Shit I’ve learned over the years.

As anyone who reads my journal could tell you, I am far from the “perfect” sub/little/good girl. I slip and fumble, make mistakes, make the same one again… and again… routinely. But, tirelessly, my Daddy, saint that He is, never gives up on me. And over the course of time I have learned a thing or two. I thought I would share them with you… 🙂

1.”Stop It Motherfucker!” is not a safe word. (Yes, I know it should be)

2. Scraping your teeth won’t get you out of a blow job. (I was just as shocked as you!)

3. “Get it yourself” doesn’t earn you any brownie points. (hey, it was worth a try)

4. “That didn’t hurt”, “I dare You”, “You can’t!” (Do I need to explain those?)

5. “Your aim sucks” will get you target practice. (with YOU as the target.)

6. Encouraging the dog to attack! when Daddy starts whapping you is just generally not a good idea.

7. Purposely skipping numbers during the spanking count “16, Sir”…. “17, Sir”… “22, Sir” only gets you back to number one… (funny as fucking hell when they dont catch it though)

8. Which brings up… try to avoid getting the giggles when He’s lecturing/spanking you.. they HATE that.

9. You really shouldn’t laugh when they trip over the very rope they are trying to tie you up with either.

10. If Daddy says He doesn’t want your finger up His ass while you suck Him… dont try to slip it in anyway.. He *really* doesn’t want it in there! (I know! Go figure!)

11. You really can’t scoot away from the pain of clover clamps. (or alligator clamps! Yowsers!)

12. Proving that you can pick open the cage door when you are tied up is not as impressive as you think it should be. (even when it’s with your toes!)

13. Humming the “Jeopardy” theme, tapping your toes, sighing, or checking your watch while Daddy fiddles with a knot doesn’t please Him so much.

14. Never.. ever.. under any circumstances… bend over at the waist to pick something up off the floor in front of Him. Never. (always crouch girls… bend at the KNEES)

15. Ditto that for walking up the stairs in front of Him. (its a little like dangling a pork chop bone in front of a starving dog)

16. And when He does pinch or slap your ass when you walk by or bend over… dont slap at His hand, give Him a dirty look or mumble “that hurt asshole”… or any variation similar to those. (They can be so touchy!)

17. Trying to claim that you were telling Him He was ‘number one in your eyes’ when you just got caught flipping Him the bird usually doesn’t fly. (get it? bird? fly? hahaha)

18. Don’t keep blowing out the candle. They see no humor in that.

19. When He is down on His knees adjusting your ankle cuffs, don’t mention that He looks mighty fine like that and would make a sexy little bitch boy. (It’s really almost worth the expression on His face though.)

20. When He asks “did that hurt, slut?” after a particularly hard swing do NOT say “’s yer sign!”




Last night somehow Daddy and I started talking about humiliation.  He was really interested in why I seem to like it as much as I do.  He expected some long drawn out psychological explanation.  All I could give Him was because I just like it.  So, I’ve been trying to think up a better answer for Him.

I’ve never really been able to put into words the *reasons* for bdsm (and humiliation) in my life. Other than “I like it and it feels good”. I think people get too hung up on the labels and psychological motivations. Maybe I’m just simple minded but “it feels good” is perfectly reasonable dontcha think?

The things that Daddy does to humiliate me are probably very mild in the grand scheme of things. Although I’m sure some people would think they are extreme.  I must also state that we do nothing publicly; He gives me nothing but respect and love when We are out in the public eye.  I’d be worse than humiliated or embarrassed, I’d be mortified if these things happened outside of the confines of Our own morgue! There is also a big difference between emotional humiliation, compared to just being embarrassed or uncomfortable. Being called degrading names like “ugly”, “fat”, “worthless” etc. *would* be humiliating but it would also lower my self esteem and eventually make me believe those things about myself. But being called “slut” “whore” “cum-bucket”… those names I like and I’m not at all humiliated by, I do believe them and I’m ok with that.

Being pissed on, tied up, used and abandoned, left bound in embarrassing positions, made fun of while I cry and drip snot all over my face, being spit on. Those are some of the ways that He humiliates me. The better question would be what do YOU get out of it Daddy? Cause you sure do seem to like it.  I can fall back on “I’m the sub so I *have* to allow it”. Even if that is a cop out, it’s a legitimate one. Strangely enough, when all is said and done, I walk away from times like that with an amazing sense of security and acceptance. It’s like “You saw me like *that* and You still want to love/fuck/hug/be-seen-with me??”. I guess the most motivating aspect of being humiliated for me is the after effect. The over-whelming sensation of feeling owned, controlled and loved by You.


You are home

Home has never been a place for me, a house, or a town, home is the one I give my heart to.
You are the one I will always see in my mirror, my first thought of the day and my last at night.
You are the one that I look forward to seeing at the end of a day, the one I will travel forever to be with.
The one I will move heaven and earth for, the one I crave to touch, to kiss for hours.
You are the one that is constantly in my thoughts, a constant presence even when I am totally involved in a project or conversation with someone, You are the one I feel in my mind touching me, caressing my soul.
I yearn to be with You, see You smile, hear Your laughter, see that look in Your eye when You want me so bad you can taste it.
You are my home, the place I cherish above all others, the arms I want to be wrapped around me as I sleep.
You are the one that makes me feel like I am the waves crashing on the shore, the lightning in a storm, an oasis in a desert.
You are the one that keeps me awake at night aching for Your touch, Your lips, Your whispered words.
You are my home.

I love the way it hurts

“Does that hurt?” He asked me, amused. He’d been rubbing his cock up and down my slit for several minutes, just barely parting the lips. Up and down, almost tenderly, as He held Himself above me.

I realized I was already clenched, my hands fisted against my chest, my eyes squeezed shut, my face scrunched. And that almost-tender, barely-parting, up-and-down, slicking of his cock against my cunt didn’t really hurt too bad.


But I could feel that it was going to. I was sore already, and just the gentle slide of His dick over my swollen self felt a lot like rubbing a fresh bruise.

Just a few hours earlier, He’d pushed me; on my knees, face to the floor, back arched, ass cocked. He’d fucked me for hours–felt like it anyway–until I had long lost the ability to lubricate myself; until my thighs quivered with the effort to be still through each pinching, painful thrust; until I was reduced to silent pep-talks, silent reminders to breathe, and silent but anxious pondering over how on earth He wasn’t feeling as much drag and scrape on his parts as I was feeling on mine.

He wanted me to feel it, He said, for a long time. He circled. He pounded. He jabbed. He rode. He grunted with the effort to hurt me with nothing but his dick.

I was certainly going to feel it. Every thrust felt like it was taking a layer of delicate skin with it. I struggled to maintain position, fighting the urge to curl my back or twist my hips- anything to interrupt His unobstructed access. When the tears were pricking the backs of my eyes, when my clenched hands had left deep, bright red half moons in my palms, when my cheeks tingled with rug burn and I’d bitten my tongue in half over the urge to beg- He sat back, pulled out, pulled me up off of my knees.


At first I was relieved, grateful. Eager.

He went back to ignoring me after that single command. Back to His porn and His erotica while I worked Him, trying to stay in that jaw-stretching area where it’s deep enough but not so deep that I’m scraping teeth. After awhile I had to begin pulling off, working Him with my hand while I gave my jaw a quick pop and clench to relieve the intense cramp settling in. Each time He tapped me on the back of the head, cutting my break from seconds to milliseconds.

After the 5th or 6th time of having to pop my jaw, I started fantasizing about just sitting back and telling Him I couldn’t go any longer. Wondering what He’d do. Berating myself for trying to talk myself into it. Chastising my sex slave fail even before it happened. But as every second passed, it was becoming evident that I really couldn’t go much longer.

Then He slid down in the chair a little deeper, spreading His thighs a little and grinned at me. “I’m trying to hold off as long as I can. You’ll feel this, too.” and I almost cried.

At one point I pulled off, and, acutely aware of how raw and sore I was down below, I suggested He finish off by fucking me again. Anything to relieve my jaw, please. Trading one pain for another can be the lot in life for the property of a sadist. He looked at me, smiled ever so sweetly, and snapped and pointed at His dick. Request denied. Get back on it, bitch.

He finally fisted His hands in my hair and guided me up and down, taking away the option to back away for that millisecond break of jaw resting. I closed my eyes, tightly gripped the arms of the chair, and let Him direct, powerless to do anything but. Until finally he stiffened, groaned, came down my throat and… pushed me away. Used, done, and dismissed.

A few hours later, in the gray light of dawn, He was over me, sliding his cock up and down my slit, and asking me if it hurt.

Clenched and ready, I didn’t even open my eyes when I answered, not wanting to see the smirk on His face, or the pure enjoyment in His eyes. “No, Daddy. But it will.”

He chuckled. “Smart girl,” He said quietly, and then jammed Himself home. Pain blossomed, bright and fresh and consuming, as eH pulled back and jammed in again and again. Through the high-pitched whimper, He taunted me, laughing at my pain. I gripped my knees and forcibly held them apart, my own hands fighting my body’s urge to protect itself.

He mocked me then, leaning down close to my ear to tell me how wet my pussy was getting, jeered at my hard, erect nipples, teased me as I whimpered. “Sick little girl -jab- getting off on being -jab- hurt. Getting off on being -jab- used, being treated like a nasty fucking cunt -jab- . Look at you. -jab- So fucking wet -jab- You like this -jab- Say it -jab- SAY IT -jab-

I said it, blinking wetness out of my eyes, I said it, shame flooding my face. Because it’s so fucking true. I like the way it hurts.

Rocking back on His knees, he painfully pushed my knees apart with a growl to keep them there, and attacked my clit with His thumb, still grinding his cock into the raw meat of my cunt. I don’t know that I orgasmed so much as every nerve just opened up and laid itself bare, my body twitching uncontrollably as He ground his thumb across the sensitive nub. My whimpers rose an octave to a keen, and I squirmed. “Don’t you dare fucking touch me,” he snarled. “Don’t you dare close those legs.” My hands clasped and unclasped frantically, my legs trembled, my breathing was ragged and loud. I could feel His eyes on me, crawling, probing. Again and again, my hands fluttered against Him, wanting to push or block or stop, before I could pull them back to twist the sheet or grab my own hair instead.

He dug his elbows into my open legs, propping them further apart, His thumb still scraping across my clit, which was rapidly getting as raw as the rest of my cunt. I could practically feel the skin being rubbed away as friction built up. The pain was exquisite, brilliant and sharp, the perfect accompaniment to the deep, darker, ache that radiate from my inside as He thrust into it. I stopped fighting it, and opened myself up, welcoming, letting the pain play me like an instrument, with He as the conductor.

He watched me make the transition from resistance to surrender, and mumbled something appreciative, something praising, ‘good girl’ or ‘my girl’, but neither slowed nor pulled back His administrations upon my body, until, with a sudden arch, He plunged to the hilt in a final hard slam and then was still, straining, a fine sheen of sweat across his chest, veins visible in His forearms. I held my place, swallowing this last moment of pain, the closing note playing out, watching pleasure fade from His face as he relaxed.

Later, He brushed his hand across my cheek. “You are so beautiful.”. My hair was tousled, my mascara smeared, and I smelled of sex and sweat. “You are a sick man,” I said, grinning, brushing off the compliment.

“And thank God for that.” I whispered, as He walked out of earshot.

V is for

V is for Vocalist because He is one.

V is for vocal because I always do seem to speak my mind.

I specifically chose THIS type of relationship. It doesn’t seem unreasonable that I continue to want this kind of relationship, nor am I ashamed of being vocal about it. It’s better than pretending to be happy with less.

Most of the time, I think He and I are pretty decent about meeting each other’s needs. Sometimes it’s me who starts to slip, and believe me, He lets me know it. He just doesn’t have a blog so y’all don’t hear HIS complaints.

When it’s Him who starts to slip, I let Him know, too.

And then I blog.

Because I’m a blogger.

Even as I’m blogging, He and I working it out behind the scenes.

I don’t think it makes Him ‘unmasterly’ to recognize when things on His end need tweaked. He’s human. He’s not infallible. Sometimes He drops the ball.

I think the misconception here is that He picks the ball back up because I’ve demanded it. That is not true. I point it out because sometimes He doesn’t even realize it. If He knows it, and He’s got his reasons for it, He lets me know and I go back to waiting.

I will never be content to watch what We have die a quiet death. Not unless HE determines that it needs to– and maybe even then I’ll try and find a solution around it. I’ve (We’ve) worked too hard and been through too much shit to just give up on something that only needs a tweak to be happily functional for BOTH of us. That just seems silly.

I’ve watched people who felt it wasn’t their place to speak up for their needs turn miserable and bitter, and then declare this lifestyle “impossible. A myth”. I’ve watched people sit back, smug-like, saying it’s all on the Boss, blah blah blah, and seemingly enjoy the crash and burn.

He and I are in a relationship. It is not an equal relationship but we are equally responsible for its success or failure. Bet your ass I’m going to speak up when I see a crash heading our way. I can’t imagine doing anything less or WHY anyone would do anything less. It’d be a disservice to let it happen because He’s got his head turned and is enjoying the scenery.

Maybe all y’all see is me whining here and then He gives me what I want and then I’m happy again.


I guess that makes me one lucky little bitch, that He cares about my happiness. 🙂


Y is for

Y is for You.

Because of You, I learned:

that trying to hide a snort only makes it harder to stop laughing.
that I am smarter than I ever gave myself credit for.
how to debate the undebatable.
that hope for one thing carries over into hope for so much more.
that hope is wonderful.
I am so much more optimistic than I ever knew.
it is ok to share my secrets.
I won’t always be judged for the actions of others.
that true friends may not stay in our lives forever, but they change us completely.
it is ok to be who I am.
that I see the best in people.
I am full of faith.
that time can take forever to pass, but hours can feel like mere seconds.
to share my feelings openly and completely.
that things don’t fall apart when you’re honest with someone who cares about you.
that I truly want the best for you.
I deserve better.

Thank you for being in my life and helping to shape who I am at this very moment. I love You eternally.

W is for

Welp here it is, the letter I know you’ve been waiting for Daddy.

W is for WEDNESDAY because how could it possibly be for anything else?

W is also for WET.


W is for the ways that W makes me wet.  There are so many but I’m gonna just go with the most recent to my memory.

Sometimes when He comes up behind me and wraps His hands, His arm (or His belt or the whip or..) around my throat and squeezes squeezes squeezes

there’s nothing but pain. Crushing pressure in my throat making it hard to breathe, sometimes impossible to breathe actually, and panic sets in pretty quick.

Other times, there’s the sloooooowest build (dim?), fuzzing at the edges, discomfort around my neck, and it just… hangs there (no pun intended oh fuck it yes there is a pun intended there).

Then there are the times He wraps around my throat and squeezes and things fade and buzz and I’m just about to protest- somehow? someway?- or at least I think I should protest because my knees are buckling and my vision is going dark and surely THAT warrants a protest– and the next thing I know… I’m waking up.

Or, He holds it right there, and loosens it just the tiniest bit, to say things in my ear, to remind me of things, and then tightens it again and next thing I know… I’m waking up with those words echoing in my head. “I own you. You’re mine.”

And then there are the ones where His arm goes around, and there’s the squeeze and I have time to think “Oh, f-”

What happens then?

I have no idea.

For how long?

I have no idea.

It’s like when you go to sleep and you wake up and you’re not sure if it’s been 2 minutes or 2 hours because there’s nothing.

It’s like when you go to sleep in a different place and you’re slowly waking up and for a moment you’re not really sure where you are or why or how you got there.

There is, first, the sounds coming back. The thump of music, the low buzz of voices in the darkness. There’s confusion, my brain trying to connect the dots as they sputter to light. “Someone left the tv on.”

Then comes an awareness of my body. In the most recent case, hanging by my wrists in suspension cuffs, and having just the vaguest sensation of pain in my arms, of tingling, and thinking I should stand up or something… but not at all able to figure out how one actually does that.

With the body awareness comes the realization that I’m twitching uncontrollably. I should stop doing that, it feels weird. But I can’t figure that out, either.

And then another voice; closer, louder, familiar. Penetrating the confusion and demanding response. I know Him! I know that voice. I have to answer that voice, I’m compelled to answer that voice. It feels… dangerous… not to. What is it saying??

I listen.

“Hey. Hey, baby. You here?” A hand on my cheek, tapping.

I am. I’m here. I should tell Him so. I open blurry eyes to look at his blurry face.

“Hi. Welcome back.”

I smile loopily at Him. I want to pet Him.

He strokes my hair off my forehead. I love that. He’s so nice. So gentle.

Then things come back into focus and memory. Oh yes! Daddy and His delicious, choke hold.

Gentle? Nice? Wait…

He wraps his arms around me and hauls me up, propping me back on shaky legs. I’m still teetering when the whip catches me across the back. I feel the bright flash against my skin but it’s muted, everything hasn’t connected yet and I’m slow to react. The next one hits my ass while I’m still comprehending the first one.

He pops me again. Again, again, and again, whipping me back to the here and now, until the last of the fuzziness has been replaced by the white hot pain of right fucking now.

He’s laughing as I cuss him out and give Him dirty looks and dance to the ends of the chains, trying to dodge the blows and distract Him with my wit and sarcasm (hey, sometimes it works!)

And then He’s behind me again and His arm (or the whip or His belt or…) is snaking back around my neck and I lift my chin in supplication, offering my bare throat, and waiting for, begging for, that fade and buzz and dim

that is Him, taking control of my body completely and utterly away from me.

My life is always in His control, always in His hands to do with as He wants.

That is why W is and always will be my favorite letter of the alphabet.