I’m Fat, I’m Property, and I Can Say I Still Deserve to be Loved

Recently, both piece and Biddable have written blog entries that trashed this concept we’ve seen spouted off by various “masters”: that slaves that are fat (overweight, fluffy, padded, curvy, big, solid) are not only disrespectful of their owners just by existing as such, but they are also dangerous to their children, to communities, they disrespect themselves, and they are horrible people to be around. Hell, I am surprised the various masters didn’t claim that fat slaves are ruining America, damn that apple pie.

At first, I was pissed. How dare some random stranger imply my Owner is lying when He says He loves me and supports me, and is not ashamed of my body. How dare someone tell me I am a danger to the community, that my extra weight is just as bad as tuberculosis. How dare some stranger dictate what the rest of us can find attractive, comfortable, acceptable?

Then the rage faded. What do I care? I’m fat. I got here a few different ways, some my fault, some not. It doesn’t really matter anymore, and I certainly don’t need to justify my efforts to some blowhard with his dick in his hand as he types his mighty words. My Owner, and my Owner alone, will tell me when my efforts are acceptable, and when I am lacking and need to step up.

But the implication that I am an unfit parent because of my weight, that was unacceptable, and down right disgusting. It was when I read that little blurb of this asshole’s rant that I knew he had to be a fairly vile dickhead of the lowest sort. My children are not fat. Hell, they’re underweight, just like their father, and just like I was until I graduated. They don’t get cookies and ice cream every night, they like their veggies and fruits, they don’t get soda and they rarely stop moving. They are Grade-A healthy children, with a good appreciation of health, nutrition and wise choices for food and drink. I am fully aware that my eating habits can rub off onto my kids, which is why they eat fresh fruits and vegetables, whole grain bread and whole milk, unlike their string-bean father, who eats a 3200 calorie diet from mostly high-calorie snacks and pop.

So, sure, attack me because of my weight. Lords know I exist only to please some megalomaniac losing his mind because some slave has the temerity to love herself, and accept love from her Owner despite her weight. Tell me how I’m ruining society by not losing the weight fast enough. Call me a disease vector and whine that my obese figure doesn’t get your dick hard. Attack my Owner because of something that has very little to do with our dynamic. Whatever you gotta do to make the voices in your head shut up.

But don’t you EVER fucking dare suggest I am an unfit parent based on my nude photo. BMI has very little to do with reality or my parenting skills. Anyone who thinks otherwise can take a flying fuck off a short pier, wearing cement shoes to boot. (ha! to boot! I kill.)((I kill! Ha! I slay me! …)) Until you have spent time in this house, observing, interacting, discussing, you get zero say on my parenting.

It’s a sad man that attacks a woman for being fat via her children. It’s a character trait far worse than gluttony or sloth. It is also way more ugly than extra poundage.

In short, fuck you.

 

 

 

Facefucking Done Right

Swollen lips?           check!

Cuts at the corners of the mouth?       check!

Sore throat?            check!

Hoarse voice?          check!

Bruises on throat from squeezing air off? check!

Tears running from eyes and snot running from nose? check!

Gagging and small vomiting sounds? check!

Tender scalp from using hair as a handle? check!

That’s how I spent my Friday night…what did y’all do?

I hated how even as He was fucking my face, using my mouth like a Fleshlight, I was getting hot. How even as I had tears running out from the humiliation and all the gagging, I was hoping He’d fuck me.

I hated that He didn’t fuck me, even after I completely debased myself and begged for it.

And yet I fell asleep contented and happy, and it was awesome to behold. 🙂 Even as I felt used, abused and discarded like an old kleenex, I felt loved and appreciated.

It is strange paradox.

He Stole *My* Desk

Yeah, that’s right, my desk!

For the past year or so, I’ve been begging for a desk of my own. N has often complained that my paperwork was cluttering up His desk, I was losing papers because they didn’t have a home, and with school coming up this fall I am going to need a place to keep my books and do homework.

 

Apparently this does not count as "proper housekeeping" in His house.

I surfed craigslist consistently looking for cheap desks that met the minimum requirements, and finally cam across a desk in Fargo that was perfect. They even threw in the chair for free. Planets aligned and I happened to have another errand to run in Fargo, so I brought home a desk. 😀

(With His permission of course. Ye Gods, do you really think I’d go buy a desk without Him knowing? I like my air freely flowing, thank you.)

I loved this desk the moment I saw it. It’s honey pine, spacious and open, with cubbies and shelves. Has a built in filing drawer. Everything I hoped for. So He and His friend drag it inside, and He gets it put together, and He announces, “I think I want this desk.” Thinking He was joking, I laughingly told Him He couldn’t have it, it was mine!

He was serious. He was going to take the desk, my desk. I ran through a quick gamut of emotions: anger, petulance, jealously, resentment. Over a freaking desk. I was angry that He would just imperiously decide that it was His now. Petulant that He didn’t let me have it sinceI made all the arrangements for it to come home. Jealousy that He got the nicer, newer desk. Resentment that He can pull that veto card whenever He damn well decides and that’s the end of it.

Did I act on any of those feelings? I am proud to say I did not. I got real quiet as I accepted that the desk was no longer mine, I mentally berated myself for being possessive when nothing is mine. I had an internal discussion about expectations and what happens when a person places expectations where there should be none.

Then I got up and cleaned the desk that I inherited from Him, settled into it and accepted it gratefully. At least He was kind enough to realize we needed another desk and gave me His old one. He could have put it downstairs as punishment for my presumptions.

Funny how something as little and normal as a desk can rub the salt in the wound just a little more, no? One more stumble down the path, one more path roughed out in the wilderness of my brain. I feel stupid that I got tripped up by something out of Slavery 101: Nothing You Have Is Really Yours, but I am glad that this time around I jumped the hurdle instead of falling over it and dragging it down with me.

OTK makes me weird

I left off a lot after my last post about the munch Saturday night. Partly because I didn’t want that post to be too long, partly because I wanted to separate our time with the group from our time alone, and mostly because it led to a peculiar state that I needed a few days to hash it out before I tried writing about it.

After we left the munch He drove home and we jabbered like we always do. N and I in a car alone means lots of talking, and it’s one of my favorite times. Sometimes we’ll sing along to songs, sometimes I’ll play youtube videos so He can hear the dialogue. It’s rare that we don’t have good times in the car. At some point during the trip home I remarked that it was a shame it was so late, He was surely too tired for some hawt nasty sex, alas, I’d have to wait ’til tomorrow. Dear Gods above, won’t anyone save me from my own stupidity?! Get home, I do a few things on the computer while He gets the house ready for the night, and downstairs I head like a clueless lamb to the abbatoir.

I don’t remember all of the beginning, I just know that I ended up undressed to my undies bent over the bed and He smacked my ass. I howled. He shoved my head back down and smacked my ass again. I howled again (real original, aren’t I?) He sat down (fully clothed) and bent me over His knee and unleashed on my ass. I screamed, I begged, I snotted, I sobbed. He went round and round my poor ass, nailing the soft spots at the thigh/cheek juncture, snapping the sides of my ass, landing hard flat palm-blows on the spot right above my crack. I started to struggle, so He trapped my legs between His and kept on going. Oh how I begged and cried, how I screamed and cursed. Every time I tried to get back up He smacked me that much harder and ordered me back down. Eventually it all sank in and I stopped sobbing (still snotted though, dear Gods I was a mess) and accepted it all. I am slave. I am a toy. If  He wants to beat my ass, well, then, He’s going to beat my ass, whether I beg Him to stop or not. And Him spanking me until I can’t feel my ass anymore doesn’t make him a bad Owner. It was a life’s essence in one 15 minute capsule, one sentence stretching into an eternity: I am owned.It was peace, it was still, it was surrender.

I know at this point people will be going “Oh, how sweet, subspace! Wow, lucky you!” Yeah, except I don’t think that is what this was. I wasn’t high. I didn’t feel exuberant or like I was flying. I felt serene. I could still hear and speak and interact, in fact I did everything He asked of me, it is more like I had finally found my way into a room that had been locked for so long, and I turned on the light.

He finally let me up, so I just stood there, bent over the bed, my ass glowing bright enough to light the whole goddamned house. (That might be a wee bit exaggerated, but I’m claiming poetic license). He told me to get the camera from the desk upstairs, so I stumbled over to the stairs and laboriously made my way up them. Came back, handed Him the camera, and got shoved over the bed again. Pictures of my ass, lit up like the fourth of July, my red panties being used as contrast. There were no feelings of shame, no sucking in of the stomach or subtle posings for the best look. I was just there to obey. To be nothing more than what He wanted, nothing more than what He had made me to be.

This next part might be a little sappy: I have discovered how I know that N really loves me: When He raped my ass that night after the ass beating, He used lube. That’s true love! The ass-fucking hurt anyways, lube or not.

Who knew love came in a handy pump dispenser?

Normally He’s a bit kind and let’s me warm up to His cock pillaging my ass. That wasn’t an option Saturday night. There was lube, and then there was cock in my ass. I grunted and gasped and panted as He took His sweet time, slapping and pinching my poor abused cheeks. I was still happily in my magic room, enjoying the primal state of just being. At last He’d tormented me enough and spent His load, aftwer that He slapped my sore bottom (as a reward?! I dunno!) and told me I could go clean up. The luxuries around here, I tell ya!

As I fell asleep as a pile of slavegoo, I realized that there is nothing more objectifying for me than to have my mouth and ass used as cum repositories, but my twat totally ignored. To have my direct pleasure placed so obviously beneath His. It only added to the goo-ness of my being. 😀

Want vs. Will Do (04-15-2010)

i want to call Him and be crabby, petulant and snarly. Instead i write here and keep my mind busy with a game.

i want to avoid contact with Him and refuse to met His eyes. Instead i will look directly at Him and say “welcome Home” without adding “motherfucker” to the end.

i want to fight with Him, tangle with Him, to have my anger boil over. Instead, i will kneel at His feet and squeeze my eyes shut tight.

i want to accuse Him of many shallow things that aren’t true because i am hurt and can’t shed it. Instead, i will hold my tongue from falling out of my stupid head and learn restraint.

i want to give up on being His slave tonight and just pretend that my life doesn’t have to be this hard. Instead i will hope like fuck He knows what He is doing and swallow that bitter pill when i don’t get my way.

If i could wish for anything, it would be to find a way past this goddamn brick wall standing right in fucking front of me. i mean, two fucking weeks left and i still cannot let go. What is it that hurts me so about this situation? For a person who can never shut up and can often think of at least two synonyms for many words, why can’t i explain it to Him in a fashion that He will understand?

So instead, i will sit here, waiting for Him to come home. i will be quiet, i will be pensive, i will be timid because i can’t be what my brain screams for. i will swallow my gall, bear the burning stain of my misery and try to remember to breathe. As a slave, that’s all i really can do.

Patience, grasshopper. (04-04-2010)

The Man has been lazy lately. i am totally justified in saying that. He works all day, He goes and plays/works outside after work until the kids need to go to bed, then He comes in and does the bills or watches tv. Then it is our bedtime. It isn’t in physical activity that He’s been slacking. It’s been in the physical mastering and forceful subjugation He’s less enamored with. When we started figuring out what we both wanted, we discovered that i wanted the pain play as much as He wanted to give it. Even with the kids, we found time to indulge both of our desires. Recently, He has felt the urge to beat me less and less, so i’ve been scrambling to learn a new way to squelch the seething need to be taken down and reduced to sniveling pile of sore bitch-flesh. (See that line made me hawt. That’s how hard-up i am.) i’ve asked for a session, i’ve begged. He has no interest in it, so i have accepted that He isn’t in that head-space. Not graciously, not without a little bitterness and cuntishness. Right now, all i can give is the acceptance. i have no way of knowing if i will ever feel the lash of His belt or the punch of the flogger handle. This kills me a little, not knowing where He is taking me. i understand in my mind that His will overrides mine, but in my heart (my slavie heart *snicker*) i rail against it. i don’t want to accept it, i want a good solid beating and some rough sex to finish me off. Can i subjugate that desire? Can i beat the tiger into the cage again? i am going to have to learn, because i don’t see the drought easing up.