Thoughts on a Long Night...

It seems befitting of me to mention certain aspects of this life we have chosen for ourselves. I have a long held love for seeing fear upon the face of a beautiful woman. Indeed, if I had my choice between a sweet and heart felt smile gracing the lips of a tender woman and the wide eyed, raised eyebrows of mortal fear, I would choose the latter. Terror seems more fitting for a slave girl than contented happiness, on occasion at any rate.

Imagine that look of abject terror as, while bound and completely at her Master's mercy, she watches helpless as her Master approaches her. In his hands he wields an implement, be it an electric prod or a cutting cane. Her eyes widen, fixed on the implement. Little squeaks, pleading noises, escape from behind her gag. Perhaps she struggles against her bonds, but to no avail. As a slave, as property, she knows that it is not for her to decide her own fate. If her Master wishes it, said implement will indeed be used upon her. And what a curious and wondrous thing, that a slave could find genuine happiness in the grip of such fear. That she could find contentment facing such frightful uncertainty.

Another note of my personal view is the nature of slaves to be objects, toys; possessions. I know that there is a great wide world of differing opinions within our community and I am of the school of persons who believe that a slave is property, wholly and completely. As an object, it is beyond them to decide for themselves. In the case of my slave, my permission must be sought for any and all activities, i.e. using the restroom, eating, drinking (apart from water or milk for hydration and health issues), using any piece of furniture, etc.

All this must now be well known to our dear readers, as this subject is the focus of many of our posts. However, recently I have put much thought into the extent of this view. Our now average daily lives, consisting of college classes for the slave, child rearing, and work for me, have given us little opportunity to dabble as it were in the arts of torture, objectification, bondage and such. Leaving only the refuge of our average days to utilize my slave in the ways that I will.

The focus for her submission as of late has been directed more toward service; laundry, dishes, house cleaning, meals, etc. It has been a delicate balancing act, given the complexity of our combined schedules. I order her to keep constant contact, texting or calling regularly to update me as to her situation while at school or fulfilling some chore. I order her food when we dine out, giving little regard for her desires prior nor her enjoyment following lest such things please me.

I delight in reminding her often that I allow her less regard than I would for a pet dog. I am equally delighted in the effect that such reminders have upon her. Just the other day for example, we were sitting down to some delivered dinner and my pet gave me the imploring eye of a beast desiring a bite of my food. I smiled and after several moments of leaving her hanging upon my answer, I offered her a bite. Instead she requested only the scraps left within the container. So delighted was I that I finished my meal and placed the opened box upon the floor, snapping my fingers and pointing at the box so that she might partake in the scraps from my meal. It is excessively pleasing to me that it was by her own suggestion that such a degrading action fell upon her. And she was so eager in its execution, she fell upon her knees and fed upon the scraps immediately upon my order.

Her desire for the hated plastic spoon that has sadly disappeared from my assortment of tantalizing tools also informs me of her deep seeded needs and desires. Sadly it yet eludes me, undiscovered and still hidden. Also her increased abilities and enjoyment of cock sucking, how she will come to me offering to suck me off. With the addition of regular pineapple, she has even come to enjoy and to some extent crave the taste of my cum. My recent post about tit fucking mentioned how my sweet slave mistook my intentions and offered the notion of fucking her tits.

It pleases me greatly to see that my slave's heart and mind is so focused upon her submission and that she willingly and eagerly serves my whims, whether they have been directly expressed or not. Such is the life of a slave, and a slave she most definitely is...

Under pressure...

Some days, there should be a warning floating over my head. This whole "learning to have more grace thing" isn't going as well as i would like it to. Some days, i feel like i'm about to burst because there is so much that needs to be done.

We've mentioned before that i have gone back to college. As a full time student for the first time in ten years, and leaving the house on a regularly scheduled basis for the first time in almost two years, it's a little crazy for me. There are days when i have to talk myself into leaving our home. An inner monologue that sounds something like "Master thinks this is good for you. It'll be good for all of us in the long run. He wants you to go, so get out the damn door!"

Regardless, between homework, housework, playing with our kiddo, teaching kiddo the basics, and trying to make sure I meet as many of Master's needs as i can, i feel a little thin. i feel like i haven't had time to center myself.

So when my first tablet and new computer art program arrived, i was very excited and hoped to spend a few uninterrupted hours learning to use said tablet. (i guess i move the paper around a lot when i draw, because that's my biggest trouble translating from paper to screen.) But Master looked at me, and told me flatly that those uninterrupted hours would have to wait until i had done all the dishes that had stacked up over the last frazzling week and completed a test for one of my classes.

i knew He was right. Those things needed to be done. But i felt so sorry for myself ─ because nobody cares that i "never" get to do the things i want to do. i sulked, pouted and huffed out loud, while in my head i knew i was complaining about something i didn't want: fairness. i don't want it to be fair. And it wasn't fair of me to neglect those chores, or the school-work that needed to be done.

Master does His best to keep me on the straight and narrow. And even with His help, i stray.

Since the incident, i have had a few hours here and there spent playing with the tablet and program Master bought for me, and i don't feel sorry for myself. i'm frustrated because, yet again, i didn't compose myself with grace when Master reminded me of the order that needs to be kept.