Don't mess with my Ranch...

I have to say that it was a truly interesting evening. I thought long and hard regarding what to write about and after much debate I finally decided to just give it up and forgo tonight's entry. However, my darling slave property decided that she would provide me the perfect topic. W/we had had some discussion regarding diner plans. Should W/we order something? A pizza? Should W/we eat at home, perhaps some split-pea soup?... So I ordered some pizza and a salad for my slave.
After two long waits; one for the pizza and one for the very young delivery driver to return with my slave's salad, W/we finally had dinner.


Now, my slave is like a crack addict when it comes to Ranch Dressing. In my opinion, there are a select number of condiments allowed on nearly everything. Ketchup, mustard, maybe a little relish if you really need some tang. However, Ranch is not on that list. You don't ask for a foot-long hot dog slathered in Ranch dressing! Well, apparently some do, but come on! Any way, my darling slave property will slather everything in Ranch; not just coat, but slather. Chicken, pizza crust, you name it! So it shouldn't be a surprise that salads are no different.


There my slave sat, on the floor as per her current punishment, liberally applying Ranch dressing to her salad. Apparently the bottle was getting a little light as for over three minutes she kept choking the bottle trying to coax out every last drop. The unfortunate bottle kept making a wheezing sound as the last of its life's blood was coughed from its gaping mouth, sounding not unlike a dying asthmatic. Understandably, I wished nothing more than to put it out of its misery.


"Enough," I ordered, "put it down."


Now, I have given my slave grief in the past for this rather disturbing Ranch addiction and it still serves as the source of many friendly jibes and counter-fodder for O/our verbal sparring matches. So it was with a great deal of surprise and a rather unhealthy dose of disappointment for me that my slave threw a temper tantrum on the spot. She went off about how she was now relegated to a dry, tasteless salad and that I had, get this, no right to determine how she should eat!


I let her dig herself a hole for another couple of minutes before I bent her over and gave her ten swats on the ass with the plastic cooking spoon. (On previous posts the spoon has been referred to as the hated little object that hits like a cane, and I assure you that it did this time as well.) Following this my slave was turned back around so she could thank me as she should for punishing her, by kissing my feet. However, she was not done digging just yet. My slave went on to say, rather pointedly, that she has been putting a lot of effort into trying to make sure W/we eat healthy and that by telling her she had had enough Ranch, I was in fact calling her fat. What?! Oh, it gets better... she continued to argue with me! Here is my little slave, already under a week long punishment for disobeying a direct command repeated to her three or more times, and now she was bitching me out for denying her the chance to eat as much Ranch dressing as she wished.


I retorted with how amused I was that I can and will tell her what to eat, what to drink, what to wear, what to say, how to act, how to stand, how to sit, how to suck my cock, et certa. but how dare I tell her how much Ranch to have! I have tried in the past to allow her the choice of what to eat and drink and she was not happy until I decided for her, ordered for her, made her eat and drink what I wanted because I wanted. But Ranch! Oh thats the line in the sand!


I had to laugh. I explained to her that if she felt she needed more, then she could kneel at my feet and beg for more; never is she allowed to tell me that I was wrong to deny her. Also, that anything not required to sustain life is to be considered a privilege, and this includes stand-in condiments. Since her lust for Ranch dressing was what had caused her little pissy fit, then as punishment for her disobedience and severe misbehavior she is subsequently no longer allowed any Ranch, at all, for the rest of the month of April.


You want a line in the sand, bitch? That's mine!...