Sunday, December 7, 2014

Can't Touch This: Touching and Consent

This week I saw something that disgusted me. I came across it in my facebook feed, a link to a video of a fourteen year old girl being dragged unwillingly across a concrete floor by her P.E teacher who was trying to physically force her to get into a pool. She had apparently been in the pool at one point, but had gotten out to avoid getting her hair wet because she had gotten it done earlier that day for an event that night. So this teacher, who is an adult, decided the best course of action was to attempt to physically drag her into the pool. Unfortunately for him, this act of complete stupidity was caught on video by another student.

The news story of the incident and the video of it.

Even more disgusting was some of the people in the comments on the link I read, which I unfortunately can't get the link to because the server is down for the website, who were advocating for the teacher's behavior, calling it "discipline" and bemoaning the fact that we aren't allowed to properly discipline children these days. One of these insisted that the student was not manhandled, as other posters were mentioning in their outrage, and made the distressing statement of "no means no" only applies to sex.

Now, this should be bothersome to anyone, but I'd say this is especially abhorrent to those who live within the BDSM spectrum where consent is the basic foundation of all of our interactions. By this man's logic, we have no authority over our own bodies outside of touch within a sexual context. And when so much of this lifestyle/way of live/culture/community/pick-your-word is not sexual, that is a dangerous position to take. If it is acceptable for a grown man to drag a screaming girl across the floor because it's not sexual, this would suggest that any touch that is not sexual, including violence, is not subject to consent.

Perhaps I am hyperbolizing too much, but I'm simply horrified that anyone, let alone multiple people would find it okay to do that to another human being regardless of age. I don't care how you feel about why she didn't want to get into the pool. Laying hands on her and trying to throw her into the pool should have never been an option for discipline, and implying, as the same idiot who said consent only applies to sex, that those who were trying to help the girl should be disciplined as well.

To bring this back to a relevant place for the shit I'm actually supposed to be talking about, you know, M/s and BDSM and your respective flavor of alphabet soup, consent is one of those topics you get beaten over the head with repeatedly if you are part of any meatspace community or online forum. I mean, all of the spiffy alphabet mottos, SSC, RACK, and PRICK all have that C for consenual in them. It's our base point. If it's not consensual, it's not okay. If it's consensual, even if it grosses me the fuck out, it's okay, I'm just not gonna watch.

Of course, this has always been a bit of a murky subject for me. There is a big push for enthusiastic consent, where if it's not a yes (enthusiastic or otherwise), it's a no. This has never been the case for me. I am painfully passive and noncommittal, so, for me, if it's not a no, it's a yes. Or rather, I suppose, if it's not a no, it's not a no. It's part of the reason why I don't consider some of what my ex did to be abuse because I never said no.

However, I get really angry when people I don't know or don't like touch me without my consent. I guess that's part of the reason why I'm so completely appalled by that video. Had I been in her shoes, I would have probably ended up getting arrested because I tend to get violent when someone persists in touching me against my will. It especially pisses me off when they continue after I say stop, because I rarely do that.

Mistress Uli

I honestly don't understand people who just touch people they aren't close to or even really acquainted with. This older lady at work consistently makes me want to strangle her because when she wants my attention, instead of just saying my name, she'll poke me or tap me on the shoulder. One time she even grabbed my wrist as I was walking across the room. That is not fucking okay. I won't sit in the terminal next to her now because she does this and it makes me uncomfortable. It's not in a sexual context, but it bothers the hell out of me.

I have extremely long hair. When I wear it down, I get comments on it from strangers. Now, this doesn't bother me much, although compliments do make me a little self-conscious. But, I was in a used bookstore one day. You know the kind, the tiny hole in the wall in the historic part of town with more books than shelf space that's so crammed full the whole shop is a giant ball of claustrophobia and paper must. This complete stranger complimented my hair, asked how I got it so wavy. Okay, cool. But as I was leaving the store, she stuck her hand under my pony tail and kind of petted my hair. I was instantly creeped out.

I mean, I seriously feel bad for pregnant ladies who have strangers constantly rub their bellies. That shit is straight up creepy. Stop it.

Um, well, the text is appropriate, but I have no idea why it's
on a picture of a red duck...

I also can't tell you how much I hate the social convention of hand shaking, where I'm basically obligated to touch somebody against my will lest I be considered rude.

Trust me, consent is not just about sex.

But, I'm also a fan of consensual non-consent, both sexual encounters and relationships of that nature, where there is what I call an "original consent" to all future acts regardless of the consenting party's feelings at the time of the act. It has been one of my biggest fetishes not involving a specific activity. Probably one of the first fetishes I ever had. Even so, it's not something I want to engage in with anyone but my owner. The key part of consensual non-consent is the consensual part. What I don't have a fetish for is someone with whom I'm not in that kind of a relationship trying to impose themselves or their touch on me without my consent just because they know I have a force fetish. I have not had this problem personally, but one hears stories.

I...I couldn't resist this one. 

I suppose that would be another reason why I keep my distance from people and don't generally touch them, aside from the general physical paranoia that accompanies my social disorder. The fact that I am fairly open about my CNC inclinations as well as my tendency toward implicit rather than explicit consent coupled with my extreme difficulty with confrontation makes interaction a bit complicated for me. So, I just tend to keep a good distance from others and avoid so much as brushing people much of the time.

You know,  I had hoped this would have been a little more organized and a damn sight more articulate, but the point is, consent doesn't just apply to sexual touch. It doesn't only apply to touch either, but if I tried to go into all of it, this post would never end. I was just kind of horrified at the idea that an incident like the one mentioned at the beginning of this post would even occur in a school or at all, and I was bothered that anyone would think it okay or have any argument against No means no. If you actually made it through all my rambling, let me know what you think about the incident and the issue.

Sunday, November 16, 2014

I AM FATTICUS! On Being a BBW In and Out of the Lifestyle

Weight is a rather complex and controversial issue. It is  rather close to me, as I have been on the plus side of the spectrum for most of my life. I grew up as one of the fat kids and while I didn't experience a great deal of bullying as a child, what I did get centered around my size. I would hazard that my reprieve came from the fact that for much of my childhood, at least from late elementary school to about the eighth grade, (when I lost 40 pounds) I presented myself as a tom boy. I wore my dad's old t-shirts because they fit. Most of my friends were boys. The only dresses I owned were because they were required for an academic competition I did from about 8 to 11 years old.

It was only when I started presenting myself in a more feminine way that I started getting more pointed insults. The school's constant need to run the bullshit BMI screenings and fitness tests didn't help. I remember in P.E. one year being made to jump rope and the coach kept bitching at me because I had to jump twice per swing. I always refused to participate in the BMI screenings. I wouldn't take the permission slip home to be signed. I didn't need them to tell me what I already knew, because the world had been telling it to me since the age of six when my pediatrician told my parents to stop giving me snacks. I certainly didn't want to be another of their fat kid statistics that measure weight and not fat percentages.

Source: Why BMI is not a measure of health

Coming into the kink and dating world, as they are one and the same for me, was a bit intimidating. I have always preferred a type that is pretty much the exact opposite of my body type. You know, tall, muscly, strong as an ox. I find a I have a taste for martial artists and fighters. Blame the historical romance novels full of burly Highlanders kicking ass. Society has trained me to be a bit surprised when someone like that is attracted to me. So, naturally, I feel lucky that both of the partners I've had have been more towards that end of the spectrum than mine.

Now, I shouldn't feel this way. I shouldn't feel like a man I find attractive choosing to be with me is doing me a favor by doing so, and it bothers me how many in the kink world seem to perpetuate this idea.

I can say that I have not experienced any fat shaming in my local community. Most of the women in my community qualify as BBWs, so you won't see any fat hate there. They are the only people I have performed in front of, as they are the only people who I feel won't judge me as a large belly dancer. They have always been super supportive of my dancing.

This is not me, but she is awesome.

Most of the flack I get is on the internet, whether that be imagined obligations of a submissive or slave (particularly female ones), fat-based hate mail from supposed doms, or fat shaming comments on my belly dance videos on YouTube. I mean, God forbid a big woman dance on YouTube, right? I can't tell you how many messages I got on Collarme back when I was on the site that were just random guys popping in to call me fat, or cow, or pig. I am baffled by the amount of people who waste their time verbally abusing large people on the internet, and the fact that doing so is essentially socially acceptable. I don't know if they think they can shame people into not being fat, or simply don't think fat people deserve to be treated as people because of all the bullshit stereotypes the media feeds to people.

Speaking of bullshit stereotypes, here are 9 Facts That Shatter Bullshit Stereotypes About Fat People. I found this lovely bit of awesome in my Facebook feed, and everybody should read it, because yes.

There also seems to be some misconception that s-types are obligated by virtue of being s-types to be fit and trim. I can't tell you how many doms complain about their local communities being full of fat subs. Or, people complaining that only fat people are in the lifestyle and why don't they want to take care of themselves? It comes from the s-types too. Granted, the most recent example of this that I noticed was an obvious troll (I hope).

She informed a group, named "Fat, Dumb Sluts" (odd place to go fat shaming in, right?), that she minored in health, so fat is bad. However, men can be whatever shape and size they want, but it's a woman's duty to stay slim and attractive for men. Now, I would hope that much stupid couldn't exist in one place, but who knows? If she's serious, I guess it didn't occur to her that some men like big women. I mean, it has its own genre of porn.

There was one man a while back who asked about the phrases "big and beautiful" or "big is beautiful" and called them "fucking ridiculous," trying to claim that these positive statements about size were somehow body shaming slim people. Seriously though, if big people feeling good about themselves makes slim people feel bad about themselves, they have way more issues than weight.

For a while now, the song All About That Bass by Meghan Trainor has been floating around as the latest body positivity song. Granted, it contains body shaming of thin people, so it falls short of the mark on being a truly body positive song. There was a discussion about the video in a submissive forum I participate in. One poster mentioned how her cousin was a model and that her cousin "deserved to be recognized as beautiful." I just couldn't really process that concept. Beauty is a standard of convention. Being conventionally pretty is not a skill. It's the luck of the genetic draw. Her claim was that her cousin's ability to maintain the balance of thin and curvy was a skill. I just don't understand the idea that pretty people deserve to be recognized when beauty is subjective. She also asserted that a woman's "ability to exhibit physical health is her most valuable trait in the dating world."


Weight, of course, is as part of the power exchange scene as anything else.

Weight Restrictions
Forced Exercise
Forced Dieting
Diet Control
Fat Fetishes
Weight-based Humiliation and Degradation play

I don't really have experience with any of these things. I can see the benefit of them if one desires to lose weight and needs or wants the extra motivation of the PE context. Or those who simply enjoy that kind of control. My former dom tried to do required exercise, but he never asked me about it or brought it up after the first week. With no motivation, positive or negative, I assumed he didn't care and lost interest in the idea. My owner is exclusively interested in large women and won't even allow me to refer to myself as fat or any other derogatory weight-related term.


In fact, we were discussing dinner service habits and I mentioned that leaving the pots in the kitchen and not putting out serving dishes keeps you from being tempted to get more food. His response? "No, if I'm cooking something really good, I want you to sit there and eat until you feel like you're gonna die."

I'm thankful for him. Thankful for the fact that he is more comfortable with my weight than I am. For the way he grumbles every time I talk about weight loss or complain about having to go up a size in jeans. Thankful for the community I'm in where I can be embraced as beautiful no matter my size, where I can dance without shame.

So, all the fat haters and fat shamers who think my size is a case of overeating and being lazy?

Fuck you. I'm a belly dancer. I'm an archer. I have a full time job. I don't stuff my face. I am a person, and deserve to be treated like a human being. I have a wonderful owner who loves my size and wouldn't have me any other way. My weight is not a marker of my health. And I am not morally obligated to fit your standard of beauty.


Sunday, November 9, 2014

Soul of the Gray (Part 2)

She did not struggle as he lifted her wrists to snap a metal band around each and attach them to the rings on the sides of the table. His touch was oddly comforting despite her fear, so warm and solid compared to the airy coolness of the servants. Once he had her in place, he drew his warmth away from her and tugged the pooled fabric of her ruined clothes away from her feet.


The Master circled her like so much prey, passing into her line of vision at agonizingly slow intervals. Eilin examined him in the glow of the candlelight. He loomed over her, tall and broad with bulky shoulders with thick muscles trying to punch their way out of his chest. Ropey scars banded his belly, disappearing into the mat of dark silvery hair that covered a fair portion of his torso, ending at the soft leather trews he wore. His arms were thick and just a little too long for his body, culminating in the pale claws that graced the finger tips of his large hands. The thick beard he wore and the long hair that brushed his shoulders in a cascade of layers were both black, although the hair gradually faded into the silver of his body. Glittering around his neck was a silver chain bearing an delicately crafted pendant, a triskele of wolves. The sparkle of the metal emphasized the bright grey of his eyes.

He stepped closer to her, sweeping her deep auburn hair over her shoulder and out of the way. He drew his claws lightly over her back in a series of patterns. Eilin shivered and squirmed, unsure how to feel about the sensation. Something in her wanted to purr. The rest of her remembered that she was naked and chained to a table in a room with a man-beast. The tickle of his claws moved leisurely downward over the small of her back to tease the sensitive flesh of her backside. She found herself arching involuntarily as he dipped over the hollow to the rounder flesh. Her body erupted in a rash of goose pimples.

That growling laugh rumbled through the air again, giving sound to his pleasure in her response. Her cheeks flushed with the heat of a deep blush, and she pressed herself into the table, concentrating on staying still. The Master clucked his tongue and delivered a sharp smack to her rump. Eilin jumped with surprise, letting out a small squeak. It just hard enough to sting a bit, but nothing unbearable.

"Ah, ah, ah.  I am the bard. You are the dancer. I play the tune. You will dance. It is that simple." He gave her another slap, and she bounced with it.

He came into sight again, sitting in the chair before the fireplace, facing her. He held in his hands a case of dark cherrywood, carved with beautiful knotwork and inlaid with silver filigree. He lifted the lid and presented the velvet lined beauty toward her. A set of exquisite hairbrushes were carefully laid within. He sat the open case on his lap that she might look at them more easily.


"A gift, pretty one. These are now yours." He caressed the auburn waves dangling over the edge of the table. "Choose one."

She looked over her choices. A wide silver one with stiff-looking bristles. A narrow golden one fitted with jewels. Another silver one of a middling width with soft bristles and vines curling around the handle.

"The one in the center," she said, indicating the ones with the vines.

His eyes glinted happily. "A good choice," he said, plucking it from the case and setting the others aside.

He walked back behind her, stroking her back with his claws as he went. "Tell me, how many steps do you think my staircase has?" he said, sliding a chain around the back of her left knee and hooking it into place.

What an odd question, she thought, as he slid another chain behind her right knee. "I...I do not know," she said quietly.

"Five and thirty," he snapped, his tone suddenly harsh.

Eilin cried out as the flat of the brush crashed into her backside a thousand times harder than the chiding slap of his hand. Her breath left her in a wave of pain. She stiffened, riding out the sting as it resonated through her. She jumped when he unexpectedly pressed the soft bristles to her skin.

"How many did you climb?" His voice was unyielding.

Eilin whimpered and hid her face in her hair. The brush popped her again, more quickly this time, but with less fervor.

"All of them," she managed to bite out. Another vicious swat with the brush had her sobbing, the chains at her knees not allowing for any sort of evasion.

He stroked her throbbing cheeks with the bristles. "What were you told upon entering my home?"

She spoke through little sobs, each word punctuated but a frantic breath. "All that is yours is at my fingertips, but do not ascend the black staircase."

"Aye," he said, administering another firm swat low on her rump, "and while I am overjoyed that you came to me, you still disobeyed my orders. So, we shall account for each and every step."

Eilin sniffed, trying to lift herself off the table with little success. "If you wanted me to climb the stairs, how is it fair to chastise me for it?"

He gave a quick little pop to each cheek. "Another thing you shall come to learn. I make the rules. I do not have to be fair. You, on the other hand, my lovely little jewel, are expected to be obedient from this point forward."

The next eternity was filled punishing wallops of the brush, peppered with excruciating pauses and unexpected strokes of the bristles or his hand. She had long since lost count, giving over to the useless writhing of her body and the steady sobs. This last pause seemed much longer than the others. She relaxed slightly, panting softly, as the air finally caused the light sweat he had worked her into to cool. He swept his hand over her body, gently rubbing each warm and throbbing cheek. Then, out of nowhere, one last blow, this time to the tender lips of her sex, keen and lingering.

The hard silver was replaced with the soft bristles. He pulled his hand away and simply moved the brush back and forth in small motions against her sex. Somewhere, in between her sobbing, Eilin let out a new sound, a foreign sound that she had never made before.

"There it is." He removed the brush from her, much to her disappointment she realized and resumed his seat in his chair.  The Master pulled the long ends of her hair into his lap and began to brush them with the mean little instrument he played so well.

"You did well. Although, I would advise you that this was a rather mild punishment because I did not expect you to obey the edict. However, if you desire to regain your previous privileges, it would behoove you to accept your new role."

When he was satisfied with her hair, he unhooked the chains from the bands around her wrists and carried her towards the bed.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Soul of the Gray (Part 1)

Eilin eyed the grand staircase leading into the restricted part of the castle with infinite curiosity. No matter what angle she found, she could not see into the shadowy depths of the corridor from anywhere in the foyer. She had tried from many places, to much chastising from the ghostly servants that flitted about the keep, but to no avail. Her curiosity burned with in her, heightened by the singular rule that she not ascend that staircase.


The Master had been most generous since her father had sold her here for his freedom. She had access to all other areas of the castle and grounds. The kitchens were open to her whenever she pleased. He had not asked anything untoward of her as of yet. But, damn, she wanted to know what was up there. Her imagination ran wild with unnumbered horrors, only things such a scarred an bestial man might possess.

Almost unconsciously, she felt herself drifting towards the staircase. Just as her toe would have landed upon the first step, a slender figure materialized before her. Caolan, the chamberlain, hung in the air before her a collection of mist and smoke forming the visage of a lean man with a hawk nose and sharply angled jaw. He frowned at her, as best as such an apparition may manage and waved an ethereal finger at her disapprovingly.

"I understand your inquisitiveness, milady, but the Master would not approve of your explorations." His voice was wispy, though deep, almost as if he spoke from great distance.

"He has been kind to me thus far. I think he might forgive a little peek," she said, mounting the first step.

Caolan grew larger, the billowing smoke whirling furiously about him. A ghostly chain slithered out of the nothingness to clasp her about the ankle and thether itself to the bannister.

"Cease your blustering. I shall take what comes of this," Eilin said, yanking the length of the chain.

Caolan peered at her for a moment, reluctant, but the chain faded back into the mist from whence it came. Eilin picked up her skirts and, smiling victoriously at the unearthly servant and sped her way up the forbidden stairs into the hall beyond. The corridor itself was disappointingly plain. Candelabra jutted out from the walls. Only every other one was lit. There were pale places on the wall where paintings and tapestries that had obviously been there for years no longer hung. She walked past large heavy doors fitted with iron padlocks, windows with the hangings pulled back to let in the silvery moonlight, which sparkled on the metallic threads running through the wide carpet lining the center of the floor.


At last she came to the largest set of doors. The only ones not locked up. She looked about quickly, as if she might find another servant hovering in the shadows to snag her with another of those uncomfortably airy chains. When none came forth, gingerly, she pushed open the door. It yielded easily to her touch, swinging open with neither resistance nor sound. She stepped through into the dim light.

It was a massive room, befitting a prince. A great bed rested against the far right wall, hung with luxurious draperies and piled with furs. Eilin looked about as her eyes adjusted to the lack of much light and noticed a number of intricately carved pieces of furniture about the place. A beautiful chair sat before a grand fire place. A couch graced another wall. Then she noticed the pieces that were not so familiar. An oddly high table, short and solid. It resembled a box more than a table. Silver rings were fitted to the sides at various intervals. A low bench fitted with cushions, a thick chain snaking around its feet. Then she noticed that chains hung from the wall as well, and suddenly she was afraid.

Even as his large, warm hand slipped into the back of her hair and took a tight grip on the roots, she found she could not move. She did not jump, or move away. Perhaps because something inside her knew it was futile, or perhaps because she had already resigned herself to the consequences of her curiosity.

"I had wondered when you would finally seek me out," he said, his voice rumbling against her as he pressed his chest to her back. "I must say, you succumbed to temptation more quickly than I had anticipated."

She said nothing, her chest heaving in her bodice. His other hand came around to brush her throat with sharp nails, making her shiver. The hand moved down, the nails, looking more like claws as they went, parting the laces of her kirtle as a knife through silk. Once fully severed, he pulled the fabric away from her middle, to run the claws over her belly, tugging at her chemise as he went. Her belly tightened, pulling away from the tickling sensation.

"I am afraid that now you have come here, you will not leave for some time."

Eilin let out a shuddering breath. "Why?"

The Master chuckled, making a small slice in her chemise. "You have yet to ask about this place, why I look the way I do, why I share an expansive manse with naught but spirits to serve me."

"I...I..." she stammered, eyes frantically following his hand as it began to part the slice low on her belly and slip beneath the fabric. "I assumed you were some sort of fae."

He laughed again, finally pressing is palm against her belly. Her stomach leapt at the sensation. "Then you are not as bright as I thought, to tempt the wrath of a fae. But I am no fae. I am simply a beast. Vicious but not cruel. The fae are infinitely cruel."

She gasped as he gently cupped her sex. "A fae is responsible for my existence. Liadain, the Grey Lady. She desired to own me, and I would not allow it." His hand moved back up slowly. "So, she took from me the touch of woman. The touch of anyone, as you have likely deduced from the state of the servants. Her curse was that should I acquire a woman, I could only touch her if she came to my chamber willingly. If I touched her before that time, she would become as insubstantial as Caolan and the others." He tugged her head to the side and buried his whiskered face into her neck, breathing in her scent. "And then she scarred me and gave me beastly features that no woman would wish to come near me and veiled my castle that those beyond its grounds would forget about my line and let the old kings fade into legend."

This is a photo manip I did for a failed fiction blog for the same
concept. The cloaked woman is Eilin, and the woman in the
water is Liadain. The base photo is an America's Next Top
Model Shoot. 

He guided her more fully into the room, toward the high table with the rings. "Fortunately, fae are much burdened by their literal natures. One must be very delicate in making requests of them, or they find ways to twist your words and exploit any and every loophole. Alas, it is a double-edged sword. She said you had to come willingly to my chamber. She said nothing about after you were already within."

Eilin made a small sound and tried to twist out of his grip. His laughter filled the room. "Do not panic, little beauty. We shall spend much time getting to know one another. In time, I imagine, you shall never wish to leave this room. But first..." he finally ripped away the rest of the chemise,"we will need to address that curiosity of yours."

He pressed her legs into the table and bent her over the edge.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Toy With Me Tuesday: Mistress Uli vs. Big Boy

My latest ridiculously-sized acquisition going head to paw with the fiercest pussy on the block.

The Staredown.


Toy with me Tuesday

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Kink of the Week: Baubles, Bangles, and Beads (I Mean Bells)

I have always been afraid of needles, dating back to my bratling days when shots were evil incarnate. I can't watch needle play. I can't watch anything to do with needles in a horror movie. Gaw, that syringe scene in Saw II kind of made me wanna die a little.

Nope. Nope. All of my Nope. Plus some of your nope, too.
Source: YouTube

So, naturally, I didn't even get my ears pierced until I was 19. I had it done at one of those stupid girl jewelry stores. Claire's, I think. It wasn't even the one geared toward older girls. And, of course, it was done with one of those gun things. It took over 6 months for those bitches to heal. Pretty much completely turned me off of piercings altogether. Not that I was turned on by them to begin with.

Ever since I got into kink, piercings have been on my unslavely hard limit list. I see my other M/s friends off getting piercings in all the places no one sees. Even as an order, I don't think I could submit to that. I'd probably panic, blackout, and go into an anxiety psychosis and wake up in the woods somewhere covered in blood. I am not remotely good at forcing myself to do things I'm afraid of, but boy can I talk myself out of anything. Fortunately, Daddy has no interest in nether piercings, because I think we might come to violence over those. I'd lose, but, God, I'd tear some shit up in the process.

Unfortunately, (can you see my wildly enthused face here?) he does have a thing for nipple piercings. I think only one of his previous girls got out of that requirement, and that was because she had diabetes. Now, I'm not remotely interested in the idea. It's even on my limit list that he allows. Which I have pointed out. He still teases me relentlessly about it like he can convince me to give it up.

Of course, I'm not wholly unreasonable. I did present a condition under which I would submit to someone jabbing a needle in my nipples. Whether he'll take me up on that remains to be seen. I would hope he does, because it's kind of a relationship requirement for me in the long term.

If it does happen, I've already decided what I want. I've never been a fan of the barbells, but I've always liked the rings I've seen on slaves in movies. Daddy informed me that they were called captive rings. I'd say that's appropriate.

Although, none of that bead bullshit. I want these babies.

Captive Segment Rings

Seamless loops that speak to my archaic soul. And not the least because I'm a belly dancer and I have a fetish for slave bells.

All of the bells ever. @.@

Despite my fear of needles and piercings and sharp shit that is not knife-related, that bitch is gorgeous....and ridiculously expensive, so I will likely never have it, but still. It does speak to my Odalisquian interests, although I have been summarily informed by some rando on the Odalisque forum on Fetlife that odalisques and harem slaves were never pierced. Also, according to him, this should be obvious. I guess he's post cognitively omniscient.

So, piercings are not a fetish of mine, but I suppose I can make the best of an undesirable situation. Although, I'm not remotely excited about months with no nipple play, because, with my luck, they'd take an eternity to heal.

But, omg, all the bells!

Friday, September 26, 2014

Shit My Daddy Says: Volume 1

These are some snippets from conversations I've had with Daddy. He says some really funny shit sometimes.

After buying a huge knife for knife play:

Him: I find it funny that you are more afraid of my penis than the huge fucking knife I bought thinking about you. 99% of the female population would look at my dick and drool, and the knife and run. You're the other way around."


Me: What size butt plug would you recommend?
Him: That's a hard question. Depends really ... [For you], probably about 3 inches insertible length and 2 inches wide.
Me: 2 inches???? O.O
Him: That's about how thick I am...
Me: I'm gonna die.
Him: Try 1.5 then.
Me: You're still gonna kill me.
Him: Two inches around [he meant wide] isn't that big...
Him: I'm not gonna kill you...probably. Do you like my t-shirt?


-Shows him a picture of some glass dildos and later explains they are dildos and not pot pipes-

Him: Those is lil dildos.
Me: They're average and a bit above on a couple.
Him: -Looks down- Well, I have a different frame of reference.
Me: Braggart.
Him: Tell me I'm wrong.
Me: Yes, daddy. -clears my throat- You are the wrongest of wrongs to ever wrong. -giggles and runs away-


On his love of big girls:

"I have a big penis. If she's skinny, that's gonna look like a scene out of Aliens. I don't need to track that shit like a hurricane."

"One thing that will make my dick limp just like that is muscle definition on a girl. Calves? Okay. Thighs? I can deal with that. But if I can see an abdominal muscle? Noooo. And if I can see rib? No fuckin way. Go eat some pasta and come back when you've gained about twenty pounds."


On Gorean concepts:

Him: You wanna be my bed warmer. :)
Me: Among other things.
Him: Kitchen wench. :P
Me: That too. I think the Goreans call it "kettle and mat."
Him: I have no idea who those people are or what that means ... Sounds like something you lay on after it feeds you, which is a bad order. I want sex, then a sandwich.


On loopholes:

Him: You know what I am talking about so do not make me word it [rules] like I'm making a wish to a djinn.
Me: If I dress up like a djinn, then can we play the loophole game?
Him: No.


Regarding the use of the forbidden word "fat" and subsequent face raping:

Him: If I don't like what's coming out of your mouth, I'm going to like what's going into it.

As well as:

Him: You'll learn...or you'll lose your gag reflex.


Regarding my ex:

Him: He was a pussy. No two ways around that fact. And you should be offended that he called himself a dom instead of a douche.
Me: If he had called himself a douche, I wouldn't have dated him in the first place.
Him: Which is why you should have been offended. He false advertised.


While discussing safe words:

Me: I tend to just use plain English.
Him: "No, stop" isn't exactly a good idea during rapey play.
Me: I more meant along the lines of "I can't feel my foot" or "I need to puke."
Him: Ew.


On punishment:

Him: Normally I very nicely correct poor behavior...Then later beast fuck the life out of you.
Me: After the first offense? Or repeat offenses?
Him: Usually after the second. Unless I'm just in the mood to beast fuck the life out of you.


On personal quirks:

Him: Never ever tell me what I am about to eat is unhealthy. I hate that.
Me: Considering how I eat, I wouldn't exactly have room to talk. Unless you eat a can of frosting like it's ice cream. My dad does that when I bake cakes. If you do that, I reserve the right to tease you mercilessly.


Him: Little known fact they don't tell you in school: If you get into a fight with a midget and you lose, you become a midget. So if you see me and I'm suddenly 4'10"...


Him: That Britney Spears Circus perfume? Smells like sex and clowns and shame. It's like cotton candy and ass. Can't do it.


On the size of his house:

Me: That's one big ass trailer.
Him: 24 by 52, I think.
Me: ...yeah, my brain can't picture what that means.
Him: Well, it's about 5 rabbits by 10 and a quarter rabbits.
Me: I love how I've become a unit of measurement.

Friday, September 19, 2014

Because He Fucking Said So.

My major mental quirk happens to be OCD. Now, I've been formally diagnosed with social anxiety, but that's wrapped up in a giant ball of OCD. I'm not the germophobe flavor of the disorder. Germs don't particularly bother me, but I don't like anything wet or slimy that isn't water on my skin.

Yeah, we use phones like this at work and I am unkinking that
bitch every 10 minutes. 

 My primary obsession is the irrational fear of people thinking I'm stupid. This comes with the compulsions of general avoidance of people, rehearsing interactions with service industry workers or rehearsing phone conversations, obsessive planning, and constant checking, as well as a touch of physical paranoia. I want explicit instructions for a task to make sure I get it done right. Once I find a method of doing something I like, I have to do it that way, or I'm not satisfied with the result.

A consequence of this is the need to know the purpose of the things I'm doing. I need to know what I am accomplishing by doing something, or what need I'm serving. I need what I'm doing to make sense, even if it makes no sense to anyone else. But if someone wants me to do something, I need to see a logical reason for it.

So, naturally, I ask why a lot. I need to know the motivation behind things. It's kind of like a small child.

"Because why?"

Now my owner isn't really into micromanagement. He doesn't want to be asked for permission for every little thing. He freely admits after a certain point he'll just say no out of spite.

So, we were discussing the concept of "why," and he tells me:

"You get maybe 3 whys before it becomes 'because I fucking said so.' You know what? Just repeat that little mantra to yourself. 'Because he fucking said so.' ... I'm 36 and I'm set in my ways ... I didn't become a dom to be questioned."

Our phone calls are never particularly long due to time constraints and reception availability, so I don't always get to say all I want to say in response to some of the things he says. Sometimes I ruminate on it and come up with more things to say about it later. Partially because of my disorder centering around the feelings I elicit in others, or the feelings I think I'm eliciting in others.

Honestly, I wasn't sure how to take that. I mean, I didn't know whether to find that hot or to be insulted at the implication that I didn't know my place with him. I mean, I don't think it has been an issue that we have experienced personally. Not yet, anyway. At this point, he honestly doesn't give a lot of orders or make many requests. I kind of wish he did ask more of me. But, I've never had much reason to whip out the why monster with him.

I expressed my conflicted feelings.

"Just go with hot."

Of course, right?

He's never struck me as a very impractical man, so I can't imagine it being an issue with orders. His reasoning is fairly transparent with most things. It'd probably come up more in non-compulsory situations regarding how he personally does shit, or with things I've never done before.

I keep thinking of random quotes from the Gor novels, because that's what I happen to be reading right now, and the one that keeps popping into my head right now is "curiosity is not becoming in a [slave]."

But, hey, I'm not a kajira, and I'm not a cat, so I guess I'll continue being curious, because...

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Wicked Wednesday: Talk Dirty To Me (A Poem)

Talk dirty to me.
Wait. Don't.
Talk flirty to me.
Just enough to tantalize,
Make me fantasize,
and realize
There's more than just
Between us.

Talk nerdy to me.
Prove there's a brain
Somewhere in that mane
Not just below decks
where everything is
And all that shit
you think
is sex.

I am
a product of
a place and time
far back and away
in books of love
where the harsh
of what is now called
gave way to more

Talk wordy to me.
Give me more
Than the crass love
You learned from por...
pondered late at night
by the glow of pixel light
to the sounds
few women have ever made
in their life.

So, talk dirty to me.

You want to jizz all over my face?

Just shut up.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Monday, September 1, 2014

Slave Mythology: If It Quack's Like a Slave: Slave Speak

Okay, so a lot of people seem super concerned about how s-types talk to d-types or how they speak in general. Because, apparently we have to talk in some specific subly way in order to be considered proper s-types. I've heard all the ridiculous notions about addressing all d-types with honorifics, which I discussed my opinions on in a previous post. One of the most ridiculous things I've ever read was "a submissive should always speak in a small voice when speaking to dominants." Considering this was written in a forum, I'm not sure how one is supposed to type in a small voice. I don't really know what a "small voice" is, and the commenter wasn't inclined to tell me even though I asked.

But, there are a number of different types of submissive speech, or weird things subs are supposedly supposed to do when talking, several of which are only usable in written communication anyway, so I am not entirely sure why they are the benchmark of trueness. There are three major kinds of speech affectations I've seen in the context of BDSM; arbitrary capitalization, slashy speak, and what is commonly called slave speech.

1. Capitalization of Dominant-Associated Words

This is probably the most common and widely used of the three different speech quirks. It's also the one people find least offensive. People capitalize words like Dominant or Master, or the pronouns associated with d-types. I don't personally engage in it. It bugs my inner grammar Nazi.

I admittedly mercilessly judge someone who capitalizes their own personal pronouns, as many dominants do. I just find it silly and a little pretentious. I ARE AWSUM! BEHOLD MY CAPITAL LETTERSSS!!

The inspiration for this topic was some truebie idiot who decided to resurrect a discussion on third person speech protocols to insist that all s-types should refer to their masters with capital letters and themselves only in lowercase and that this was "BDSM 101." Um...yeah, I'm pretty sure my primary education in BDSM did not cover random online speech protocols. No one can tell when I talk out loud if I'm speaking with capital letters. BDSM 101, my lily white ass.

The most bizarre version of this that I've seen are those who write dominant-associated words in all caps. As in: "My MASTER told me that HE was going to talk to other DOMINANTS at the party." However, it is absolutely fucking hilarious to read posts like that out loud as if this person is randomly shouting mid-sentence, because that's what it sounds like in my head.

2. Slashy Speak

This random capitalization thing gave birth to the dreaded "slashy speak," which is viewed with a fair bit of annoyance by most of the people I see online. It's basically an attempt to address a group of people or refer to a group of people on both sides of the slash while maintaining the capitalization thing. Such as:

"W/we are happy that Y/you A/all could come to O/our house." 

Now, I read this as if the person typing is stuttering the whole way through the sentence, because how else would that translate to audible speech? I find it fairly annoying to read. I mean, at least the random all caps can be funny. It's like reading the infamous "Slutty Fuck Bimbo Whore Doll"  speech in the manner of "Whacky Waving Inflatable Arm-Flailing Tube Man," or reading any number of the 128 Basic Rules for the Female Slave out loud.

Slashy speak just looks like stuttering in print.  Even worse than slashy speak is slashless slashy speak, where they just nix the slash all together a la:

"Wwe are happy that Yyou Aall could come to Oour house." 

I can deal with slash speak far easier than slashless slashy speak. The latter just screams lazy to me. Which is kind of sad, since you have to put in the extra effort to type the unnecessary extra letter in the first place. Why not the slash?

This used to be a more prevalent practice a few years ago, but lately I haven't witnessed it as much. Or the places I frequent tend to frown upon it, so fewer people do it in those places. Or perhaps I've developed blinders to it and I just automatically skip over posts that use it. However, it seems to me like the popularity of slashy speak has dropped off a bit.

3. Slave Speak (Third Person Speech)

This one is probably the most contentious of the three. Some people really seem to have a hang up about this one, one way or the other. The truest of the true do it, apparently, and everyone else is annoyed by it. I think much of the annoyance comes from the lack of skill people demonstrate with this mode of speech. They can't write in a way that makes themselves clear, so things become murky to understand. There's a jumble of pronouns and it's not always clear when the speaker is referring to his or herself and not others.

I've only encountered a few people who could pull it off well, but one of them tends to do it while basically describing how everyone else's slavery is pillow princess slavery compared to hers because of all the degrading and disgusting things she does at her master's behest. The superiority complex couched in a literary affectation supposedly meant to evoke humility kind of detracts from the whole point of it.

The most common reasons I see for the use of it are that the d-type requires it of the slave to evoke humility or take away from one's sense of self, to take the focus off the slave, or to emphasize their status as property, or for objectification. I can kind of see the objectification aspect, but when the protocol is employed outside of the relationship, I think it actually attracts more attention to the slave who uses it. It's definitely a bit of an attention grabber when an unowned person does it for no reason at all besides they think they're supposed to or they think it makes them look more submissive.

I notice the practice tends to be popular among the Gorean crowd, as well as a bone of contention. I know I've seen an argument about whether slave speak was used in the books.

My roommate, who used to take part in a few online Gorean communities told me this when we were discussing the issue earlier:

"I've not read enough of them [the books] to know, but I do know some of the most adamant Goreans blieve that a slave doesn't have a name unless given one and that they're only allowed to use it when referring to themselves as 'name, so and so's property.' The rest of the time they're limited to third person or just simply not referring to themselves at all, as doing so implies importance or some such." 

Now, I have read perhaps 7 of the books, and slave's names are used quite often when they speak. When told to ask for something "as a slave" they would switch from "I would like..." to "Vella [or whatever name you please] would like..." and the slaves would often refer to each other by their names instead of using second person or first person. So I'm not sure how the name thing works in that community. It's not something I've spent any time in.

As for myself, I have never had a speech protocol of any kind, let alone third person. However, I have used it. My roommate and I will often do it with each other because we like to play with language.

Daddy actually talks to me and refers to both himself and me in the third person a lot. I typically respond in kind, but it's not something I do unless he initiates it, and I never do it on a public forum. He just thinks it's cute and it's never consistent. We will cover first, second, and third person throughout a conversation. He actually hates the use of "this girl" or "this slave." He finds it irritating, but he constantly refers to me as Rabbit in the third person.

I dunno. It feels like more of a personal protocol to me, one meant for interactions between the people in the relationship rather than with outside parties. I think the capitals are better suited for that as well, especially on the dom's part. Because I seriously roll my eyes every time I see a d-type capitalize the word "my" in the middle of sentence. It's not really something I have any desire to do. I just kind of wish people were a bit better at it so shit would be easier to read.

You don't have to do any of them to be a twue submittive/swabe. Most of the slaves I know actually don't.

Okay, well, some of them do the caps thing, but typically only when referring to their owners.

What do you think? Do you practice any of these? Have you ever used "slave speak?"

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Odalisques: Beauty: Repunzel, Repunzel...

"A principal reason for possessing an odalisque is to enjoy the beauty of women, and odalisques have the time and the duty to take care of their appearance, to cultivate grace, and to seek out clothes and cosmetics which present their bodies to their master as a frame presents a painting."
This is from March 2014. I have
since had my hair layered, but it is
the same length. 

I have had long hair for most of my life. The longest it ever got was just at the top of my thighs. It has wavered between blonde and golden brown through sun and age, but I have never dyed it. There was a period of about 8-10 years that I didn't cut it at all. It has been the one part of my appearance that I have never disliked (excluding the brief periods when it was short). I have always enjoyed the comments I get about my hair. People seem to be fascinated by extremely long hair.

When I started college, I cut larger bits of it off, trying to rid myself of all the dead ends. In summer of 2010, I had to drive a friend to the hospital for a case of heat stroke. I was wearing my hair in a braid wrapped around a clip, as I often do when it's hot. He informed me in a slurred, giggly, almost drunken way; "I like your hair like that. You look Amish."

This is roughly a year after the final 12
inches came off.

Two months later, I cut about 12 inches of hair off, leaving it just below my shoulders. Between January 2009 and July 2010, I had cut off nearly 2 feet of hair. It was an interesting experience. I didn't quite know what to do with it. For a decade I had braided it after washing it and clipped it up. Now there wasn't much to braid at all. I no longer had the defining feature of my Repunzel-like hair. I wasn't overly fond of the length. I had wanted it left longer, but I was donating the hair, and they had a required amount to take.

When I started delving into the world of dance, I saw belly dancers with long, gorgeous hair, and I immediately missed mine. I missed being able to reach behind me and tug on the ends without even having to stretch. After I saw this dancer, and her lovely hair swirling around her hips, I decided to grow my hair back out.

It's back at my hips now, although I now have it layered, because it looks so much better like that. Daddy absolutely adores long hair and wants me to grow it longer. We have discussed perhaps knee-length, but I may see if he can settle for the tops of the thighs like it was before simply to make it easier to manage and care for, and manipulate while dancing. I'm not allowed to cut it or dye it without permission. He also says if I do dye it, it can't be blonde. He grumbled a bit when I told him I'm technically blonde already, it's just a very dark blonde. At least, according to the stylists. 

I've been looking into natural/herbal healing and hygiene, and now that I have a series of oils, I'm going to attempt a regular hair mask. Today, we whipped up a mix of coconut oil, extra virgin olive oil, and a little vitamin E oil.

Hair mask ingredients. 

By the way, it's kind of difficult to oil up about 3 feet of hair. If I keep this up, I may need help with it eventually. Although, I told Daddy that if he wanted it that long, he'd have to help me take care of it.

Up to this point in my life, I've never done much with my hair. I haven't dyed it. I have never done anything particularly complicated with it. It's mostly a life of wash, brush, braid and wrap it around an octopus clip. Consequently, the infrequency of my haircuts and my lack of really doing anything with it has left it somewhat less than I would like.

So, I shall try this mask thing, and see what it does for my hair. I also kind of want to try some of those elaborate hairstyles from hundreds of years ago. Although, I'd probably need 3 people doing my hair to manage that. The last time I cut my hair, the stylist's arms were almost not long enough to manage it. Although, my hair has been the only way I've ever brought a man to his knees. Gave everyone in the salon a good giggle.  

Monday, August 18, 2014

Thought Crimes: Exploring Boundaries in LDRs

One of the big questions of a long distance relationship is how you discover limits and boundaries when you never see each other in the flesh. Physically, that's admittedly hard to ascertain, but recently, I've been thinking more about behavioral boundaries than anything.

Finding these is difficult, as you're far away and body language isn't there for you to read, and sometimes not even tone.  You never really know how they're going to react to something, and some stuff doesn't even come up if you're not in the physical.

Now, I've been a writer for most of my life. When I was 16, I started writing in online role play groups on MySpace. I was a multiparagraph roleplayer. I didn't do none of that one liner bullshit. These were some of my favorite experiences as a teen, writing these epic interactive stories with other people across the world. It was through this that I met my owner. Before I knew the actual him and not just the plethora of characters he played, all I had to go on was his writing. And, seriously, what that man can do with words is simply amazing. It can be intimidating at times to write with him like that.

But my point is, before sex was sex to me, sex only existed in the form of words for me. I've never been much one for porn, but I can read romance novels all damn day. Sex expressed in the right words can be more arousing than the act itself. I'm an unabashed language whore, which is part of the reason I find all the crass terminology used in porn to be an intense turn off.

Coming into the lifestyle with this background in literary roleplay, my idea of sexting is decidedly more elaborate than the crap I see touted in women's magazines as sexting. I suppose you might call it cybering over the phone, except no internet involved. This is something Daddy and I do a lot. We text actions at each other as if we are actually doing them.

And, oddly enough, it's a pretty efficient way to test certain boundaries, mostly on my end. Actions are often viewed through the lens of intention and that can alter the consequences. In this space where words are all you have, all you have is intent. It's a little bizarre to get into trouble for pure intention. Sometimes it's hard for me to not go "well, I didn't actually do it, I just thought it."

But in that moment, except with things that are obviously outlandish and not possible in actual reality, if you say it, then chances are, you fully intended to do it. So, why shouldn't you get in trouble for a premeditated infraction even if you can't physically commit the act?

Of course, I still think it's bullshit to go "It's okay." and then follow it up with "but you're in trouble anyway." Grumble.

But, bullshit aside, LDRs have this unfortunate quality of containing an ungodly amount of thought experiments. I think a lot of the derision people have toward the LDR is because of this existing in a world of hypotheticals. A lot of people don't like what ifs. They refuse to play that game. Right now, all I have are what ifs, but I think they're approached as practically as can be expected, and I think it adds an element of closeness that you might not otherwise get at a distance.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Wicked Wednesday: Daughter of the Stone King (Pt 1): Prinzessin

"Waken, dearest schwester."

Fygen snapped to attention as one of her brothers flicked her ear. She hissed at him, and there was a slight creak as his wine turned to ice in his goblet. Heinrich laughed at her and touched the rim of his cup to turn the ice back to wine with a tongue of flame. Fygen slouched in her chair, fighting not to cross her arms. The evening was progressing rather slowly, made even more agonizing that she was couched between two of her hulking elder brothers at the head table while their father mingled with the lords of the prominent houses. Their women sat meekly to one side of the room chattering to each other, wrapped in wolf pelts and wearing rich gowns of dyed elk hide. Their long hair was bound up intricate braids, wound around each other like works of art.

They had gone to great lengths for this evening in the king's hall, for tonight they were human, and humans had such lovely ways of styling themselves. Fygen felt rather plain, comparatively. Her gown was simple, the soft blue of the sky at midday, trimmed in black rabbit fur. An ornate iron girdle cinched her waist. A large stone of white quartz, polished smooth, was set in the disc in the middle of the girdle. She hadn't the patience to sit for all of the braiding, so her hair was simply contained in a long net, lined with more polished quartz, attached to an iron circlet similarly bejeweled.

Heinrich tapped her on the shoulder. "You should take the women to the balconies."

Fygen looked out at the hall as a bevy of slaves slipped into the room with fresh carafes of wine. Many of the men smiled as they approached, holding out their goblets. She delicately turned and eased herself off the bench, extricating herself from between Heinrich and Ulrich. She stepped down from the dais and headed toward the group of women, brushing lightly against her father's slave, Alaric, as she passed. He turned, startled, and gave a swift bow, his auburn falling over his shoulder in a thick braid. She gave him a shallow nod, as if the contact had been an accident. As she resumed her path, out of the corner of her eye, she watched the slave whisper to her father. The king looked at the groom, and then in her direction before indicating that Alaric should follow.

He fell into step behind her, following at a respectful distance as she came up to the women.

"Shall we adjourn to the balconies while the men bluster among themselves?" she said, sweeping a hand in the direction of the doors. There was a ripple of giggling before they stood and followed her out of the hall.

The balconies that encircled the palace were common features in the aerial mountain cities of the stone dragons. Expansive halls with wide arches that stood open against the sky. The mountain air made the balconies rather brisk, but they had little problem with heat in their dragon forms, and fur was rather popular when encased in human flesh. Tonight they played human for convenience. That, and the slaves, who were mostly all human or part human, were easier to enjoy in compatible bodies. In anticipation with this, the adjoining balcony had been furnished with couches furs and fire pits. Slaves stood around the room, holding carafes and platters of sweet meats and cheeses. Musicians sat along the wall. A harpist and a couple of men with staghorn flutes played softly, but joyfully into the night.

Fygen took a seat alone upon a small couch. She felt her rather large shadow take his place behind her. The women swept in and took their seats, holding out their cups to the waiting slaves.


Fygen looked to a golden-haired female wrapped in white wolf pelts. Her amber eyes glowed in the firelight, their vertical pupils almost slits as she faced Fygen through the flames of the elevated marble fire pit. She was lovely, narrow-faced and pale. She was a bit thin for a dragon woman, taken to the slenderness of the mountain ranges to the east. Her mate had stolen her from her homeland and brought her here to be Claimed. Her name was Sunneva, sun-gift.

Fygen could hear the name singing through her head at a moderate volume, as she could all of them.  Fygen released a deep breath, trying to quiet the chorus of their names knocking at her skull. She must remember to use their chosen names, not their birth gifts. She felt Alaric's hand brush the stones of her hair netting. It calmed her, allowing her to quiet the din.

"Ja, Sunna?"

Sunna giggled and took a sip of wine. "Are you always followed about by your father's slave? Your Highness is seldom to be found without such a shade. Although, I find I much prefer the image of the princes wandering these halls."

Fygen held up her cup and Alaric filled it with a carafe taken from the serving slaves. "I have not been permitted to roam unattended since I reached the age of Claiming. I must be attended by one of my brothers or by Alaric. My brothers have little patience for minding the nest, so I am often left with the slave. I find I much prefer his company to theirs. He does not find his guardianship so onerous a duty."

"Do you not find it tedious? To be followed about by a human like a hatchling with a wetnurse?"

Fygen looked at the female slowly, lifting her chin ever so slightly. Her gaze was frosty. "The men in the hall do not find their slaves so tedious, now do they?"

The hum of conversation around the room fell into a dead silence. Fygen could feel each of them bristling at the idea of their men with the human slaves in the hall. They were well-conditioned to find the thought of lying with a human disgusting, let alone a human slave. Fygen was not sure how such had been accomplished since the men of their people derived great pleasure from female body slaves, enough so that the higher ranking slaves in her father's palace were all mixed breeds. Alaric's blood was thick with that of House Garnet, as was obvious by the dark auburn hair pulled into a tight braid that fell down his back. Yet, the women still found a human male to be as appealing as the eunuchs that often served in their private quarters.

Although, these women had lived more violent lives than she, lacking the power or presence to combat the will or the claws of their men. It was a wonder that Fygen had not been beaten more as a child, or now for that matter. Some small part of her believed, or wanted to believe, that her father might fear her just a little, and had spared her because of this. Or perhaps he feared what she was and what her brother was not.

She handed off the goblet to Alaric, who in turn delivered to a waiting slave. "I find I feel fatigued after tonight's festivities. Forgive me if I choose to take my leave of you now. Enjoy the music and the sweet meats. I shall even send the fool to amuse you, but I will take myself to my chambers now."

Fygen stood, smoothing her skirts as she did so and walked away from the silent group of women, Alaric falling into step dutifully behind her.

As the sounds of the hall and music of the slaves faded behind them, Alaric stepped closer to her, hazarding a hand lightly upon her waste. "You make no friends when you eschew diplomacy."

Fygen felt herself lean into him. "Females have no power. I must seek my allies elsewhere. Beaten dogs do not bite. A flash of fang would serve me better."

Alaric scraped a fang across her neck, making her shiver.

"If you wish to keep your head, it would be advisable to contain yourself...slave."

His eyes flashed, but he removed himself to a respectful distance.

She had little doubt she would see the sharp end of that remark, and the thought send a thrill running down her spine.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Thursday, July 24, 2014

No, Daddy, No: Part 6: The Pigs (Finale)

Kate didn't know how long she had been laying there when her phone rang.  She reached over Drake's limp body and grabbed it off of the headboard.

"Hello?" she said softly.

"Hey, baby, how are ya? I tried to call this mornin' but you didn't answer." It was Deanna. Thank God, it was Deanna.

"I…I need the pigs, Dee."

Deanna was silent for the moment.  "What?"

"The pigs. I need the pigs. He came back and he…and he…he cut me, Deanna, he cut me and he beat me and he raped me, and I…I…oh, he's such a mess.  I don't know what to do." She started crying again.  "It's everywhere, Dee. You said I could use the pigs if I needed."

"Oh, baby.  Can you get him to the truck?"

"I…I don't think so."

Ten minutes later, Jim was at her door in his butcher's apron with a tarp and Deanna by his side.  He took one look at her and told her to go bathe while he and Dee got Drake loaded up.  While Kate had been waiting, she'd cut all the beads out of him so they wouldn't choke the pigs.  That had only gotten her and Drake even bloodier.  By the time she got out of the shower, Jim had the body loaded up in the back of Kate's pickup.

She rode in the bed with Drake, despite Jim and Deanna's protests.  Deanna followed in their car. Kate sat there staring at the tarp-covered head as they went down the bumpy dirt roads.  She must have been tired because it looked like the lips were moving under the blue material.

"Let me out, Katie."

She nearly fell out of the truck.  Oh, God, was he still alive?  No, that was impossible.  Jim had checked before they left.  He told her so.


When they got to the farm, Kate tumbled out of the truck bed, tripping when she tried to get up.

"Katie?" said Deanna, picking her up.  "What's wrong?"

"Make it stop talking!  I don't care what you do, just make him shut up!"  She ran out into the middle of the field between the house and the barn and dropped there, clutching her head and rocking back forth.  She winced every time she heard Jim's cleaver hit the wood of the table in the barn.

What was she going to do? Drake was dead.  His blood was all over the bed in the back room.  It was all over her clothes.  His car was in her yard.  Oh, God.  What was she going to do?  She needed to go home and clean up.  She needed to burn the clothes, the sheets.  She could do that now.  Drake wasn't there to mess things up.  He was no longer talking, at least.

She stood up, making a small noise as the cloth pulled on her cuts.  Her bruises still ached, but she'd make it through.  She wandered back out of the field, back towards her truck. She got in and turned the key.  Deanna was chasing after her as she drove down the long dirt road, but she didn't stop.

"Turn right at the stop sign."

Slowly, she turned her head. Sitting there in the passenger seat was Drake in his blue MMA t-shirt, the studded belt glittering around his waist.  Kate looked back at the steering wheel and rested her head on it with a sigh.

"Yes, Daddy," she said, and turned right at the stop sign.

Monday, July 21, 2014

No, Daddy, No: Part 5: Bad Juju

"Well?" he said, jingling the chains.  "You've got me tied up.  What are you gonna do now?"

She didn't say anything.

"Oh? Nothing?  Seems like a waste of good chain.  You should take advantage of the time you got, because you're not gonna like it when I get out of here."

Slowly, she got up and approached the bed, reaching toward him.  He lurched suddenly and she jumped away with a yelp.

Drake laughed at her.  "Yeah, that's what I thought.  Now, untie Daddy so I can figure out how you're gonna pay for this idiotic little stunt."

Kate ran out of the room again and came back with his belt.  He stared at her skeptically for the moment, and then snorted.

"You think you can hurt me with that, little girl?" He said, laughing at her again.  "You can't even talk back to me. Stupid and weak.  Untie me. Now."

Something snapped. "I'm not stupid!" She screamed and swung the belt down across his thighs.  She was so angry, the clack of the metal studs and the pulling of her cuts didn't even make her wince.  He hissed and grunted, but didn't cry out. She yelled a string of obscenities at him, almost unintelligible in her anger, swinging the belt wildly.  One blow caught him in the groin and he shouted.

He was still groaning as she climbed on top of him and roughly grabbed his hair, yanking his head back and forth.  She pulled hard, forcing him to look her in the eyes when he opened his again.

"I'm not stupid!" she screamed in his face.

Shocked, he looked up at her, searching her face for…something.  "Okay, okay" he said, in a voice one might use with a hostile animal. "You're not stupid."

She slapped him hard across the face, hard enough that the blow split his lip.

"Why did you come back?" she said, yanking his hair again. "And don't feed me that bullshit about whores. You could fuck anyone you want. You could fuck that blackmailer bitch. Why did you come back?"

He stared at her for a few long moments.

"I need you."

"You don't need me. You proved that well enough."

He continued looking up at her, and, for a brief instant, she saw in his eyes the same wildness that clawed at the back of her brain, the same desperation that choked her lungs and clenched painfully around her heart. Kate watched the blood trickling slowly from the corner of his mouth.  Her back burned as she leaned over him. She gingerly lowered herself into the floor, careful of both his and her own injuries and rested her back against the side of the bed.  She didn't know what to do with those words, what to do with that look in his eyes. She ran her fingers through her hair.

"You're gonna kill me one day," she said.

"I would never kill you."

"Maybe not on purpose."


"I think that worries me more, honestly." She heard him fidget a little on the bed, the sheets scraping against the mattress with the sound of a windbreaker.

"Why?" he said. "I'll give you everything. You just gotta let me."

She laughed a little.  "I don't think I much like your everything."

She looked up.  The closet door was open.  It was one of those sliding doors, and the closet was so full of junk that it rarely closed.  She noticed her sewing kit stashed up on the top shelf.

"I don't wanna die.  I don't like the dark," she said.

"You ain't gonna."

"I know."

Kate lay on the floor and fished around under the bed for the royal blue ratchet strap stuffed there.  Crawling over him, she attached the strap to the bed frame and positioned it just below his navel before tightening so he couldn't move.

"What are you doing?"

She got the sewing kit out of the closet and pulled the box it sat on out with it.  She sat the two boxes beside him on the bed: the sewing kit, which was in a large purple SpaceMaker School Box, and a white Tupperware tub.  Out of the tub, she pulled a little sack cloth doll, crude in its design. It was small, perhaps the length of her hand. It had small black buttons for eyes, and a mouth embroidered in red thread.  All over the doll were sewn a dozen or so beads and charms. She sat it high on his stomach, and Drake craned his neck to look at it.

"What is that?"

"A juju doll," she said.

"What is a juju doll?"

She shrugged. "Some sort of voodoo thing. I know how you used to talk about wanting to learn about it.  I saw these in New Orleans over spring break a few years ago. I started makin' it back in October.  It was going to be your Christmas present."

"And why are you getting it out now?"

She opened the school box and pushed the tub close enough for him to see inside.  The tub was filled with hundreds of multicolored beads and buttons.  The school box contained a variety of sewing supplies, mainly a pile of straight pins, a couple spools of thread, and a handmade pincushion stabbed through with sewing needles.

His eyes widened a fraction.  "But you hate needles…"

"I hate serrated knives and metal belts too," she said flatly.  "I figured since you broke my limit, I'll break yours.  It's only fair."

"You can't do it.  Let me out, Katherine."

"I couldn't do a lot of things, before."

He struggled against the chains.  "C'mon, Katie. Baby, you don't wanna do this. I need you, and you need me.  You know this. I love you."

Kate ignored him.  He kept talking, more orders, but she tuned him out in favor of cutting his pants off and selecting a sharp needle from the pincushion.  She threaded it with an emerald green thread.  It wouldn't match the beads very well, but she didn't really expect it to stay green for very long.  She looked him over briefly before picking out a small black snake charm.  He got louder as the needle got closer to his skin.  He tried to thrash around, but the ratchet strap held him in place.  She pinched up a bit of flesh and stabbed the needle through his still-soft penis.

He screamed.  The sound was a satisfying one.  She continued to sew the bead on.  The thread turned black from blood. Blood trickled from the half a dozen holes she made.  After the fifth bead she had to go wash her hands.  The needle was too slippery and her hands were red too.  She graduated to a larger needle as she moved over his stomach up toward his chest.  The bigger needle meant the holes were bigger.  He looked like he was covered in red paint under the dozens of little beads.

She was crying now, and her hands were shaking.  She could hardly get the needle to go through the skin, but she needed to finish.  She needed it to be over.  His voice had gone hoarse from screaming.  During some of the beads, she had screamed with him.

She had to finish.

She laid a large metallic button over his right nipple and stabbed the needle through the rose-colored circle of skin.  It felt like sewing leather, heavy and thick, hard to push through without digging into her finger with the eye of the needle. He found the voice to scream again.  It was loud and long and cracking as she stitched the button to his chest through all four of the minuscule holes.  She drank in the sound like a good bottle of booze, letting it wash over her, letting it cleanse her.  It went on and on as she decorated the other areola with a bigger button that looked more like a gold coin.  He was breathing hard and fast now, finally out of control.  A small tear leaked out of his right eye.

"I," he forced out, "am going to kill you."

Kate crawled on top of him, straddling his waist.  Still crying, she slipped the studded belt around his neck with the studs on the inside, slipped the end through the buckle, and cinched it.

"You're not going to kill me, Daddy." The belt tightened.  "You said so, remember?" Tighter. "You said you'd never kill me."

She stroked his face fondly for several long moments.  "You love me." She nuzzled his cheek, getting his beard wet with her tears.  "You told me so." Kate pressed her forehead to his.

She lay there for several minutes, holding the belt tight around his throat.  She rested her forehead on the part of his chest that had no beads until it stopped moving. Kate looked up at his face.  His eyes were closed. His lips were lightly tinged with blue.

She started shaking and her eyes got wide.  He was…She ripped the belt from around his neck, hurling it away from her.  It banged against the closet door, scraping the wood on its way to the carpet.


 Her fingers fluttered over his face and chest, touching down lightly for a split-second, not daring to caress his motionless body.

"No, Daddy…No…" Kate slid down his body and off to the right, nestling herself against him with her back to the wall. Her clothes were soaked with his blood, but she didn't care. She wrapped her arm around his middle and rested her cheek on the smooth skin of his chest, repeating those words over and over.