Anal, Masochism, and Communication

I’ve discussed my reluctance with masochism previously, but in talking with Intriguing about my most recent brush up with N’s “I don’t care if you don’t want it, you’re getting it” philosophy, I’ve realized that my version of masochism is horribly clear as mud, and I’m damned lucky N’s been around me long enough to understand that when I say no, I’m needing a yes, but asking for the no/yes combo nullifies the no.

I’m not real fond of anal sex, which is why it makes my cunt gush fountains. In the shower last night, N told me to grab the oil bottle. I slumped…there’s only one reason He tells me to grab that bottle, and it’s not a good one. I tried my little girl lost look and said “It’s pretty late…I’m tired. We should go to bed.” He shook His head and pointed at the bottle. “But I’m sore and the water will get cold!” I wheedled. He just pointed again, His face hardening. I huffed a sigh and reluctantly grabbed the bottle, pouring a little into my hand and warming Him up with a hand-job. I tried to use a few of my usual tricks to maybe get Him to want a happy ending with that instead, but He cut me off at the pass and told me to knock it off.

Eventually He’d had enough of my slippery jerking and told me to turn around. The oil was cold as it ran down the crack of my ass, and I complained. He laughed and said that I always say its cold, but He doesn’t quite believe me, and He’ll need more data before He thinks about it.

He pressed Himself into me, and I tried to relax, really. I tried to ignore that I was cold, tired, tense, and wet. It hurt as He forced His way in, and I spent a while working through the pain. Part of it was that the lube wasn’t spreading far enough, but instead of asking for more, I relished the pain. I didn’t want to be the one who needed more lube. I wanted to suffer as long as He was happy; I wanted to hurt as He was feeling pleasure. So He continued to ride my ass as I rode the pain, knowing that my cunt was twitching and dripping, unable to smother my moans and whines as He thrust deeper and deeper.

“Play with your cunt,” He growled in my ear. I whimpered a little, knowing that He loves to feel me getting off with His cock buried deep in my ass. I hate the indignity, the shame, the wanton hussiness it brings out in me. It’s up there in my top ten humiliation activities, which is why He finds it so attractive, I’m sure. Even though I was trying to ignore the heat radiating from my pussy, my hand was sliding down to nestle between my nether-lips, and it wasn’t long before I was begging Him to let me cum. I could feel His breath across the water on my neck, and suddenly the cold of His breath, the pain of His fucking, the knife’s edge of orgasm I was on…it was all too much. I needed the permission, or my clit was just going to explode and fall off…

“Yes!” He growled as He lunged forward, spearing me to the wall and making me cry out as the rush of the orgasm met the sharp sting of His thrust. It was a volatile combination that made my knees melt and my vision blur in the explosion of pleasure and pain.

I stood, head against the wall, breathing heavily as His cum dripped down my leg, mingling with my own juices before washing away in the shower spray. I couldn’t find my breath, or my thoughts, or words to thank Him for ignoring my wants in favor of His own. How could I say thank You for ignoring me? Thank You for not listening to me? Thank You for giving me what I can’t ask for?

I just looked up at Him and smiled weakly. “Thank You,” I muttered.

“Thank you.” He said with a grin.

I know that owning a reluctant masochist has to be hell sometimes, especially if you love them. Sometimes sorting out the “I don’t wanna” from the “I do want to, but can’t say it flat-out” gets to be a bitch. But I’m thankful that not only does N speak my language, He’s willing to put Himself before me. That fulfills me way more than indulging me ever will.

Thank You.

Spare the rod, Spoil the slave?

I have seen it often postulated here and there (read: FetLife) that a D/O/M that cherishes, protects and nurtures his slave is often too lax, too weak, not a real D/O/M. That if the D/O/M takes the time to reassure the slave how precious she is, that she is more than just another possession like the car, he will spoil her, make her soft and petulant, he will create his own pillow princess.

I used to think that too. It’s the cool thing, I guess, in many of the groups I haunt. Real mastery is being an Asshole all the time, brusquely crushing off the tears, fears and shame he creates, scoffing at the concept of love and adoration, maintaining a cold aloof presence, being a god merely tolerating the human foibles of the slave.

Whatta crocka shit. Fer Realz.

Given the last tectonic shift in the relationship between N and I, He’s been more open with how much I mean to Him. He’s caressed my hair unexpectedly, planted soft kisses on my forehead, crushed me to His chest and told me in a rumbly voice that I mean more than anything to Him. At first I was taken aback, and truthfully, I distrusted it. I thought it was a ploy to lull me back to apathy. The ol’ “Tell her she’s the best and she’ll finally stfu” that my ex always pulled.

Nope. Turns out, He means it.

And I soaked that shit up like the desert after a hard downpour. My heart blossomed like the agave after the rain. I knew going in that He wasn’t the kind of man to be sending flowers every month and declaring undying love every night. And while I don’t exact exhibit lovey-dovey behavior myself, I didn’t realize just how much I missed the occasional sweet touch/word/thought mixed amongst the pinches, names and actions.

I forgot what it was like to hear someone tell me how much they needed and loved me.

I’m a greedy bitch. I blame the Taurus in me, it makes me prone to gluttony and over-indulgence. So as long as He is willing to be a font of love and devotion, I’ll shower in it. I will dance in it, delight in it, and save it away for dry times again.

Anyway, to the premise of the post: Many D/O/Ms on FetLife would be falling over themselves to caution N that He’s spoiling me, that a slave should never know that her D/O/M needs her, loves her, cherishes her. They say it would ruin their mystique, lower themselves in her eyes, make them vulnerable to the slave. She’d never fear them anymore.

I find it a bit hard to swallow. I know full well N loves me deeply, cares for me passionately. This doesn’t make me adore Him less, fear Him less, it doesn’t devalue Him in my mind.

It actually make me strive harder to be found pleasing, to serve Him, to be at the top of my game. I have to be found worthy of such an Owner, to deserve the honor of serving and being owned by Him. Anything else would not be good enough for such a Man who found the time and bother to own me!

I think it is easier for me to being completely devoted to Him, to adore Him, to worship Him, if I know that He loves me and cares for me, appreciates the struggles and pain I go through to make myself what He wants from me.

It’s a blancing act, and I think we have found it. Good example:

Last night N wrapped me in some tight rope bondage and facedfucked me in various restricted positions before propping me up on my knees and directing me by my ponytail. I gagged, I drooled, I cried, I slumped and stiffened and panted. At one point He pulled my mouth off of His cock and I heaved, hard. It was obvious I had thrown up a little in my mouth and I swallowed rapidly to force it all back down. As soon as I had it back under some control I willingly opened my mouth and forced His cock back down my throat.

He yanked my head back hard and I flinched, expecting a slap or some harsh action.

Instead he planted a quick kiss on my forehead and murmured “Good girl, for going back down deep after that.” I think I was glowing bright enough to light the room. I wanted nothing more than to make Him happy and pleased with me.

Then He shoved my face back into His crotch until I gagged again.

True love, I’m tellin’ ya.

The Softer Side

Sunday we painted the utility room and kitchen. This involved the very clumsy tora on top of a step ladder painting all the edges (it is called cutting in, I guess).  I was doing pretty good until I moved the foot of my ladder a little too close to the hole in the floor where the dryer vent normally would be. I wobbled on the ladder a little too much and BAM!! I was on the floor, still trying to figure out what had just happened.

The foot of the ladder had lurched into the vent hole, and I went flying backwards off the ladder. I hit the dryer with my ribs and head on the way down, I twisted my left ankle in the side of the ladder, and the other shin was bruised hitting the other side of the ladder. I clawed for purchase during my fall and managed to pull the cat food bowl on top of myself as well. My paint cup left a large puddle of cream-colored paint in the floor next to me, and somehow my ponytail tip had been dipped in said cream-colored paint.

N had been painting the kitchen when I fell, and He hollered out “Are you okay in there?”

“I don’t know yet.” I grumped. “Ask me in five minutes when I figure out what just happened.”

It took me a while to gather my wits, so He came wandering in, confused as to why I hadn’t come out or starting bitching. To His eternal credit, He didn’t laugh when confronted with the image of me sitting with my legs tangled in the ladder, in a puddle of paint, cat food all over me, stuck in the corner. He helped me get out from the ladder’s death grip, gave me the stuff to clean up the paint and let me lick my wounds (figuratively!) from the safety of the desk. After I had soothed my wounded pride I went back to painting, but with a sprained ankle. He was nice enough to do all the stuff that required a ladder. 😀

Monday I had my top right wisdom tooth pulled out. The oral surgeon was kind enough to allow for IV sedation, so I was out for the actual extraction. My dad gave me a ride home, and I stumbled in, looking like Charlie Sheen after a bender (without the anger). N steered me down the stairs to our bedroom and I crawled under the blankets immediately and slept the rest of the stupor off. He finished painting, cleaned the floors in the rooms, put the knickknacks and appliances back, made the kids lunch, worked on the new washer/dryer stand and check on me. I crawled upstairs sometime after lunch and laid on the couch, staring at the tv when not drifting into a druggie-trance. He helped me take my pain meds and did the dishes for me. I got up to start supper and got everything three-quarters of the way done, but after that I had to lay back down again because I was dizzy and started to get a migraine. He finished supper, fed the kids, cleaned them up, and put them to bed, while I laid on the couch and drifted in and out again. After that He went back outside to work on His woodworking projects again. I started to feel really unpleasant, so I crawled back down the stairs and fell asleep clutching my collar. He came in and covered me up, making sure I felt okay before going to bed.

Everyone seems to think that O/p is all about the Owner being remote, cold, barking orders and getting blowjobs (or the equivalent for female Owners). Especially with regards to N, who can seem a bit aloof to those that don’t know Him. I felt so cared for, so princess-y, so secure in that He will take care of me when I am ill and not hate me for it, not feel put upon, not resent the sudden dependence on Him for my usual role.

I love You, for taking care of me and doing it with a smile on Your face.

A Stainless Steel Writer’s Block

Comes in size medium, costs about 75 dollars. Well used.

 

Since having the Njoy consistently shoved into my ass since the day after it came here, I’ve had some mental fall out to deal with. Nothing life-shattering, but its uncomfy and hard to talk about.

The Njoy knocked a huge breach into one of my last surviving walls. I felt raw and wounded from having this last scrap of illusion ripped from me. N was just as surprised as I was to my venomous reaction to having to wear the Njoy all day.

N has me wear the Njoy during the day at all times, only allowed to come out for exercise and toilet use. Any other time has to be asked for via voice. He has called for this be a constant reminder of my place. To reinforce that I am subject to His whims, that nothing sacred is really mine. Not even my body, nor the functions it performs. It isn’t all negative, though. He cared enough about my underlying fear of abandonment of the relationship that He spent 75 dollars and an obscene amount of patience and time to come up with a reminder of His commitment to me, and I to Him.

The first day I had to wear it most of the day really was a hard day. He was trying so hard to check in with me, to find out my thought process, my physical comfort. Unfortunately, earlier in this relationship He had spent most of the days after a “scene” fake-solicitously asking how I felt, was I sore, while mangling the sore bits. So when He was being sincere and looking for solid input, I became hostile and defensive from feeling like He was constantly mocking my new-found awkwardness.

Than night, as I knelt before Him, waiting to say my devotion, it all came out.

The worst thing I said, the hardest thing to say, was “I don’t trust you to not make fun of me.”

I didn’t. For so long He had teased me and mocked me after doing something humiliating or painful to me, that I was unable to see when He was being serious and genuine. It isn’t that I don’t like the teasing…it is all fun when in the original context. But when something as emotionally explosive as long-term butt plug wearing is on the table, it isn’t funny anymore. I feel violated, raw, debased and angry.

It took Him aback when I said I couldn’t trust Him to not mock me. We both weren’t real sure what the hell we were saying anymore. He patiently explained to me that He had seen a consistent fear in me of Him abandoning the O/p relationship basis. He felt that a constant reminder of my status would help allay those fears a bit. He chose the plug because it was something that would keep me slightly off-beat, something discreet and something that pleased Him. He does not normally spend money on me for the sheer fuck of it, so I know that He really put thought into this. He related to me how He had read voraciously, weighing the pros and cons from people in the Njoy group, reading the comments made by my FL friends about their Njoy joys and trials.

I was mortified that I had accused Him of mocking me and not taking my emotional strain seriously. He was unhappy to realize that He had (unwittingly) trained me to not take Him seriously.

So we cautiously came around. I apologized for being such a defensive, ungrateful hag and He vowed to make it more clear when He wants tangible feedback and isn’t just yanking my chains.

I’ll discuss the actual effect the Njoy has on my mental state in a later post.

Fear (no loathing) in Las Vegas (06-02-2010)

This Friday, The Man and I fly out to Arizona to stay for the weekend with His mom and step-dad. The day after we arrive, it’s off to Las Vegas for a night, then back to Arizona for another night before flying back home. I’m alternately thrilled and terrified.  He finds this dichotomy amusing.

I’m thrilled because it’s three and a half days away from our children. Our children, who, though I love them so, have driven me stark raving mad more than once recently. I’m thrilled because it will be new experiences for both of us, a chance to relate to each other on a solely O/p basis, parenting and the stressors of living one step from disaster a far distant concern for that short stretch of time. A chance to recharge our batteries and reaffirm why we love each other so much.

I’m terrified because there is so much unknown involved. I’m already getting a squicky feeling in the pit of my stomach thinking about going through security. About strolling down the Strip. About the noise and crowds and dim chaos in the casino His mother is bringing us to. While I am curious about it all, I still would rather bury my head in His shoulder and blink it all away. Unknown situations can bring me, an otherwise fairly confident, strong woman, to my knees begging for it to just stop. Good example: When I was a freshman in high school, I was transferred three-quarters way through the season to a different school due to natural disaster. No one from the new school showed me how to use the totally unfamiliar check-out system for lunch. Consequently, I never ate lunch there. For two months, I never stepped foot in the cafeteria. I was petrified of the idea that I would make a fool of myself trying to learn this new system. I didn’t want people behind me getting irritated with me for taking so long. 

I didn’t want to look stupid and be annoying.

With that in mind, you can understand why my mind comes to a screeching halt when I try to imagine going through security without Him. Trying to navigate the Strip without His comforting presence. Even just imagining finding my way around the different gates and sections of the airports leaves me a little shaky and mildly nauseous. Some would say that this was indicative of an anxiety issue, that I would need to see someone to help with this mental self-bondage. Do I think so? Not really. It doesn’t affect my day-to-day life. When I am overwhelmed or panicking, one step away from bolting or bawling, He’ll be right there, and I can look into His eyes and feel the panic release it’s grip. Is this co-dependent? Many people would say yes. I would disagree. How many people need their spouses with when confronting someone or getting possible bad news? Mutual support, I believe the popular term is. So why would be any different for me to need Him with me when navigating new experiences?

It also makes His life a lot easier when I get anxious about being out and about for an extended length of time, and well, He certainly doesn’t have to worry about me sneaking off to go gambling anytime soon!

In some ways, I wish I could go down the Strip with Him while collared and leashed, the other end firmly gripped in His hand, to have such a tangible sign of His presence and control over me. As it is I will probably have my hand firmly planted in His trailing along Him like a shadow, screening out most of the outside world and focusing on His commands, His moods, Him. I’ll lean against Him like an overgrown cat when feeling overwhelmed, and purr under His soothing caresses.

I love The Man, because if it weren’t for Him, I’d have voted to stay in Arizona, lounging by the pool and staying within my safe, if somewhat stifling boundaries. Yes, He’ll push me farther than I think I can go. Yes, I’ll most likely feel like I am one step from total melt-down at some point that night. Yet, when looking back at it, I’ll know that I grew a little, submitted more, and furthered myself as His slave.

Has anyone ever considered that in becoming more dependent on an Owner, the property is forced to grow?

And the Getting is Good! (04-20-2010)

Battered but better.

So, it’s been awhile since i posted. i’ve been a busy slavebitch in a number of ways. He’s had me running from sun-up to sun-down, and then a bit beyond that.

i wrote my last post from a very insecure, anxious and torn up place. i have made my life as His slave my calling, the purpose of my life from which all things flow. i misinterpreted His actions of the last month as seeing me as an unnecessary part of His life,  an option, a tiresome obligation. A common saying is “Never make a person a priority when you are an option” and boy did that really get the mind running. i could feel it building and cracked down to squelch the feud. Resentment was rampant. Fury wasn’t far behind. i balked. i yelled, i cried, i turned away,  i retreated. He stood there and asked “What the fuck?!” He never went anywhere, and eventually i was forced to confront my issues and clue Him into the torturous maze of my mind. After a lot of heavy lifting and memories i would have rather not gone through, i finally hammered out an approach. We had it out. He mentally smacked me around a bit for being so obstinate and dense. i reminded Him that while yes, it’s good to be King, it ain’t as easy as it’s cracked up to be. There’s work involved, and when He decides to take a sabbatical, well, the property is bound to come undone a bit.

Basically, it boiled down to He had mentally gone away, and i was left to my own destructive devices. Then when He looked up and said “What the hell happened to you?!” i shrugged helplessly and said “You left.” It hurt to say it. It hurt to lower the pedestal He rests on. It hurt to accept that i am not a good enough slave for Him to be able to check out of the O/p shit for a few months and come back later to find me still running along right where He left me. It is what it is, yes, but it still hurts, and not in a good way.

Speaking of being hurt, i was. A lot. He whomped on me a few different times.  With lots of deliciously degrading sex, malicious molestation, intimately infiltrating my mind again. i’ll be writing that up for a different post. 🙂

Now He’s back. He’s been easing into the active presence in my life again. Rules are actually enforced again. When He tells me to shut up, He means it. He’s kept me busy in the evenings instead of letting me have full rein on my time. After having my life to myself, it’s a bit of an adjustment to have Him in full form again. Tongue and lips have been gnawed to keep unwelcome comments to myself. Ultimately, we will be better off for this.

i know it is hard for both of us when things break down like that. i am so very thankful that He is willing to put in the extra effort to put the pieces back to together when i fall apart and take everything with me.

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.