowded at all as the bar is set out in the boonies and seems to cater mostly to alternative lifestyles (it was a gay bar), it was still just really *weird* for me to be sent out there to fetch drinks (soda pop) in fetish gear.

 Though I was far from being the most outlandishly dressed person there! (see: man-in-tutu ) Men in butt-less chaps and women in skirts that were little more than waistbands, I was actually conservatively dressed in a long, tight black skirt, heeled boots and top. But when it’s new, it feels naked.

 I was naked soon enough anyway.

 We watched people play for a long time, just getting  a feel for the place. All the while that I’m getting more and more nervous knowing that I’d soon be naked and on display for the crowd watching, worried about wimping out or embarrassing Master in some way, it didn’t even occur to me (until way later) that Master was dealing with His own stage fright.

It’s just as intimidating for Him to be “performing” in front of a crowd of seasoned players, not knowing what they might be thinking of His technique, or how He relates to me. And also, as He mentioned in my ear at one point before we played, “I think we play heavier than these people” which only adds more worry on top of worry. Who wants to be the couple that the DM has to ask to stop, you know? How mortifying.

It’s not that we were going to have a scene of intensity at all, but the scenes playing around us were quick, light paddlings, Hollywood-type floggings. It all seemed so gentle. Maybe it’s kept light for public consumption? I don’t know. I’m learning as I go.

At any rate, when He did finally put me up on the frame, He certainly didn’t go “light”. I’m not sure the man knows how, to be honest. It wasn’t the most intense, or the most painful scene we’ve ever done, but it wasn’t Hollywood light neither. I was doing my fair share of trying to dance away from the whip.

We were the only ones who had a whip. That was another point of nervousness. Maybe whips are “too much”. I know that the pop of the whip against my skin seemed incredibly loud in the room, my hisses and grunts even louder.

 But we were complimented by the DM, said we’d given a “very enjoyable” scene. I know I sure enjoyed it!

 And a little bit later, Master “gave” me to a woman wanting to have a flogging scene. Stripped naked and tied to the cross, this girl whompalomped my ass.

 Women are meaner than men I think. Master is mean enough, that’s for sure, but women seem to have an extra edge that men don’t. It’s in the way they snatch a handful of hair and yank your head back, the way they giggle at your grunts and moans.. and their fingernails! Holy Ouchie, Batman.

She worked me over pretty good. Had I not had the cross in front of me to lean on I’m pretty sure she’d have knocked me over. I swear every stroke was catching the top chubby roll on my ass too. Jesus that hurt.

It was good though. At the end we both agreed to play again next time we meet up.

These were taken last night when we got home. It’s a shame that cameras aren’t allowed in the play area. This would have made a *great* movie. And, a side effect I’m noticing from having the camera on so very often when we play and then not having at the parties. Without being able to see it on the video afterwards makes it seem less “real” to me. I’m so used to being able to see it when it’s over, seeing another perspective, that not having that leaves it feeling a little like a dream. Weird huh?

The higher marks are from the flogging, there up on the fat hip roll. The lower marks are from Master and the whip. Pretty, no?

Then it was over and it was home to bed. It was cold, we were tired and spent, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed and zonk out. When we climbed into bed Master told me not to bother with the chain, mostly because it was so cold. So I was lying there, half asleep… feeling like I was missing something. Because I was!

I’ve worn it for too long, I guess, that I can’t sleep without it. I sleep with my fist curled around the padlock because the edges of it are scratchy and sharp and I felt incredibly naked without it. But I also knew that a night without it would gift me with better sleep and more comfort. So I was warring with myself over it. Ask for it or don’t ask for it.

In the end I asked if I could have it. The night’s play had left me feeling too vulnerable to deal also with not having the security of the chain around my neck. So I asked in that tiny, little girl voice if I could wear it anyway, and He laughed and patted my head and said of course I could.

I’m such a spoiled whore.

~cunt

ps. We got the pussy pump from Extreme Restraints for the *very* reasonable price of $28.00. Honestly, we should get a discount for the amount of free advertising we do for that place!

 And as for shaving, I shave with bikini zone shaving cream, a good razor, and use Goldbond powder for any irritation. I do get razor burn sometimes but it’s not a huge issue. I’m not woman enough to try waxing.

pps. More pictures taken today.

Bruises from the misery stick-tit torture of the Wimp post the other day. That movie, btw, is up on the A Master and His cunt site.