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.

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.

Camaraderie and “Ow Fuck!”

First things first, I’d like to give a kudos to the gracious and awesome hosts of the munch last night: Thank you so much, DrHoagie and Hoagie’s nadira, for creating a space for such a wonderful time. You guys rock!

Last night N and I attended the local munch and had an unexpected blast. I mean, we expected to have a good time and get to know people better, but we hadn’t anticipated it being that much fun. So much talking, laughing, owie things, playing with cats and teasing the SAMs, I’m just smiling thinking of it again. The food was wonderful, the camaraderie was comforting, the modeling was gorgeous and the sincerity warm.

I sat by N’s feet in the living room for most of the evening, after the food had been served. Someone who must not like me very much had given Him a crop with a heavy metal-capped handle, so He randomly whapped me wherever it was convenient. Soles of feet, toes, inner thighs, tits, upper arms…with both the stingy crop end and the heavy handle. Whap, whap, thud, CRACK! Another woman who is quite the entertaining SAM (SmartAssed Masochist) was on the floor next to me, trying to avoid her good friend who was armed with a lexane paddle. At one point, trying to be all smooth like, I gave the mistress the crop, but that just inspired N to get out this studded leather strap and beat me with that instead. The SAM said it leaves nice marks, and damn was she right…through my fucking jeans, with N only going maybe half force, I’ve got little stud-shaped bruises on my thigh.

Through my jeans. He is *so* not getting that strap for His birthday.

At one point there were three D/O types in the living room with pain instruments in their grasp and two s-types that needed to get through the gauntlet to the kitchen. She tried to throw me under the bus, but as I have extensive experience with being thrown under the bus by kaya, I managed to skip out on most of the serious pain. The one thing I did stupidly was put my hand across my ass trying to block a shot from a 1/2″ thick quartz paddle. Ow, fuck! I caught the edge of the paddle across my thumb joint and it instantly puffed up and stopped doing the things joints do. Today the swelling is down but the mobility is still a bit reduced. Lesson learned: when someone is coming after you with a paddle made out of fucking rock, your hand will not save you. Any unintended pain received is most likely your fault. 🙂  I loved it. Hopefully next time I have an encounter with that Master and his quartz paddle my hands will stay in their proper places.

After a few people wandered back home the little group left sat until past midnight bullshitting. The topics ranged from atheism to circular arguments common in BDSM to off-color jokes and wedding cakes. I haven’t had a good laugh in ages like I did last night. To a person (or a couple, really) used to being self-reliant loners based on our personal makeup as well as our chosen relationship dynamic, being able to have a group that we can really be ourselves and not feel so ostracized means a lot to us both.

I think I could come to like being a bit more social again. 😀

Money isn’t Everything. (04-12-2010)

i’ve  seen a disturbing trend amongst the BDSM “community” regarding a Dominant’s financial status and his ability to be a Dominant.

This is bullshit.

i mean, what the hell. i would think a guy’s employment would be a bigger indicator of his mental state than his fucking paycheck. Is he in a stable job? Has he had it for a while? Is it fairly consistent, with the ability to move forward? Is he good at it?

In the current state of the economy, i would think it very unfair to judge someone by the size of the bank account. VERY. Who can expect to be fired? To have their job sent to Saalami in Pakistan? That 3 months of savings experts tell you to have on hand doesn’t go nearly as far as it should, especially when the average span of unemployment is longer than 6 months.

Why does it bother me, to see this grave error in judgment? Because it discourages everyday working stiffs from feeling like they have anything to learn and contribute to others interested in WIITWD.  People like my Owner, who was laid off for 6 months and we spent through the little savings we had. Now we are scrimping to get by, struggling to find our footing in the rushing river of life. This doesn’t mean He is a bad Owner, He isn’t disqualified because life happened. It isn’t as easy as checking the zeros behind the bank account balance and writing a guy off as bad D material because there aren’t as many as you think there should be. Look at the bigger picture, like i mentioned above. Bad things happen to good people. Illness, unexpected job loss, personal tragedy…look at the person, not the numbers.

It seems like the public scene puts an emphasis on physical trappings of dominance and less on the actual person. Why do people automatically assume that the guy stalking around with 5 tools tied to his leather belt on his leather pants wearing the leather cap have more going on mentally than the guy watching amused at the leather-clad buffoon, wearing normal clothing and carrying nothing more than the leash of his girl? When did equipment become an acceptable substitute for brains and integrity? What happened to prizing knowledge?

What the hell happened to common sense?