I can’t remember if I mentioned it or not, but I’m an official regular guest writer over at Submissive Guide, now.  My first official regular post went up today.  Lol.  It’s just an introduction.

And have y’all seen formspring.me? People can ask you questions there about whatever.  They don’t even have to sign in.  I’m on there if anyone’s got questions.  Or whatever.

Now that that’s out of the way…

The other day, Master walked over and grabbed me by the throat.  He put His lips close to my ear and asked, “What are you?”

“Slave” is no longer the correct answer.  “Property” doesn’t do it for Him either.  “Pig whore” is who and what I am in our dynamic.  And when I answered Him, He responded with “What are you good for?”

There are a billion answers to that.  There’s tons I’m good at.  But that’s not what He’s asking.  He’s asking, when it comes right down to it, what kind of treatment I deserve.  And, my eyes trained on the wall in front of me, I responded plainly, “Fucking and hurting.” with that half-embarrassed smile us girlies tend to get when we’re uncomfortable.  When the danger is crackling in the air.  Our hairs standing on end.

He ordered me into lingerie and leather and then to the floor beside His office chair.  And it was minutes before a tongue bath turned into a blow job.  Seconds before the blow job turned into me on the bed with my ass in the air and Him beating me.

I shot myself in the foot when I held still the other night.  He expects it all the time, now.  I almost didn’t get fucked because He managed to land a direct and solid blow to my clit and inner labia, and I shot clear across the bed.  I’m pretty sure, by the strength of the blow, even He wasn’t expecting it to land where it did.  And He granted me reprieve when I held still for the rest of the assault He committed against my thighs, pussy and ass. 

He beat me until He was finished fucking me.  Then He told me to get myself off and He beat me until I came.  And then, after I came, and I laid there trying to figure out which way was up, He beat me some more.

There’s this deeper feeling of ownership.  It’s in how He handles me.  In the firmness of His grip.  And He points out little things, meaning for them to be humiliating, like the fact that He has His hands all over me all the time and instead of getting annoyed, I get wet.  He says most women would be fending Him off the third or fourth time He tried to pop their nipples between His fingers.

There are only so many charlie horses a girl can stand.  Even a masochist like myself.  And that’s His new thing.  A solid donkey punch to the middle of my thigh any time I try to defend myself.  Especially since we watched that episode of Myth Busters and found out how much pressure a thigh bone can take.  Let me tell you, unless there’s already damage or the bone is fragile, it’s highly unlikely an occasional donkey punch is going to break it.

There’s not much to my life these days besides pain, sex (with and without toys) and dishes.  Everyone I know is busy living their own life and I’m so engrossed in ours that we hardly connect.  It’s normal in this lifestyle, I’m told.  Sometimes it makes me want to retreat back into my own little shell where it’s safe and warm.  I worry less.  I don’t wonder if stagnant friendships are due to some unknown misstep or me coming across as aloof and distant or… just because we’re all that busy.

I have, however, finally come to terms with the fact that sometimes people are too chicken shit to approach their friends with their problems.  So if some of the friendships have gone dormant because of some perceived misstep, and the friend couldn’t come to me with it, then I suppose we weren’t friends to begin with.

Aww! Look it! I’m all growed up.

I’ll be thirty in April.  I keep waiting for this great wealth of knowledge and maturity and contentment and calmness to overwhelm me.  I mean, the thirty-somethings, when I was a teen and tween, all used to tell me I’d “understand when I was older”.  Apparently, the knowledge is waiting until I’m closer to thirty.  Two and a half months.

My cranium’s already huge.  I mean, the hood I just ordered doesn’t fit.  Even with my hair down, it’s difficult to get over my massive dome.  And it squishes my nose.  I’m not sure my skull can hold in the extra wrinkles.  So maybe I’ll pass on the knowledge you gain when you turn thirty.  Can I do that? Do I really want to do that? Hmm…

This morning, Master turned to me and said, “You know, in some ways, you are the pretty princess pillow slave.  It kind of makes me sick.”  He chuckled for a second, and then His face turned mean.  “But there’s one major exception.  I will not entertain the bullshit most princess slaves get passed their dickless owners.  I’d suggest you not even try.”

He was all growly and shit.  In a scary way.

I won’t lie.  My pussy still got wet.

I think I’ll heed His advice, though.  For now.

<3
~pig whore