Sunday, May 27, 2012

Riding for Some Kind of a Terrible, Terrible Fall

I found out, a while ago, that the best way I have to deal with being sad is watching a horror movie… Not a comedy, a love story or even a look-how-cute-puppies-are movie. What I really need is to watch a teenager being slashed in two and think “well, that is a real problem… unlike mine”.

Yesterday I was in serious need of something like that, and browsing through horror movies I found “The Human Centipede II”… Of course, I have already watched the first one. For those who don’t know what I’m talking about, first of all, bless your soul, second: it’s about some crazy doctor who has too much free time on his hand so he decides to attach 3 people mouth to anus creating, that way, a human centipede. People like me, who apparently think there aren’t enough tragedies going on all around the world, proceeded to watch him do it, generating enough success for the creators to conclude we were asking for more. All of their best ideas were wasted on the first movie, so they resorted to simply adding more people to the centipede.

…And I wanted to watch that. I can’t say I liked the first one… I guess it fed it’s purpose of making me sick. Yesterday I thought that the sequel would not only make me feel grateful that I’m not eating someone else’s shit (literally; metaphorically, I’m pretty sure we all are) but, also, I would be unable to think about anything else for, at least, a week. Then, this happened:


Hanging my clothes helped me come back to my senses so I closed the tab; without any permanent emotional damage .

I ended up watching ‘Seed of Chucky’… My favorite kind of horror movies are the ones which are simply horribly bad.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Records of Their Troubles

One of the things I’ve learned from being in a long distance relationship is that a lot of difficulties can be overlooked with a decent amount of creativity. It doesn’t end here; I’m in a long distance D/s relationship, but the rule still applies.

Punishments are a big part of having a Sir, especially since I’m still going through training. I appreciate them in a way, not because of the punishment itself, believe me; I simply don’t want to feel like I can get away with a bratty behavior.

We have talked* about what my punishments would be if I were physically with him and he could let out his frustration on my body (since I’m the one who caused it). Unfortunately, not even when we visit each other we have such an opportunity, mostly because I’m too happy and excited to be bratty. I’ve earned myself some spanks a few times, for being a smart mouth or tease him too much… That’s about it.
*By talk, I do mean talk, but with our hands on our genitals.

What has gotten me the most in trouble has been my incapacity to remain respectful in certain situations. Usually a warning is enough for me to understand I’m not being cute, but once I get in a grumpy mood I open a portal to hell for him… Which he doesn’t appreciate. Go figure.

The first step is to admit I was being rude and apologize. My fate then rests on how much I aggravate him.

He likes cutting me off stuff I enjoy; I get sent to bed without dessert. Literally. Another times not so literally and I get sent to bed without masturbating. You know what follows, right? I mean, horny and without being able to touch myself… As a more direct punishment, I’m ordered to take a cold shower. In my case it means standing on the corner of the shower squealing every time I reach out my hand to touch the freezing water, and while I’m doing that I have to say out loud the reasons that got me that punishment.

Now comes the worst of all. Worse than not being allowed to masturbate is being ordered to do so and to stop just when reaching an orgasm. Whoever has played that sick and cruel game knows how excruciating it can be. I end up with shaking hands and on the border of tears. Ironically, I also end up with a weird sense of satisfaction, knowing I’m doing it for Him.

There’s something else I end up having to do from time to time, but I wouldn’t call it a punishment; it’s more of a reminder, it’s this:


Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Lousy with Perverts

I interrupt this program to bring you an announcement: My boobies are awesome.  Now, before you say anything, hear me out… I have people to back me up, people I didn’t have to sleep with to get the good critique.

Today, as many other days in the past, I felt the need to surprise British Man with a nice dose of boobies. Coincidentally, I found a site to make your own GIFs in a really quick and easy manner. I didn’t have to go through the hazard of making a video, select the frames on Photoshop, and choose between length and quality. I figured, what could go wrong here?

With a question like that, I was really asking for it.

You know this new thing where Facebook connects to every single site you know and asks you if you want to share the porn you’re watching with your friends and family? Ok, that’s not what happened. I was worried about that, so I checked. Double checked. Triple checked. I have my dad on Facebook, I really can’t leave anything to chance here! Nothing. What happens on the GIF site  stays on the GIF site.

After a few rehearsals I made the GIF. Black and white; really classy (if you don’t take into account that I was toying around with my boobies). I checked Facebook again. Nothing. I sent the GIF to British Man, as a thank you for being such a good Sir to me; feeling just the right amount of slutty, I went downstairs for a cup of coffee.

A couple minutes later I came back. Checked Facebook again. Nothing. Awesome. The GIF site was still open and before I clicked to close the tab I notice something weird. “8 new comments” … That can’t be.

8 new comments.
12 new followers.
10 new private messages.

What? No. I joined in 5 seconds ago. Those can’t be for me.

“u have awesome boobies” “thats such a turn on” “your really hott” “can u send me a private video?” “mmmmMMmmmm!”

So that’s the story, kids. That’s how I learned my boobies get me attention. Fast.  No. I won’t send you proof. You will just have to believe me on this.

Thank you for your attention. Next time we will be back to our regular programming where I’ll talk about punishments; a lovely suggestion from an anonymous reader <3

Monday, May 14, 2012

Don’t Want to Interrupt My Worrying

It’s not exactly a newsflash that I removed my contact section; I did that a while ago, it’s just time to explain myself (you just have to go with it).

To put in a few words, some people were getting too excited communicating their exquisite taste on internet blogs. Far from me to ask people to lower their standards, I should say that this blog started as a way to entertain and express myself. You could tell by my early entries I wasn’t expecting any attention at all; for some reason I got it and I loved it. I, then, wanted to write better entries, still using this blog as a way to vent out about my stressing life as a middle class young woman but being relatively entertaining. I knew I could be funny or at least I could fake it for the sole purpose of amusing myself.

Over time some readers started getting demanding and were expecting a certain kind of humor or subjects; they weren’t too shy to let me know. For a while I worried and discarded a couple of blog ideas because “the public” might not want to read about it. That’s when I knew there was something wrong going on.

Do something for me. Imagine you get a puppy, a really cute one. You bought it for yourself and simply enjoy having it in your house peeing on everything you love. Now, imagine some people hear about the cute peeing puppy and want to look at it. You’re a bit surprised but, also, excited about the prospect of having someone to share some “d’awww” moments with. Then, imagine some of those guests are training the puppy to not pee on the couch. Ok. That sounds reasonable. Some are now expecting the puppy to play the piano as that cat on youtube did once. Another person wants to dress it in human clothes; another one thinks it’s time for the fuzzy thing to learn the basics on fire ring jumping; another – Ok. I don’t exactly know where I’m going with this, or if my puppy analogy truly fits what I was trying to say. To be honest, sometimes I just want to talk about puppies no matter what the subject was to begin with. Because puppies are cute. I like puppies. Sometimes I have fantasies about British Man turning into a puppy.

Where I was trying to get is: I’m not getting paid to write on here. I do it because I love it and I love being read too. However, the only thing I can do is to write about whatever my tiny stupid heart feels like and hope you enjoy it.

All of this doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear from my readers. I get excited every time I get comments, I guess everybody likes feeling people care about their mildly pathetic lives…. It’s ok to criticize; go ahead and tell me how silly I am for the choices I make, or how na├»ve my thoughts are. Just, please, abstain yourself from telling me I shouldn’t write about it because you don’t find it fun to read.

That being said, and even if there’s no contact e-mail, if you feel like telling me something or insulting me, that’s what the comments section is for. Believe me, I’m not a very important person, so I can give myself the time to read every comment over  and over again.

However, if you want to know more about any aspect of my barely relevant life; if you have any question for me or for British Man (I have no problem sharing the attention with my Sir) you can ask anything anonymously on this link , he or I (whoever the question was directed to) will answer as soon as we can on that same site, but if I see any blog topic potential, I (or he, again) will write a whole entry about it on this blog.

I now apologize for saying I’m not an attention seeker and parade myself as an attention whore on the same post. Also, puppies.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

No Excuse

I am an ungrateful pet. I have behaved selfishly and spitefully towards Sir, despite everything he has done for my benefit. I am so lucky that Sir has chosen me as his pet, and must be suitably thankful at all times. As I am his property, it is his duty to protect and care for me in every way as his priceless possession. In return for this kindness, it is my duty to trust and submit to him unquestioningly in all things. If I cannot obey him to the letter, he cannot look after me.

I am only happy when Sir is happy. His pleasure is my pleasure.

Monday, May 7, 2012

I Blame Catholics

As you may already know, British Man is my Sir and that doesn’t change once we are out of our sexy modes. Also, if you have read this blog long enough, you will also know how bitchy/stubborn/hot-headed/dramatic/annoying I can get (don’t get me wrong, I’m still pretty awesome to hang around with). It’s not hard to imagine how those 2 stated facts are so hard to reconcile.

He and I talked about it, and I finally decided I wanted to take our relationship one step further; I wanted him to be more strict with me and not let me get away with such bratty behavior, making this, officially, a 24/7 dominant/submissive relationship.

As flattering as a fully leather bondage suit might look on me, this is not what it means. Every fetish has its spectrum and in a scale of 1 to ‘that scary stuff you find in redtube’ we are in a pretty low beginners’ level… But I’m very fucking happy with it.

If you’re the kind of person who is very calm and needs a strong motive to disrupt their qi, then, I’m not expecting you to understand. I’m a very sensitive person and if someone reaches a certain level of trust, he/she is due to experience one of my lovely outbursts.

Having, in addition, a romantic relationship with me is particularly hard. I know, I know, I’m funny, not bad to look at, I have boobs and I’m a dog in heat… What could be wrong with me? Well, I have a tendency of being cruel if something is bothering me. I’m not talking about throwing plates, kill the pet turtle and sleep with a best friend;  I get quieter and, if I do talk, I use that time to throw snarky comments. Nothing people go to trial for but still stuff someone shouldn’t have to go through, specially if they’re good to me.

One could think that, if I know that about myself, I could change it, specially since I want to. Realistically, it’s harder than that. Right now, sure, I do n0t feel like being bitchy, I’m lying in bed and I just ate a whole pack of Chips Ahoy! Life is as good as it can get. However, if I’m in a bad mood, I’m not going to think so clearly.

British Man doesn’t tolerate any sign of disrespect. He, immediately, warns me to stop and compose myself, if I don’t want to earn myself a punishment. It’s hard to imagine a harsh response would be the answer but it’s not that he’s telling me “yo, dude, calm your tits” No. No… No. He’s is, indeed, telling me off – is what I need, really, I shouldn’t be awarded for being a bitch – but he’s doing it with a firm, confident voice and introducing a bit of our sex life into it; in other words, he’s getting me wet.

Do you recall this scene in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (the 1st one, man)  with that giant three headed dog that could be calmed down with music? Well, think of that harp as sex, put me a collar and call me Fluffy! Ok. That didn’t come out right.