Friday, June 29, 2012

This Place Can Change You

They cursed us, and drove us away. And we wept, Precious, we wept to be so alone. And we only wish to catch fish so juicy sweet. And we forgot the taste of bread... the sound of trees... the softness of the wind. We even forgot our own name. My Precious. 

Day Seven.

I cannot believe it's been seven days since I've felt his lips press against mine. Seven days since I've last seen his smile. Seven days since I've felt his fingers on my skin, the pull of his stare, his weight on mine. Seven days. 

Six more to go. 

I miss him so much. Is it pathetic that I miss him so much? I speak to him every day, and while his voice soothes me, satisfies a basic need within me, it is not enough. I need to feel his warm breath against my ear. I need to see the way his lips move when he murmurs my name. His lips are so soft. Have I mentioned that? Soft, and full, and pink. Such perfect lips. My mouth aches for them. 

My poor butt has forgotten what it feels like to ache from a sound thrashing. My thighs have become smooth and clear, like a blank canvas sitting on an artist's table, waiting to be shaded in art. They used to be painted with lines and bruises. 
They looked beautiful, dressed in lines and bruises.
Now they are naked. 

My body aches. It yearns to feel again: cuffs, straps, plugs, paddles...but most of all, his cock. I remember the taste of his cock, and the memory burns down my throat. 

Six more days. 

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

That Garden Gnome Sure is Shiny

Day four of Ohio exile.

I am horny as hell.

I never bring a sex toy like a vibrator or dildo to my parents' house, mainly because if my mother ever found it, I'd dig a hole in her pristine backyard, crawl into it, cover it over with deer poop, and die. My mother would mark my grave with a bird bath or lawn ornament (gnomes. She has a shit-load of gnomes) and perhaps plant a tree in my honor, but that would be it.

About planting trees over graves:

Years ago, when she visited her father's grave, she planted some kind of creeping ivy over it. Last time she went back, she took a cutting of this plant, brought it home, and planted it in her own back yard. Am I the only one who thinks this is creepy? This plant was nourished with the bones of her dead father. Doesn't this make it, I don't know, somehow murderous? Or at least carnivorous?

Anyway. I never bring a sex toy to my parents house. This creates a problem, because I am spoiled rotten: I never have to rely on just my hands alone, I always have Husband to 'help' me in this regard, either with his cock, his hands, or with a toy. Orgasms with toys are so much nicer than with hands alone.

It doesn't beat cock, of course. I think, if I had to put them in order of best to, uh, not so best (there is no such thing as a worst orgasm, is there?), I'd put it thusly:
1. Orgasm with cock
2. Orgasm with vibrator
3. Orgasm with dildo/Husband's hands
4. Orgasm by my lonely self, no help, and good luck with that.

The good news is I am blessed with a relatively creative mind. There are lots of things that can be used as dildos.
Coke bottles can be made into dildos. An old toothbrush can be used as a dildo; an electric toothbrush makes a pretty fine vibrator. You get yourself a coke bottle and an old electric toothbrush, and voila, orgasm is attainable. There are other things around the house that can be turned into a sex toy, but it really depends on the house and how attached you are to the object. For instance, if your mother is particularly attached to a certain garden gnome, you might not want to stick it up your vagina, even if it is the perfect size and shape.
Unless your mother just insulted your parenting skills, and you are feeling particularly spiteful.
Just saying.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

This Conversation Just Happened

Him: The truth now. Did you forget your wallet on purpose, so I'd have to bring it to you?

Me: No! What the hell! I'd never do that! You know I'd never do that.

Him: So you just happened to forget your wallet when you went out to meet friends.

Me: It was an honest mistake. I do it all the time!

Him: (Looking at me in shocked disbelief) What? You drive around without your wallet, all the time?

Me: Uh, well, not all the time, but it happens, sure....

Him: Do you forget your phone, too? What, you just get in the car without your license or your phone? All the time?

Me: No, not all time, I didn't mean all the time, I meant sometimes, on occasion, it happens, but super rarely....

Him: Lady, you better pray those airplane seats are well cushioned, cause your ass is going to be sore tomorrow.

I am leaving for Cleveland tomorrow. I'll be away for two weeks, visiting my parents. Pray for me.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

I Should Be the One Shutting Up. I KNOW, so SHUT UP.

I'm leaving on Sunday to visit family for two weeks, and this trip is stressing me out. As is typical, a lot of old family issues are bubbling up to the surface, making me mad and frustrated. But this trip is not the only thing I'm mad about. Let's list them, shall we?

1. I'm mad that my car dealership has apparently conned me. Actually, I'm enraged by this. They just sent me an email claiming they tried to contact me. No, you didn't; so SHUT UP.

2. I'm mad at all the people (my people) telling me I should be more understand of other people with stricter standards than me. SHUT UP. You want to keep stricter standards, fine, be my guest; but don't expect me to go out of my way to accommodate you.

3. I'm mad at all the people (my people) who do don't understand anti-zionism is anti-semitism. SHUT UP. Israel is defending your right to life, too.

4. I'm mad at my husband, Mr. Anti-Social, for refusing to go to a play party with me tomorrow night, and prohibiting me from going alone. He says there will be "other parties" and "other nights." Oh really, Husband? When? When? Which one will be the magic one you agree to go to? Just SHUT UP.

5. I'm mad at my parents for not respecting my beliefs and the way I'm raising my kids. SHUT UP. You were not perfect parents by any means!

6. I'm mad at myself, for the way I'm short-changing my kids. I need to be more patient, more understanding, more active as a mom. (And to all the people who would say 'you're a good mom, you're trying your best,' SHUT UP. I know what I should be doing right now, and it's not blogging, that's for damn sure. Yet here I am. So what does that say about me?)

7. I'm mad at the dog for farting just now. SHUT UP, DOG. And ewww.

Friday, June 15, 2012

The Mind of a Child

Husband likes to tell me I have a dirty mind. I think this kind of thing is relative: how dirty one's mind is considered to be depends on the dirtiness of the mind sitting next to it, if you get my meaning. If I were a political representative, using the word 'vagina' would make me dirty. God only knows what I'd be called for using the word 'cunt.'

But I do think I have a relatively dirty mind. I kind of have the mind of a fourteen-year-old boy. Okay, maybe not that bad, but...I see kinkiness in places I probably should not.

Like in old children's shows. I used to watch The Electric Company--remember that show?--and now, when I watch the old videos, I can't help but think Did they mean that as an innuendo? Cause it sure sounds like one.
Oh, Morgan Freeman, will you do the Sweet Sweet Sway with me?

Ooh yeah, Molly, lick Billy's lolly good.

What the hell, Spidey? You don't know what to do with a big sack? 

In my defense, I am clearly not the only one who sees the impropriety among these videos. Other people see it, too.

When you have a dirty mind, kinkiness is everywhere. 

Monday, June 11, 2012

Punishment's End

And...we're on the other side.

Humiliation continued all weekend. It culminated with me getting sword spanked with that there sword in the picture, paddled by a few objects from his tool kit I don't even know the names of
(one was a heavy metal thing, shaped liked an L?)
And told to fuck myself on a beer bottle*.
 I may add more details about the whole experience later, after I've processed it more.

But I will impart a few things I learned:

  • I like humiliation more than I thought. Or maybe I've just been forced into liking it. I don't know. It's hard for a sub like me to tell the difference.
  • I will never, ever, outthink Husband. (I kind of already knew that, but discovered there's a whole other nuance to that rule regarding humiliation tactics.)
  • No matter how much patience I have (and under the right circumstances, I can have a lot of it), Husband will always have more than me. 
  • "Patience" can also be thought of as "laying in wait." Also, "ambushing."
  • Fucking a beer bottle can be very, very fun. (I kind of already knew that, too, but it's been a while.)

*picture of that is on Fetlife

Saturday, June 9, 2012


Number of times I've given Husband a blowjob on demand: 5
Number of times I've been ordered to play with myself without coming: 2
Number of times I've been allowed to come: 0
Number of times I've heard "Did I say you could...?": 7
Number of times I've been given direct orders that are aimed to humiliate and torment me: countless

Stupid things. Little things. Dirty things. Things that are aimed to remind me I follow his instructions and his instructions only. 

Get dressed. Make coffee. Eat breakfast. Sit. Stand. No, don't put on your panties yet. Okay, now you may put on your panties. Brush your hair. Stand by the door. Okay, you may go. 

Meanwhile, we're figuring out the bathroom outlet situation. Since it has become clear to him I cannot be trusted to plug his shaver back in
he's figuring out an alternative way to handle this. He might go to Costco today and buy a new shaver, one that doesn't have to be charged. I don't know. 
He's not going to punish me pain-wise until the "shaver problem" is dealt with. One thing at a time, he says. Until then, I have to take his near-constant humiliation tactics.

Dear God, I think a tiny part of me is beginning to like it.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Penitence Pie

This is a picture of the pie I made for Husband while he was at work. A peace offering, I guess you could call it. Or the beginning of my penance.

I named it Penitence Pie.

I emailed him pictures of it, both before and after it went into the oven. Under the second picture I wrote, it smells yummy.

Finally, he wrote me back. He wrote: IT IS MINE.
I took his message as a good sign. At least he was talking to me.

When he got home, he kissed me on the nose. I didn't know what to make of that. It was obvious he was still mad at me; it was equally obvious he was going to keep me nervous of what was to come.

He went into the kitchen and admired the pie. "It looks delicious," he said.
I smiled, lulled into complacency. "You should taste it," I said.
He smiled back, and his was a dreadful, malicious grin.
"You have first bite," he said. "After all, you baked it."
"No no," I answered. "I made it for you."
"I insist." His voice was cold. "Sit down. Have a slice."
I cut a slice, laid it down on a plate, and took it to the table. He watched as I cut into the slice with my fork and brought it to my lips.
"Did I tell you you could eat yet?" He asked.

I dropped the fork down on my plate. "No. No Sir."
"Put the fork back to your mouth. But don't eat it yet. Just...wait."

I held the fork with the bite of pie to my lips, careful not to press it to my mouth. I waited.
I waited a long time.
All the while, he watched me. Studied me, like an art lover admiring a particularly interesting piece at the Louvre.
Neither of us moved.

He said, "Go ahead. Take your bite."
Slowly, I pushed the fork into my mouth and slid it back out, letting the bite of pie sit on my tongue. I had to swallow it almost whole; my jaws would not chew. The pie sat in my throat, a lump in my esophagus.
"How does it taste?" He asked me softly.
"It's good," I said. My voice shook.
He paused. "There's some still on your fork," he said. "Lick it clean."

I lay the fork against my tongue and slid it out of mouth slowly, letting my lips go soft against the pull of the fork.
"You're not done," he said. "Make sure it's clean--all the way down."

I started deep-throating the fork, jabbing it against the back of my throat, feeling the metal stab my tonsils as I pumped it back and forth across my tongue. Husband leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching my every move. His face never altered from its detached, almost bored, expression.

"That's good enough," he said. He stood up, away from the counter, and began to go upstairs.
"Don't you want a slice?" I called after him.
"No," he said without turning around. "I'm in no mood for pie."

There are many ways to punish a sub. I may have to wait for the pain, but my humiliation has just begun.

That Wheezing Sound You Hear? It's ME, HYPERVENTILATING

Remember a couple posts ago, how I mentioned Husband and I have rules about the bathroom? Specifically, me not taking over it? Well, one of the ways I tend to spread my territorial claim is by unplugging Husband's shaver. See, we only have one outlet in our bathroom, and I can't plug in my hairdryer if his shaver is plugged in. The two won't fit side by side. So I unplug his stuff to plug in mine. 
And then I forget to plug his shaver back in.
His shaver is the kind that has to charge to work. You can't just leave it plugged in as you're shaving. It's like an electric toothbrush.

Husband has reminded me OVER AND OVER AGAIN to plug his shaver back in after I'm done drying my hair. It was one of things he punished me for last week!
The thing was, I knew last week the punishment felt too light. I mean, yeah, it hurt as it was happening, and I was not happy about it...but once it was over and done, I was like, that was it? Mmm, that wasn't so bad.
And then Husband asked me straight out Did you learn your lesson? And I gave him a snippy answer. Ladies and gentleman, in this house, if I can still get snippy after a punishment, the punishment was not good enough.
Things you learn about yourself through the years.

So guess what happened this morning? I'll give you three guesses.
Husband woke up, got dressed for a meeting, went into the bathroom to shave, and...couldn't. No power.

He's so pissed at me now. So pissed. He brought me upstairs without even talking to me, pointed to the shaver, gave that look, and walked away.
I offered to run to the store and buy him another shaver right then. I offered him one of my razors, the kind I use on my legs. I apologized a thousand times.
He would not talk to me, except to tell me he can go to the store himself and pick his own fucking razor on his way to work.
Also, that I should be afraid.


I am ready to pull my hair out. I am so pissed at myself, and guilty, and ashamed, and AFRAID. I know he has every right to be mad at me. I deserve to be punished.

I was hoping just writing this post might calm me down some. Clearly it is not. 

Sunday, June 3, 2012

Coming Out of the Cave

I get the feeling sometimes people think Husband and I have this perfect, 'June and Ward' relationship. It's not true. --My last tweet

Maybe it's my fault people think this. I don't like to write about Husband's bad side. He's not here to defend himself (although that's his own fault; I'll get to that in a minute). And it's not fair for me to highlight all his unattractive issues, when I have so many myself. 

But everything is not okay in Cassa Cross. We're facing a line in the sand that's turning into a wall, and I don't know how to hurdle it. 

I live in an area that has a very strong, vibrant, and large kink community. I'm not kidding when I say I could go to a different much every night for a month if I wanted to. I don't know if other communities in other areas are that dynamic, but I'm guessing not, at least not most of them.

After all this time, I'm still not in "the scene." I don't go to munches on a regular basis. I don't go to events. People don't know who I am.
I was at a munch last week, and I told people I've been in a D/s relationship for 16 years (more, if you count the time before we were married). They all assumed I must be new to the area; because how can you be in a D/s relationship for that long and not be known in the kink community?

I am not trying to imply there's something wrong with not being in "The Community." My relationship with my Husband didn't need "The Community" to thrive. If you don't want to be involved in the kink community, that's fine. 

But here's the problem: I want to be. 
Husband does not.

He has nothing against kinky people. He has a problem with people in general. As I've said before, he's as social as a cave monk. 
I want to go to munches, and events, and classes. I want to be invited to parties. I want to invite other people to my parties. I want to make real life friends.
Husband has no issue with me going to all these things on my own. In fact, he encourages me to go and have fun. But he refuses to join me.

And I go to munches, and I see other couples there talking and laughing, and I get jealous. I resent Husband for not being willing to make this effort for me. It gets uncomfortable having to explain to people over and over again that yes, I have a Dom, yes, we are monogamous, but no, he is not there with me. You will probably never meet him. But he really is real! He's not imaginary! I'm not making him up! He's just...absent. 

Husband and I have spoken about this many times. His answer always boils down to I'm willing to go to an event where I can make you scream. I'm not going so I can talk to people. If you're going to make me feel obligated to talk to people, count me out.
And the thing is, he's not obligated to talk to people. I've told him he doesn't have to say a single damn word if he doesn't want to. All he has to do is be by my side.
But he doesn't even want to be around people. If you want me to go out to dinner with you, we'll go, just the two of us, he says. If other people are showing up, I'm not going. 

He didn't use to be like this. Years and years ago, when we were still living in Israel, we had a nice circle of friends we could hang out and play with. 
(It sounds so kindergartenish: You want to come out and play? Why can't life be more like that?)
I want that back. 

Dear Husband, why can't you make the slightest effort for me on this matter? A munch is a few hours of your life. I've already told you, you don't have to talk to anyone if you don't want to. You don't have to open your fucking mouth. Just COME with me. Sit by my side, hold my hand, look like you're happy to be seen with me in public. Why is this so hard? Why can't you do this for me? Why do you have to turn this into a line in the sand? 

I don't know what to do. The ball is in his court. I'm not going to stop going to munches now; I'm going to another one this week. But I'll keep feeling awkward, keep getting jealous of the other happy couples I see there...and my resentment will keep growing. 
And then what?