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.

Goddamned Bus Drivers and the “Innocent” Bystanders Who Shove You Under

Well this is just fucking great.

Got a call from N this morning, He says “I have a packaged coming for me from UPS. I bought you something. You can’t open it.”

I heard that dark gloating glee in His voice and my asscheeks clenched and my tits tightened up. That tone never bodes well for me. Looks like I have some self-preservation after all.

I placed the box on the counter and glared at it. I shook it – firmly packed. Medium weight…could it be a RingofSteel collar like I’d been begging for? Or maybe a pretty whip or delicious flogger, curled up in wait like a pleasurable viper? The box label didn’t tell me much, and I figured that I could back trace the address if I wanted… but N told me I couldn’t snoop. Otherwise I would have opened His email the minute He hung up.

He spent the day mocking me on FL.

Finally shoved the kids to bed, and He calls me to His desk. I dragged my feet as I went…there was something about how much amusement and laughter He had that really made me worry. I knelt and waited as He leisurely cut the tape, pulled apart the packing paper…and hid the invoice against Him. Bastard – er I mean Love You, Sir. I was so impatient, but I didn’t want anything to come out of the box…

and out pops this:

 

That's right, it's a goddamned Njoy sticker. Nothing good can come of one of these coming out of a mystery box.

If I could have, I would have quickly tossed the box into the garbage without going any further.

He pulled out the box, and I will admit, it is a pretty box. I kept wishing against hope that He bought the pleasure wand. Or maybe (ha!) the pfun plug for Him.

Nope. Out comes a beautiful medium pure plug. It’s heavy, it’s all smooth curves and polished metal. I would say it’s too pretty, too beautiful to shove up my ass, but I guess I don’t get a say.

 

One of the things that makes me say "Oh fuck me, please no".

He taunted me with it for a bit, then told me to get on my knees and flip my skirt up. “Now?!” I squeaked. I wheedled, trying to get out of it…no avail. Backed into the proverbial corner, I asked where the lube was.

“Spit is a lube.” He countered.

I scoffed. “Spit is never an acceptable lube.” His eyes hardened a little bit and I hastily amended “Please?”

“Fine. Make it quick.” He grunted.

So I did, and I knelt, Flipping my skirt over my back. Oh, was it cold. Heavy. Foreign. I kept telling myself to breath, to open up…and He popped it right in. I grunted, and felt my ass trying to understand why this blob of metal had suddenly taken up residence. He patted my ass cheek and laughed. “How’s it feel?” He cooed solicitously.

“Like a chunk of stainless steel in my ass.” I replied crossly. Really, what is a good answer to that? “Like rainbows and butterflies”? “An orgasm and bliss all rolled up”?

So here I sit. It takes some getting used to, but I’m not doing too bad. I can feel the ring of muscle randomly adjusting. It’s noticeable when I walk, but when I sit it actually doesn’t hurt or anything, which is a blessing.

Except that He is talking about extended wear. Fuck.

I guess I don’t mind it, except (there’s always an “except…” with me) that to me, it’s a constant feeling of invasion, of humiliation, of no personal boundaries. (Quit laughing at me) I don’t know if it gets easier to assimilate into your mind, but right now I haven’t’ really forgot or become used to there being metal plugging my ass.

I know it is the point, but goddamn.

 

I would like to also point out that this post made my spellchecker have a stroke.

I Still Have Fingers, Arms and a Head

Good thing last night wasn’t decapitation or limb-chopping night.

Last night, was, well, it was wow. Wow is a good word for it. And minus the first ‘w’, it still applies.

 

Like I wrote yesterday, it started with the butt plug. Eventually He skipped it and we went about our merry ways getting the kids to bed. After they were asleep He made me a drink, which had twice the usual amount of alcohol in it. I commented that I felt like I could breathe fire after taking a drink and He just snickered. He was so upbeat and excited, like a kid right before Christmas morning. He kept swatting my ass and pinching my tits, and it was making me jumpy and skittish.

I had to strip naked, bring my collar to Him and put on my buckle heels, and that is when I started to worry. He tied me to one of the floor jacks in the basement, spreader bar/shackle combo on my legs, spreader bar and velcro cuffs on the wrists, pulled out and above me. I struggled to hold that position in 3.5″ heels while He swarmed me, tugging on my nipples, pinching my ass, nibbling my neck, murmuring that I was right not to trust Him, chuckling as I tottered on my heels…then, the sound of the camera zooming in. I hid my face as He snapped away, laughing at me.

He took the heels off my poor feet and switched to a different style of spreader bars for my ankles, ones without manacles. He “warmed me up” with some light swats and a few bites, then started in with the thin rubber flogger. I jumped and hissed and tried to sink into the pain. Then He grabbed the leather flogger and laid in. Lightly at first, nice punchy hits that I grunted and absorbed. Once He had me lulled He started flicking it, using wrap-around on the hips and chest, intentionally wrapping it around my cunt and nailing me on the really soft flesh of my lower belly. I hissed and growled and screamed when he really bit in with the strands. He’d mock me when I yelped, asking if it hurt, assuring me that He wasn’t swinging real hard. Which is a useless fucking assurance when He’s utilizing wraparound. Really. I am not that damn dumb. The first time He snapped my stomach with it I screamed, and He came into my vision and asked so solicitously “Aw, did that hurt? I didn’t hit that hard.” to which I angrily replied “Yeah, it is called wrap-around, Asshole! Ever heard of it?!” He looked at me with the most straightest of faces and said coolly “Yes, yes I have.” before doing it again. And again, and again…

The hitting of me with various stingy instruments was randomly interrupted by moments where He would press me into the beam while finger-fucking my ass or my cunt, biting my neck and mocking me more. I struggled so hard to fight back the orgasm, to deny the pleasure, even as my cunt squelched and I could smell the musky aroma of my own betrayal. He fucked me with the handle of the rubber flogger, then whipped me with it. I cursed Him, His mother, the day He was born..

He let me down after a while and reached for the ring on my collar to drag me into the bedroom. Not knowing why His hand was reaching for me, I flinched back. He grinned before grabbing the ring, and that’s when I started to really feel the tingle in my belly that means the fear-monster is rising. He was letting the inner Asshole come out to play, and that meant it would be a long hard night.

In the bedroom He tells me to drink more of the lemonade mixer He made me. I had to lay my head over the edge of the bed after that (me protesting the whole time that if I puked it would “be on Him”, get it, aren’t I a laugh?) for some facefucking, pictures required. He attacked my clit as I struggled to swallow Him, and I was so confused my the mixed signals of “No Air!” and “Want to Cum!” going on in my brain. I was so damned turned on by this point that any more than 2 minutes of His attention to my clit made me ready to explode, which was always when He would remove said attention. After He’d had enough of the facefucking He got out the rope again and tied me up tight in a tit harness. He sat at the edge of the bed and diddled me as I sat astride His lap, and everytime I went to moan He smothered me with His huge rough hand. Smothering is one thing when you get to take a breath before hand. When it hits you on the exhale, it takes a lot less time till panic sets in. At some point it became too hard for Him to control me while He was sitting, so He shoved me into the wall and kissed me violently, raping my mouth with His tongue as His hands roamed across my body pinching, pulling, scratching, mauling. He hungrily sucked away my screams and pleas. Then He threw me across the bed, and I didn’t have the will to do anything but lay where I landed. I was gasping, trying to catch my breath. First He pulled out the locking bit gag, strapped that on tight. Then it was the blindfold. I balked at that, I know it is cheating, but I like to know what is coming at me, dammit. He commanded me to all fours, and I slowly complied, warily.

I know it is clichéd, but after the first few light hits with the mahogany bastard, I trembled with fear and pain. I hate that fucking paddle. Hate HATE HATE it. It bites, it stings, it quickly reduces me to a shaking sobbing pile of bitch. I stayed on all fours for the beginning, but as the hits started getting nastier I was doing everything I could to minimize the blows. It seemed like everything I tried just made a nice target of something else, and I began to throw myself forward or on my side. He crawled on top of me, pinning me to the bed, and continued to whale on my ass, my thighs, my back. I screamed. I gagged. I cried, I begged…I bucked and heaved and clawed…and then I broke. I sniffled into the sheets and laid limp, unable to fight anymore.

He laughingly asked me if a good fuck sounded good right about then, and I wholly agreed…only the tone of His voice had me worried that my definition of a good fuck wasn’t going to be the same as His. I was right…it wasn’t. He had me get hooked up to the fucking machine and suck on Him as I was fucked by the insistent yet impersonal toolbox buddy. As I gobbled N’s cock He fingered my ass again, teasing me with accusations of being an anal slut, shaming me about my love/hate relationship I have with ass love. After a bit of this the machine dong fell out, so while I went upstairs to clean up a little He made a few changes. When I got back, He gave me two choices: more of the DP with the fucking machine, or N in my ass. Knowing that N was going to end up in my ass at some point or another, I chose to get it over with early. Stupid me.

He had me climb on Him, which is my absolute least favorite position for anal, mainly because He can see my face and can further deride and humiliate me about liking anal. And oh, did He. The stream of mocking, sharp comments was constantly on me, and all I could do was whisper “Shut up, I hate You” over and over as my cunt dripped and my nipples tingled. After a bit of this He pushed me off and told me to get back on all fours and fuck myself with the another dong from the fucking machine. I did so, face flushed with shame and embarrassment, and then He mounted and shoved His cock into my ass. I groaned and moaned and whimpered, tears edging out of my eyes as the pressure built. I struggled to catch my breath against the pain even as the orgasm built inside of me.  I inched forward on the bed, trying to lessen the blows to my abused orifices from His thrusts, and the dong fell out. Now it was just N, slamming into my sore ass, and I was flattened to the bed, His weight pinning me in place as He buried Himself in my ass over and over again. I cried out from the pain as He made His final thrust, filling my ass with His come. Hoping that He was satiated, I asked for a towel to clean up with, and He tossed me a towel to sit on, then suggested that He beat some more sense into me. I begged and wheedled, assuring Him that I was well-informed of my place in the world, tyvm. So instead, I was due for some more fucking, and finally allowed that damned orgasm that had been mocking me all night. When it finally hit, I’m pretty sure my heart stopped and I took ten minutes off of my life.

Aftercare consisted of me helping Him put away the instruments of doom toys and cleaning up myself. I drank a little juice and nibbled on a piece of cheese while He showered, then headed back to the bedroom and collapsed into a pile of well-used girl.

Today He has delighted in all the marks He left on me, and has used every chance available to grope slap and pinch my bruised ass. I have rope burn from the tit harness He wrapped me in, bruises all over my ass, sore spots on my thighs from where He pinned me to the bed, a split lip, and an invisible bruise on my forehead where I kept hitting my head on the floor jack pole as He was flogging me. He thinks it is hilarious and is still on me, poking and prodding to get me to whimper. I’m learning to press my ass against flat surfaces whenever He’s near me.

 

Please Omit Flowers

I had planned on writing a post tonight after the kids went to bed about social awkwardness or why I hate stupid people on FetLife or other weird things that cross my mind. Oh, like the conversation I had with the clerk at Lane Bryant today who insisted that I apply for their credit card, and when I said that my Husband would kill me she asked how He would find out…um, so, you suggest to women that they should lie to their husbands to get a crappy credit card? o.O

Anyways, I had planned on that, but the BossMan apparently has other ideas, and is frightening me with all the chuckling and snickering and assurances that while I might hate it while going through it, I’ll love the end result. I don’t know what “it” is, but “it” is scaring me.

Part of it involved me having a small ass dildo shoved in and wearing it after supper until later festivities. This was met from me with less warmth than the current weather outside. Ass play of nearly any form is something I hate to love. I dutifully submitted to Him and accepted this stupid piece of jellydong material…and then realized that I couldn’t stand up or take a deep breath with it in. It’s just too long for that use. When explaining this to Him, I mentioned Kaya’s Njoy and why that was better suited for long term active use…

…and then He said we will be ordering one.

I hate you, Kaya. You and your goddamned bus. *sigh*
While I am sure that I am going to be dead in a few hours (or at least wishing to be) I will post on what “it” turned out to be. That is, if He doesn’t chop off my fingers or decapitate me in some way.

“And to avoid the ever-watching Eye, ye shall work only under the blackened sky…

..and to no other shall you breath a word, than to those who have already heard.”

Okay, that tripe up there isn’t really from a Silver RavenWolf book; I wrote it on the fly for a sickeningly catchy headline.  The concept is actually related to my topic: my religion in the face of the Owner’s lack thereof.

*So* not my idea of a good time...

I’m a Druid-in-process. I most strongly align with the Ar nDraiocht Fein approach to Gaelic druidism. I’ve been wandering around the NeoPagan cosmos since I was in high school. I wasn’t one of those “I just watched The Craft and want to cast a love spell” girls. (I’ve actually never seen that movie but I understand that it really pisses off a lot of Wiccans, lol) I hid my books under the mattress, didn’t wear identifiable jewelry until my last year of school, and didn’t really talk much about it with anyone. It was personal. My religion now is personal.

Compounding my issue with having been naturally secretive about my pagan beliefs, N is not very secretive about being a cold-logic-Atheist. When you’re dead, you’re dead, and that’s the end. There is no sky-fairy or Spaghetti Monster fucking with your destiny. He considers religion to be a crutch and shakes His head at the idea of so many people the world over that have lost their senses and believe in magical thinking as the reason they live their lives.

N has this unnatural ability to lead me to His conclusions without overtly pushing me there. About once a year, I start wondering if He’s right…are there really no Gods or Goddesses, no Ancestors, am I just praying and offering gifts to empty airwaves? Am I having an extremely common hallucination called religious experience? And each year I spend a few weeks with my crisis of faith, waffling between what I believe to be true and what He does…because ultimately, I truly believe He is a smarter, more reasonable and more believable person than I. I don’t trust myself as much as I trust Him. So if He thinks it’s all bunkum…

When actively practicing my faith, I do it so freaking low down that He rarely ever knows. I do as much as possible while He’s away at work. During the summer I might “go out for a stroll” and do my work then. I think my bedtime prayers in my head, I say my morning devotionals after He leaves for work or goes outside for chores. I avoid Him being exposed to any of my workings. I’m not afraid that He will ban such silly superstitions…if He was going to, He already would have. He has no interest in removing me from my religion forcefully. I avoid Him because I don’t want Him to think I am silly, pathetic or amusing.

His impression of me, His view of me, is hugely important. In an egalitarian relationship, it would probably be important to an unhealthy extent, but that’s not what we are doing, so oh well. So the very thought of Him seeing me kneeling in front of a burning censor, sprinkling incense and mumbling invocations, burying the feast and saying good night to my Ancestors, or even blessing His house each Mabon makes me twitch. I’d hear Him inside my head, detracting and voicing skepticism and the inter-connectedness of the rite would be gone.

It’s a more adult version of “Out of sight, out of mind”.

Another pitfall regarding O/p and religion is that many covens would not accept me because of my relationship dynamic. Not only do they bridle at the idea of a person’s freewill being given to another human, they get quite bent when I make it clear that there will be no secrets between The Man and I. No naked rituals. No re-enactments of “The Great Rite”. Even my belief that I am a lesser mortal than N (and other people) really riles up most pagans. I do find it highly amusing that a person can devote their free will to a particular deity, but not a Higher Mortal.

So I do my rituals and routines outside of His influence. I stay solitary to avoid pissy Pagans unwilling to extend the courtesy of tolerance to a different style of love. I cling to the writings of Higher Mortals like Raven Kaldera as proof that O/p and Paganism can co-exist peacefully outside of my relationship.  I stay lonely, but mostly fulfilled. In the shadows and tween-times, but definitely there.

 

Did I mention we are weird? (09-08-2010)

So the past Monday morning started off weird for all sorts of reasons. The Man didn’t have work, the oldest kidlet didn’t have school, my brother has spent the night, and I was leaving mid-morning to go workout. Without any rugrats. (It was a weird and liberating feeling.) I got breakfast provided for the family and quickly hopped into the shower while everyone else was eating. N had been in and out of the bathroom while I showered, using the facilities and then putting His contacts in. On the second trip in, He suddenly slid open the shower door and grinned at me. It was cold and I was a bit torqued that He was letting in all this freezing air.

“I have to piss” He said.

That’s all I needed to hear. I dropped to my knees at the edge of the tub, arms crossed under my breasts, pressing my breasts up and together for Him, my mouth open (but my tongue curled up to block my throat), eyes shut. This is the mandatory pissing-post pose. Yes I just made that term up, but hey, there you go.

I wasn’t irritated anymore. I wasn’t rushing through my mental planner trying to ensure I didn’t forget anything. I was just a slave in the tub waiting to be pissed on, waiting to be marked, reduced, claimed and loved.

I just was.

As His piss washed over me and I heard the slight sigh stream from His lips, I melted a little more into the floor. There is nothing like being pissed on, in my mind. It’s fraught with tangled emotions, negative connotations, distaste and shame. When He pisses on me, I feel completely free to be nothing more than His slave for that moment. To embrace the warmth of His fluid, smell His very unique scent, to receive something no other has ever earned the right to. I feel His ownership flow over my skin and the essence of Him soak in.

I can’t say I was this ecstatic about being His when He pressed His still pissy dick into my mouth and said “Suck it”. But I did, wincing as the strong bitter taste spread across my tongue, making me work harder to find that pleasure one gets from really stripping the life out of a man through his cock. And suddenly He was there, waiting, trembling, before He let out a groan and filled my mouth with a new salty taste that I hastily swallowed before it made me gag. And as I cleaned Him off with my tongue, He smiled down at me and said “Thank you, slave.”

No Monday morning could ever be bad when I start it with His piss running down my face and chest and His cum warming my belly.