All Tangled Up

So the topic du jour around FetLife lately is hair. More specifically, who can do what with it. Can the sub save it, the slave submit to losing it? If you shave it all, does the loss of your dead protein head covering make you crazy and traumatized?

I’m bad at this whole “going into slavery with my eyes wide open” thing, because it never occurred to me that I could submit to Him but still retain full authority over my hair. Oh how I want it to be that way in my dreamworld…a world where I can have a blue stripe in my hair, but it short to my ears, have it done up in cornrows and braids, get some awesome color put in…

Instead I have these rules:

  1. Do not cut more than 2 inches off without His express approval (layering exempted)
  2. Do not color hair anything other than naturally-occurring-in-my-lineage colors. This leaves a reddish brown, chocolate brown, Ash blonde and reddish blonde to choose from.
  3. No fucked up hair dos. Buns, ponytails, main braids and puppy ears are allowed. Down and brushed is best. Hair must be long and relatively unscathed. No cornrows, full head braids, dreds, beads…NO.

Before college became a reality I handled the above restrictions fairly well. I figured eventaully the day would come when He’d become tired of my long plain jane hairstyle and let me do something to jazz it up a lil. Maybe some cute contrasting chunky highlights, or a short asymmetrical bob, something different than my current Little House on the Prairie look going on. Now that college is imminent, I can feel some old panic and resentment floating  to the surface, little bubbles of impotent frustration and anger floating in an otherwise calm pond of acceptance. I’m going to school to join a workforce that is rather conservative regarding hair for safety and aesthetic reasons.

Once college is done, I’m trapped into a forever of buns, braids and ponytails, of bland colors and a melange of cute scrunchies to enliven my hair.

*yawn* Ugh. This is my future?!

I want to rebel against this eternity of matronly suppression. I don’t want to admit to myself that my chances of ever playing around with the hair on my head are fully over.

I want a chance to reinvent myself, if only for this short bit.

Love her hair, I'd go a little darker on the blue since my skin tone would look a little washed out with this pretty pale blue.

And I didn’t know then, but I know now, that the chance was gone before I ever missed it. It was foolish and false hope that sustained me this long, and now that flying carpet’s been shot down.

I’m not traumatized, but I am forlorn. Another link in the chain around my brain and my heart. Slightly heavier load than before, but eventually that weight will feel comforting. Just have to wait until then.

And stop reading my friends’ writings about having purple and blue hair and pixie cuts.

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.

My Idea of Torture is not His Idea of Torture (03-29-2010)

i’ll set the scene for everyone: two exhausted parents, with way too much stuff to do and not enough time to do it, finally convince someone to take the kids for a night. This is on par with the planets aligning in a straight line.  Whatever do you think they will do whilst the children are away?

I can assure you of this: it ain’t sleeping.

That’s right, I conned sweet-talked my dad into taking all three of the anklebiters for a night so The Man and i could finally relate to each other on a plane different than Dad and Mom. When i got back from dropping them off, i was elated and anxious, if i’d had a tail i would have been wagging it so hard it would have hit me in the nose.  i’d been asking for a beating like no other…one that would leaving me snuffling and slumped, twitching and walking like an old grandma for a few days. It’s been a long time since a beating like that. i’d been craving one for quite some time and was hoping that this could be my chance to relish getting the snot whomped outta me.

We puttered in the garage, cutting paddles out and sanding them down, laughing and enjoying the camaraderie.  Went inside, He tells me to get the razor: it was time to ‘shear the sheep’ as i so delicately put it.  So He shaves me, and oh, it is such a trust building activity, to let Him get near my nether-parts with a sharp vibrating blade, without trembling in fear or squirming to close my legs from the detached appraising look He has when judging if the job is done. They both are so… invading, so intimate. Remember that word, kids: we will be revisiting it. Anyway, i bounce off to the shower and shave the rest of me, towel off, and start arranging myself into the corset and stocking He picked out. Suddenly we realize that it’s quite late for me to be making a delish supper, so i put on a long skirt, did up my make-up and off to town we went, for supper and drinks.

While i was putting on my face, He came in behind and started to maul me. Lately He’s been in a vicious mood in regards to my poor poor ass…each and every time it presents itself as a likely target, there’s N, pinching and smacking me to exasperation. It’s become such an accustomed thing that i get twitchy and start to press my ass against flat surfaces if He’s wandering behind me.  So when He slid behind me in the bathroom and placed His hands on my ass-cheeks, i tensed and frowned, waiting for the pain, waiting for the assault. Instead, to my flabbergasted surprise, He caressed me gently, rubbing, sliding His hands up and down my hips, inside my shirt to rub and massage my tits, kissing my neck and nibbling on my ear. i would have fallen in shock if He hadn’t been holding me against Him. i could see Him smirking against the flesh of my neck as my mouth hung open with pleasant shock. After nearly a month of ass-focused abuse, this sudden gentleness was so strong and powerful that i was at a loss. Then He strolls away, leaving me witless and trying desperately to remember what exactly it was i was doing in the bathroom anyhow.

We got to town, had a very nice supper complete with chick-watching, discussed going for dessert, but the line was much too long so we headed back home. Once home, i changed into the corset He loves and pranced around the house in a head-stall, collar, corset and stocking, perched on 3.5 inch heels. Played a round of cards that ended with me spanking Him severely  (in points, that is lol). Now part way through this round of cards, He had me go lay in the chair and spread my legs. i immediately blushed and looked down as i did so. Being so exposed…it’s horrible for me. To my absolute shock, He crouched down and proceeded to go down on me.

Cunnilingus in His house is a rare thing. Fine with me, because i don’t find it so appealing. i love to go down on a woman, but to have it done to me, makes me all anxious and shuddery. i worry about being clean. i worry about whether it takes too long for me to come. i worry about being so exposed, so vulnerable, so intimate with another human being. i worry about all those things being horribly abused, like they were 16 years ago.

This time, this time was different. Instead of worrying about all those things, i closed my eyes tight and just focused on Him. What His fingers were doing, what His tongue was doing, what His teeth were doing. This time, i could feel pleasure building in me, so fast, so strong. i could ride the waves as they rocked up and down my spine. He nibbled and tugged, bit and sucked, petted and thrust, and i knew that this time, for the first time in years, i was going to come from a man going down on me. i thought i was going to cry when i begged to come. He growled at me “You better” and i screamed as it rushed through me, He bit my lips and bit my clit and licked and i was ready to just curl up and be done with anything but a very deep nap. He had other plans and stroked me until the rebellion in my pussy rose again, dragging out painful mini-orgasms and making me beg Him to stop.

Finally, He did. And we returned to our card game, which i firmly accused Him of trying to cheat by distracting me.

i know it is silly for property to have intimacy issues. i mean, ffs, i bore Him three kids, He was right there in the room holding my hand and helping me push, He saw me pee on the nurse during the final moments…but i can’t handle the thought of Him seeing me spread-legged and exposed? About the worst thing He can do to me is sit on the couch and say “Masturbate for My pleasure”. When i hear those words, i fervently hope the world will swallow me whole. i can tell Him my greatest fears, let Him beat me black and blue…but drag my feet and shake with anxiety when He tells me to spread my legs so He can play with His toy (me).

i never said i made sense. i am just damned glad that i was able to let go of my neuroses long enough to truly feel the pleasure He was so hell-bent on giving me.

Thank You, Master.

Tangled Tora (06-15-2010)

There’s been quite the flurry of communication in this house as we further explore some of the outside stressors that are taking their toll on our sanity. One of the topics that came up was His continuing interest in swapping with another friendly couple or with a female, preferably bisexual, but not necessarily required.

That topic, of swapping, always leads to interesting reactions on my part, because it is absolutely loaded with implications, fears, insecurities and nightmares for me. It makes even the most mundane comments from Him make me tremble with suppressed rage or sob quietly in the bathroom.  It’s quite the fucking mental minefield, for sure.

The more direct consequences of the swapping I’ll discuss later on in a different set of posts. This post will be a multi-post series on how an open-bedroom policy has an affect on how I serve Him in the O/p relationship.

Being His slave is my life. It sounds awful, and even now a part of me involuntarily grimaced at typing that, but it is. This house, the kids, Him – it’s all I know how to do. It’s all I have done for the past 5 years. Consequently, much, if not all, of my perception of self-worth is directly related to my being His slave, and doing it well. This is fine for 90% of the time, when there isn’t much that challenges my perception. It’s that 10% of the time where I start to examine things, I start to panic, I start to get uppity in fear and self-preservation.

Part of the 10% is when He expresses His desire to bang other women. On the surface, I’m all good about it. Theoretically, I can understand the drive, the hunger to know another body in a purely sexual way. Emotionally, a part of me starts to shut down. Because in the scenarios He’s described, the girl would be sleeping in the bed with Him, getting up in the morning and eating breakfast with Him, looking at my house, my stuff, touching my things…

(I realize how absurd it is for a slave to be bitching about someone else touching her stuff. I am fully aware that in the basest sense, I own nothing, nothing is mine. I am referring to “mine” as thing normally allotted to me, that I have forged important connections with, like the house, which I have spent a great deal of time trying to make not only livable but lovable; the bed, which is my refuge from the world; and most of all, my service to Him.)

and I imagine myself laying next to the other half of the swapping couple, wondering if she’s spooning with Him the way I often ask to, if she’s falling asleep listening to Him breath His dream breaths like I do, if she’s making Him breakfast with the love I try to…

Can’t imagine why I am not jumping at the chance to swap.

I fear being replaced. I’ve had nightmares about it. Imagining the girl doing everything that I use to define my worth to Him is enough to make my hands shake. I fear being abandoned after narrowing the focus of my life down to pinpoint accuracy of life with Him.

This inner turmoil brings on large amounts of self-doubt and self-hatred. I hate that I am not able to take my Owner’s word as gospel when He says I am not replaceable and that He’ll never leave me. I hate that I place limits, even if unwillingly, on His future actions because I am not strong enough to get over myself.  I hate myself for not being able to place His desire, His wants, over my inability to get a grip on life as a slave.

I just want to move on to acceptance. I don’t want to have to push through all the pain and fears, the old hurts and new terrors, to make it to the fabled El Dorado of kinkdom: gracious and calm slavery. Especially since this is something I have to do without much assistance from Him. He can’t kick my ass through it. I have to force myself every inch of the way, snuffling and sobbing, until I can finally look in the mirror and be absolutely sure that I am the one He will keep, I am the one He truly knows and desires, that I am the one that has earned the title of His slave.

Only then will I not stand in the way of His wants and desires. Because even though now I wouldn’t stop Him from sleeping out, wouldn’t begrudge Him from finding some sweet thing to enjoy, a part of my soul would commence bathing in acid. I’d kill myself inside to serve Him, all the doubts and fears and insecurites eating me from the inside out until I was nothing but a shell of the woman He loved.  I know all the poly sayings and theories and truisms. I know why my thought processes are false. That is what is so frustrating about it.

A good example would be this song by Tracy Lawrence called Time Marches On.

And most of all, even as I’m beating my breasts and gnashing my teeth about how it kills me to be an impediment to Him, I’m so very very thankful that He restricts Himself to guard the safety of my sanity until I am strong enough to know that Him sleeping around doesn’t mean I am not valuable to Him.