Sadist Apprentice

Husband and I don't like to show the heavy-duty D/s stuff around our kids; we don't think it's necessary, and we don't want them getting the "wrong idea".

On the other hand, we're pretty clear about the hierarchy around here; I run house and home, but Husband rules the roost, as they say, and he's got umbrella power over us all.
And once in a while, he likes to show me who's boss, even in front of the kids.
In a lighthearted way, of course.

Now and then.

We were out to lunch, me, Husband, and Son2. (He's fourteen years old now—not an adult, but not a kid anymore, either.) It was a buffet style place, and I had too much to eat.
We climbed back in the car, and Husband said, "We're definitely coming back here with the other kids."
"Oh God," I moaned, holding my belly. "If we do, I'm going to need some discipline holding myself back from that cheesecake."
We drove in silence for a minute.
"I know how to keep you away from the cheesecake," Husband said.
"How?" I asked.
"I can put a shock collar on you."
"HEY!"
"Every time you get close to it, bzzzt," he laughed, looking over his shoulder at Son2, who was smiling a little too broadly in my opinion.
"That is NOT NICE," I yelled.
"I could be more not nice," Husband said. "I could give the controls to Son2."
"Why," I moaned, "why would you say that in front of him? Why do you think my children would want to hurt their mother?"
"Cause it's fun?" Son2 said from the backseat.
"HEY!"
"No, but you're right, it would only be a little bit fun. Like, while you made noise."
"HEY!"
Husband started cackling. "Okay, okay, so maybe not a shock collar," he said when his laughter had died down a bit. "A spray bottle. We'll spray you with water instead. Pssst. Like a cat."
"You are not nice," I said again. "Not nice at all. And I know that given the chance, my children would never hurt me."
"No, see, Mom, there's a certain wrongness to fun ratio here," Son2 explained. "The shock collar is more wrong, and it's a jolt, so it probably wouldn't make you make a lot of noise. But the water bottle isn't painful, it only makes you a little bit wet, and you'd make a lot of noise. So I'd do the water bottle."
"HEY!"
"We'd fill it with ice water," Husband added, and started cackling again.
"You all hate me," I whined, pulling into our driveway. "My children hate me."
"I don't hate you Mom," Son2 said, giving me a little kiss on the cheek as he got out of the car. "You're just so entertaining when you yell."

This is Why It's Important to Talk About Personal Definitions

Me: I don't feel good and I need a shower and my breath is weird and I feel gross. You should pity me.
Husband: I will pity you later by forcing your mouth open and sticking my dick inside.
Me:...That's not pity.
Husband: That's MY definition of pity.

The Absence of Love Is Not Evil

Cats and Roosters, it's time to get personal. I'm going to take you on a walk down memory lane.

Husband was not my first love. That title—and dubious award—goes to another boy. 

He I went to the same high school. He was one year older than me, almost to the day. From here on out, I'm going to call him "Jack," because while was not particularly tall, or well-built, or good looking, he had this Jack Nicholson quality to him—this incredible high-volt energy of dangerous boyish charm, this seductive charisma, a magnetism that just pulled everyone right in. When Jack smiled, his eyes would gleam with rascality, begging you to come play with him, join him in his revelry. 

Join in, because he was lonely. 

I fell hard for Jack. I felt his pull, felt the allure of his spirit; but I also saw, deep down, how lost and lonely he was. It didn't make his effervescent nature any less beguiling—in fact, the exact opposite. It made it more tragic, and therefore, more appealing; because nothing is more appealing to a teenager's heart than veiled, poignant tragedy. 

We became friends. Very quickly we realized that we had the same tastes: we liked the same music, watched the same movies...but most importantly, we felt moved by the same things. The universe was filled with secrets and wonder, and we were kindred souls, able to feel the awe, see what others could not, and sense what others missed.

We would hang out together after school, sometimes. But our schooldays were long, and there was homework to get done, and he always seemed to have other things he had to do. Which was fine with me—I mean, I accepted that...even as I seemed to be the only one who felt the pain of our distance. 

We would talk on the phone, sometimes. He did most of the talking, and I did most of the listening, but I didn't care—I loved listening to his voice, his inflections, the way he would speed up when he got excited and trail off when his heart grew too fraught with emotion. 

Jack didn't laugh, he chortled. It was the most captivating sound I'd ever heard. To this day, I can still hear it, and the memory makes me smile. 

We would go places together, sometimes. But I never knew when, or if, Jack would show up or not; he often had things "come up" on him that he forgot about. And he had a bad habit of letting the time run away from him, hours and hours ahead. 

I would always wait, no matter how late he was, and I was always giddy to see him. I despaired when he didn't show up at all, but I would forgive him, each and every time.

I couldn't imagine myself thinking about, or caring about, anyone else—not the way I cared about Jack. 

But Jack did not feel the same way about me. He would meet other girls, become infatuated with them, and all of a sudden, they would be "going out." 

Every time this happened, I would congratulate Jack on his new relationship. But secretly, I would congratulate myself for being so "rational" about the whole thing...because even as I listened to Jack gush on (and on) about this or that new girl in his life, I knew their relationship was doomed. 

After all, I was the one who understood him, I was the one who could intuitively feel his mercurial moods, I was the one who took his phone calls at two o'clock in the morning to listen to his innermost thoughts.

And the thing was, I was proven right, every time: he would be spellbound by this new girl for a while...but within a few weeks, the spell would wear off, and he would be calling me again, this time to comfort and console. 

Because he was lonely. 

And I would be at his side once more. 

I thought I was in love. 

Only it was not love. 

This is what took me a long time to finally grasp. And it did not come in a a great epiphany, or a sudden realization...it was a slow understanding, the kind that can only be felt slowly, because it is a sundering of the heart, and a sundering of that magnitude takes time to be felt to completion. 

This wasn't love...I was addicted to this boy. I was so engrossed in my feelings for him, I failed to realized how afflicted I was, tormented by his erratic melancholy and wiling volatility. I thought he'd be my cure:

A cure to my own loneliness. 

Because I was lonely. 

But he wasn't my pill. He was my poison. 

Things spiraled out in a sudden tornado of drama as they so often do, and I told him never to call me again. 

And he did not. 

We became strangers in the hallways, seeing each other without really seeing. We were each others' ghosts, only everyone else could see us—we just could not see each other. 

I hated him for that, hated him for honoring my wishes and never calling me again. Because I didn't really want him to stop calling me; I wanted him to call me and beg for me to come back to him, I wanted him to tell me he was wrong to take me so much for granted, I wanted to hear him say he finally understood what he'd had in front of him all along...that he loved me the way I loved him. 

But that call never came. 

I learned then that sometimes closure is not brought on with actions or words, not even a look; sometimes closure is the final breath taken, and held, before silence.

And now I finally bring you to the point of my long soliloquy about this boy, Jack.

Jack was not a "douchebag." He was not an asshole, or a weasel, or even a manipulative liar. (I don't think he could've lied if he tried; he didn't have the eyes, or heart, for it.) 

He was not trying to lead me on, and he certainly had not meant to break my heart. 

Throughout our friendship, Jack had given me all he could. 

But it was not as much as I wanted. And it was certainly not as much as I was willing—no, craving—to give him. 

And in the end, it was I who was done settling for anything less. 

This did not, and does not, make Jack an evil person. What it does is make him human. 

It took me a long time to understand that; to understand that the sundering of a human heart can be done without malice and still be just as destructive. One can be angry (horribly, bitterly angry) at a situation, and yet still come to understand that there is no blame to be had—or if there is, the blame must be shared. 

The end of my friendship with Jack had been unavoidable all along. 

Looking back, I think...I think there were times he had tried to tell me that. 

And it had grieved him to hurt me. It took me a long time to realize that, too. I didn't want to. It was easier to just hate him.

A cataclysmic break like that, done without ill will, lingers with a sort of savage irony. 

I did get over him, eventually. I went on to have other boyfriends—men who were farther along on their own evolutionary path, men who helped me walk further along on mine...men who wanted to call themselves my boyfriend, and have me call them that, too. 

Men who were not so lonely in their own company. 

And I forgave Jack for the pain he had caused me. That last remnant of spite finally left the day I realized the real reason why I'd been angry at him for so long: I was mad at him for not loving me. But you can't be angry at someone for not loving you. All you can do is accept it, and move on. 

No one owes us love. Civility is expected, Respect is earned...but love is a precious gift, one not to be squandered—

And hopefully, never regretted. 

Guest Post from The Pervocracy: "The Missing Stair."

Please note: The following is a guest post by  The Pervocracy.  

Have you ever been in a house that had something just egregiously wrong with it?  Something massively unsafe and uncomfortable and against code, but everyone in the house had been there a long time and was used to it?  "Oh yeah, I almost forgot to tell you, there's a missing step on the unlit staircase with no railings.  But it's okay because we all just remember to jump over it."

Some people are like that missing stair.

When I posted about a rapist in a community I belonged to, although I gave almost no details about the guy except "he's a rapist," I immediately got several emails from other members of that community saying "oh, you must mean X."  Everyone knew who he was!  Tons of people, including several in the leadership, instantly knew who I meant.  The reaction wasn't "there's a rapist among us!?!" but "oh hey, I bet you're talking about our local rapist."  Several of them expressed regret that I hadn't been warned about him beforehand, because they tried to discreetly tell new people about this guy.  Others talked about how they tried to make sure there was someone keeping an eye on him at parties, because he was fine so long as someone remembered to assign him a Rape Babysitter.

People had gotten so used to working around this guy, to accommodating his "special requirements," that they didn't feel like there was an urgent problem in their community.  They did eventually expel him, but it was after months of it being widely shared knowledge that he was a rapist and had done other unethical sexual things as well.

I think there were some people in the community who were intentionally protecting him, but there were more who were de facto protecting him by treating him like a missing stair.  Like something you're so used to working around, you never stop to ask "what if we actually fixed this?"  Eventually you take it for granted that working around this guy is just a fact of life, and if he hurts someone, that's the fault of whoever didn't apply the workarounds correctly.

"Fixing" doesn't always mean throwing someone out. (Although in the case of sex groups I think people are way too timid about that.  Being invited to sex parties should be a positive show of confidence in your character, not some sort of default human right.)  Sometimes a person can be "fixed" by talking with them bluntly about their behavior, giving them specific rules to follow, or putting them on notice that they have one strike left.  You don't always have to get rid of "missing stair" people, but you do have to work with the person, not around them.


This isn't just about sex.  Just about every workplace has that one person who doesn't do their job, but everyone's grown accustomed to picking up their slack.  A lot of social groups and families have that one person.  The person whose tip you quietly add a couple bucks to.  (Maybe more than a couple, after how they talked to the server.)  The person you don't bother arguing with when they get off on one of their rants.  The person you try really, really hard not to make angry, because they're perfectly nice so long as no one makes them angry.

I know not all these people can be fixed, and sometimes they can't be escaped either.  But the least you can do is recognize them, and that they are the problem.  Stop thinking that your inability to accomodate them is the problem.


This isn't just about individuals, either.  Everyone who says "I don't want to be a victim-blamer, but girls should know frat parties aren't safe places" is treating rape culture like a missing stair.  Everyone who says "it's an ugly fact, but only women who don't make trouble make it in this business" is treating sexual harassment like a missing stair.  Everyone who says "I don't like it either, but that's the way things are," and makes no move to question the way things are, is jumping over a missing stair somewhere.

Fixing staircases is a long and difficult and uncertain process.  But let's at least stop blaming each other for not jumping well enough.

When You're Feeling Bad, Make Someone Else Smile

I've learned during the course of my life that when I'm feeling down, the easiest way to soothe my spirits is to be of service to others.

The easiest way to do that is to make someone else smile.

Which means, dear Cats and Roosters, that I'm telling you this story not because it makes me happy, but because it might make a few of you happy.
Especially the Sadists-by-Proxies. You freaky fuckers, you.

So last night Husband crawled into bed next to me, and while it was obvious to me what he wanted, I was not about to be too accommodating to his wishes, mainly because he had already pissed me off. (He'd not allowed me to attend a munch I'd really been looking forward to. Yes, he had good reason. No, that didn't erase my feelings on the matter.)

So when he crawled into bed next to me, I lay there stiff as a board.

He started flicking me, slapping me, and poking me to get my attention.

"You poke me one more time, and I'm gonna poke your ass," I threatened, glaring at him across the bed.
"You try to poke my ass, I'm gonna make you lick that finger," he shot back, letting out a short bark of laughter.
"You're gross," I said. "Gross. Leave me alone."
"Not gonna do that. Keep going, though, and you'll see how gross I can be."
"I'm calling your bluff. Whatcha gonna do, Husband? Huh? Whatcha gonna do?"
He promptly stuck his finger up my nose, dug around, and while I recoiled in shock and horror...he stuck said finger in my mouth.
IN MY MOUTH.
"OH MY GOD YOU ARE SO GROSS! I shrieked. "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU!" As I screamed and spit over the side of the bed, he laughed until his face was red, and he was rocking atop the mattress. "I'M CALLING D!" I yelled, reaching for my phone.

He stopped. "Why do you do that?" He asked in a curious tone. "Why do you use 'calling d' as a threat?"
"Because...because at least she gives me SYMPATHY!" I whined, holding the phone to my chest. "She UNDERSTANDS!"
"She definitely understands, but she does not give you sympathy," he said. "She's only going to laugh at you. You know that."
"I know," I grumbled, putting the phone back. "But I like to think she gives me sympathy, deep down in her heart. I can't even pretend that with you."

"Then you're learning," he said with another twisted smile. "Because you definitely do not get sympathy from me."
"Then what do I get from you?"
"Oh, wife, you should have learned by now, never to ask me that."

It's not just that I don't see the bus coming—although many times, I don't. It's also that, even when I see the bus coming, I don't see it as a bus at all. It's more like a big white fluffy teddy bear...stuffed with schadenfreude.

Kink Meme Monday: When was the first time you used the word "kinky" to describe yourself? How did it feel?

I didn't use the word "kinky" to describe myself until I discovered the kink community, which relatively speaking, wasn't that long ago at all.

(There are the "old timers" who've been in the community for 20, 25, 30 years; some even longer. My Mistress runs one of the oldest munches in the entire fucking world. There is no "catching up" to those folks, but when you get right down to it, there is no reason to try, either.)

My path was very similar to a lot of other people's, I think, in that I knew for a long time I was different. I was more prone to playing on the edge, more open to trying taboos, and my relationships were filled with dark twisty sinkholes of perversion.

For a long time, Husband and I lived our lives together thinking our relationship was peculiar, and some would say, unhealthy; but we were happy on the path we were on, so we kept at it.

It wasn't until I discovered the kink community that I learned there's a whole segment of society who live their lives just like us, or try to. That we weren't the unhealthy ones; in the BDSM community, we were an example of a couple getting it right.

Realizing that was an amazing feeling.

But the word "kinky" is not all that important. One person may like to don fluffy handcuffs once a month with their partner, and consider themselves "kinky" because of that. Other people—typically women—may live their lives as 24/7 slaves, but if they happen to never think of their relationships as anything other than normal, if they in fact think their lifestyles are a step up from everyone else's, they may not consider themselves kinky at all.

(I have met plenty of couples in my life who fit that bill. The wives are definitely 24/7 slaves to their husbands, but they fill that role out of religious and social obligations. If you ask one of these women if she considers herself kinky, she'd be appalled by the question; that doesn't make her any less a slave.)

Words to describe yourself should never be used to pigeonhole yourself. They are not set in stone, and they are not absolute. But they do have incredible power, and can lead to amazing epiphanies about yourself.

D/s Via Text

Me: I can haz orgazm now?
Husband: Yes. Have fun.
Me: Thank you thank you thank you! I can use a buttplug, too?
Husband: Yes.
Me: The nice big glass one? :D
Husband: Yes. In fact, I insist.
Me: I can't find the lube. Where's the lube?...Where'd you put the lube?...Hello?...OH GOD DAMN IT.

50 Shades of Grey: Your Options

If you choose to see the movie:

• See the movie with a group of fellow kinksters, but discreetly, because you don't want to scare the vanillas, GOD FORBID THEY KNOW WE'RE KINKY JUST LIKE THAT MR. GREY GUY, that stuff only exists in movies, it's not real.
• See the movie with a group of kinksters in full kink uniform because WE'RE KINKY, WE'RE NOT STINKY, ASK US ABOUT STUFF! WE'RE NOT THAT TOUGH (unless you give consent. Then all bets are off). 
• See the movie by yourself, but not tell anyone. Deny, deny, deny! 

Once you see the movie:

• Tell everyone how you only went to see the movie because you felt obligated, but you didn't really want to, and it was crap.
• Tell everyone why the movie does not in any way represent "the lifestyle." Because all our relationships are fucking perfect, just like in that secretary movie. 
• Tell everyone to just read the plot on wikipedia and save their money that way.
• Fail to mention how the sex scenes totally turned you on. You were jerking off in the darkness of your own theater seat, but nobody needs to know that.

Once you're back to life:

• Tell everyone proudly how you saw the movie, using the same tone you'd use to tell them you got a nasty splinter out of your thumb. 
• Buy a "I SAW THE FIFTY SHADES MOVIE AND I HATED IT" t-shirt. 
• Go home and obsessively watch pirated scenes from the movie off of youtube...especially the sex scenes. Mmm, movie sex. Not better than the real thing, but you're probably not getting the real thing, so it'll do.

If you choose NOT to see the movie:

Congrats. I hear American Sniper is good, and has absolutely no controversy surrounding it. 

Posted On Tumblr

Just saw this question posted on Tumblr:
Can you explain the difference between punishment and funishment?

And here is my answer:

Punishment, real punishment, is never fun for the bottom, and ideally, should not be fun for the Top, either. Because punishment means the bottom has screwed up, made a mistake, and needs some discipline. 

Punishment usually includes something the sub REALLY does not like. Like…being ignored completely for a certain amount of time. Put her in the corner for 10 minutes with a timer, and most of the time, the bottom emerges a changed person. 

Funishment is different. It may look like a punishment, but both sides know it’s just an act, it’s not real. It’s a justification to give both people what they really want: some reinforcement of the D/s relationship. This can be through pain, humiliation, objectification, etc. 

Some people do not abide the idea of “Funishment.” To them, the acts of BDSM are too sacred to involve any sort of pretend play. 

But other couples love it and swear by it. Especially when the bottom is a brat, or smart-assed masochist…then funishment gets truly wicked. 

Hope this helps. 

Kink Meme Monday: "Do you have any kinky nicknames?"

If you mean dirty, naughty little monickers like "whore" or "cumslut," then no.

If you mean sweet little nicknames like "sweetie" or "sugar pie," then yes, yes I do...but those are private.

Then there's the third category: words Husband uses to remind me of my place in his home, in his life. They aren't really pronouns, though; they have more of a possessive adjectives-type feel. They are words like Lady, Wife, and Owned. 

If I'm behaving childishly—especially if we're out in public, especially if he's already given me a warning to stop—he'll call me Lady. He'll use it in a way like "Stop making faces, Lady" or "We will talk about this later, Lady." It's his way of letting me know he doesn't think I'm behaving the way a proper woman should.

Wife is used in a somewhat similar fashion, but it's reserved for times when I haven't shown pride in the title. As his Wife, I have certain duties and responsibilities, and when I fail in my obligations, and he grows disappointed, he will quickly let me know.
I'll give you an example: when Husband calls me from another part of the house, I'm expected to come running, or have a damn good reason not to. Yesterday, he called me from downstairs, and I didn't come right away—I wanted to finish up an email I was writing.
Three seconds later I heard, "I SAID COME HERE, WIFE."
I ran.
He always seems to know when I'm legitimately delayed, and when I'm just dawdling. I don't know how he knows, but he knows.

Owned is reserved for the bedroom and secret moments when the kids aren't around. When he's planning something he knows I won't like—like a harrowing scene, or a practice session with a diabolical toy—he takes great pleasure in reminding me that I have no choice in the matter, that I am his property, bought and sold, and he gets to do whatever he wants to me.
(And yes, part of that is the fact that I have given him the right to do whatever he wants to me, because we have a Complete Power Exchange, Consensual-Non-Consent relationship. But he still loves to remind me how he bought me when he married me.)

There are variations on these words, but they all have basically the same meaning, and the same purpose: to remind me of our particular dynamics. It's a mini "reinforcement of the power exchange relationship," as my friend likes to say.
But notice, they are kinky nicknames in the D/s sense, not in the S/m sense. They are used to reinforce my submission in the relationship, not humiliate or titillate me.
He doesn't call me his "whore" or "cumslut" or anything like that because he knows how much I wouldn't like that. It wouldn't just do me hurt, it would do me harm, and there's a difference between the two.

What's Your Sexual Native Language?

A little known fact about my Husband: he speaks three languages fluently, another three pretty well, and a few others enough to follow a conversation. He's the kind of person who can pick up a language like that (snaps fingers). His brain never lost the ability to listen to a new language and pick it up right away, almost like a child.

Like most other people on the planet, I am not like that. I know english, because it's my native language, but it's (sadly) the only language I feel comfortable enough to speak fluently. I do know one other language well enough to carry on a conversation; but there's always that process of translation going on in my brain: I have to listen to what the other person is saying, translate it into english my head, think up my answer, translate that into the other language in my head, and then make the foreign words come out through my lips and tongue.
They say you're not really fluent in another language until you can think in that language. I'm not able to do that. I lost that ability when I was a child.

Sexuality—in my opinion—is something of a similar concept.
We learn at an early age what to think about sex, how to regard it, what our attitude towards it should be; and that becomes our "sexual native language." While we're growing up, we think our views are not just normal, but shared by everyone else. It's always a shock to realize that's not true, that some people have the exact opposite views of us, a completely different language. (It's even more of a shock to realize there are people out there who find our opinions not just inappropriate, but sick.)

You can learn to change the way you view sexuality, just like you can learn a new language. Some people go through sexual epiphanies, and decide that from then on, they only want to speak a new sexual language, and never look back.
But some people have to strive to learn a new language, and never get really fluent at it. Even after years of speaking it, they still have to go through a translation process in their heads.
And this can make things interesting.

I'll give you an example: one of the core concepts of my sexual native language is propriety. I was taught that as a girl, I was expected to keep my body clean, my behavior modest, my world tidy. My mother started buying me long-sleeved cotton nightgowns when I was a toddler, and she taught me the correct way for a girl to dress and undress—even when she was alone, in the sanctity of her own room. It was something straight out of this video:

I was supposed to conduct myself with grace, virtue, and elegant reserve. I didn't always follow those tenants, of course; but when I didn't, I was acting improperly, I was doing something wrong, and the older I got, the less wiggle room I got. By the time I was a young woman, and had curves and contours in the all right places, I was expected to conduct myself properly. Boys were looking at me by then, having uncontrollable lustful thoughts; I had to send them the right message. 

These days I don't have to follow those guidelines—I don't have to speak that language. In the right circumstances, I can act dirty, even obscene, and downright unladylike.
But there's always a tiny thrill when I do, because deep down in my core, I feel my early ingrained education trying to rise up and balk. There's a certain sense of satisfaction telling that voice to shut the fuck up.

But it is hard sometimes, I got to say.
I still feel an innate need to fold my clothes as I take them off, to set them neatly aside and in a straight pile, ready for when I need them. The pants go on the bottom, the shirt goes on the top, and the lingerie goes in between them, because you never put your panties on top where anyone can see them, no no. Shoes go somewhere where nobody can trip over them, because a lady never leaves her shoes lying around.
Some lessons are hard to unlearn.
And some Sadists may get an inordinate sense of pleasure in finding those lessons...and using them again you.
Like last Saturday night, when Husband told a bratty friend of mine she had permission to mess up my pile of clothes and RUB HER ASS all over them.
She says she's not a sadist, but I really don't believe her.

Kink Meme Monday: "What sort of labels, if any, do you use to describe yourself?"

Let's start with the basics: I am a straight female ciswoman with pansexual desires. Meaning, I am aroused mainly by men, but I find all types of people attractive, and if I get to know you, and the chemistry is right, I will want to play with you.

I label myself as WIFE. This one is kind of hard to define. I am less than a submissive, but more than a slave, I think. Husband does call me his slave on occasion, and I don't bitch about it when he does, so...maybe that does make me his slave. 

I am definitely his property. 

He loves to remind me how he "bought" me at our wedding. We had a Jewish wedding, and according to Jewish custom, the marriage contract has two parts: the tana'yim, the conditions under which the man gains possession of the wife, and the ketubah, the contract itself. I signed neither one of these things; my father and Husband did, because it is basically a purchase agreement between my father and my Husband, and I have zero say. 

(People try to claim now that women do have a say, by silently "agreeing" to accept the man's ring. But guess what, centuries ago women were married without their consent all the time, using this exact same contract, and nobody batted an eyelash. Even today, the woman doesn't say a damn word at her own wedding, and that should be an indication of what's really going on.)

I label myself as SMART-ASSED BRAT. This means I got a mouth on me. I'm snarky. I'm mischievous. When things go too far, I'm a dirty rascal. It's just part of my nature. People who can't abide brats don't play with me, it's that simple. 

I label myself as an ANAL SLUT. I love all things anal. I give advice on it to those starting out. My best orgasms are anal orgasms. Yes, we exist, and we're not just faking it; it's just how our nerves are set up. Touch my cunt, and I'll moan, but touch my asshole, and I'll squeal. 

People call me a MASOCHIST. I struggle with this label. To me, a masochist is someone who is able to process pain as pleasure, and enjoy it that way. I'm not like that; pain is always pain for me. 

What I like is the struggle, the fear, the agony of suffering through. The anticipation of knowing what is to come, the heightened rush of adrenaline, living moment by moment as it hits me, the heady rush of feeling alive. I especially love to suffer for the people I adore; I feel like this is the ultimate proof of my devotion. I do not just tell them how much they mean to me, I offer up my blood upon the Cross as sacrifice. 

This kind of play is incredibly sacred. 

I label myself as PREY. This means I love—love—to be chased and taken down like a wildebeest in the wild. I need to feel like I've been hunted and captured, stalked and seized by a bloodthirsty, predacious animal. I need the savagery, the heat, the teeth, the steamy breath in my face. I need him to respect my wily ways, but in the end, he needs to outmaneuver me if he's to have any chance of having me. 

And in the end, when the struggle is over and he's pinned me down and I have no breath left to fight and I hear his brutal laugh in my ear? That is the biggest rush of all. 

And yet, I also label myself as LADY. Because when I'm not in scene, when I'm not playing, when I'm out in public and living my day-to-day life, I try my best to be dignified, refined, and as respectful as possible of those around me. Because I am a wife and a mother, and I am expected to make my Husband proud. Anything I do that embarrasses me, reflects badly on him. I am to walk with grace, pride, and awareness of not just who I am, but what I represent. I represent my Husband, my children, my family, and yes, my community; I should not forget that. 

These are all the labels I can think of right now. I guess there's one more—coffee addict—and I need to go get my fix.