#right thinking

Last night on Skype, Reaction Junkie asked me how hard it is for me to carry on conversation when I have something in my holes. Thinking that he wanted me to fuck myself with a dildo while we talked, I thought back to all the times I’d Skyped with The Super Sadist and Marxman while fucking myself. I told him that having something in me wasn’t very distracting.

“Good,” he said. Then he asked, “How long can you wear a plug for? Can you wear a buttplug for eight hours?” I hemmed and hawed until he finally said, “Can. You. Wear. A. Plug. For. Eight. Hours?” “Yes, dear,” I responded, looking down. He smiled at me and informed me, “You’ll be wearing your plug for eight hours at work tomorrow.”

I was happy to do so, and said that it might even be helpful, since I’m seeing Legolas today and plan to be prepared for anal. Reaction Junkie thought for a moment and said, “Well, maybe you should have something in your cunt, too.” I wasn’t sure and said, “I don’t know if I have anything that will stay in.” “That depends how tight your underwear is, doesn’t it?” he responded. I agreed, and he informed me that I would keep my small dildo in my pussy during work, and when I leave for happy hour tonight, I’m to switch it to a larger one.

I smiled, despite knowing it could get uncomfortable. He hasn’t given me many, if any orders like this, that last for an extended time and provide a constant reminder of my place, and I really enjoy them. I lovelovelove our switchy dynamic, and wouldn’t change it. However, it does lend itself to a reduction in the time I spend feeling properly subby, since I feel as though I could take control at any moment. Of course, realistically I know that he owns me, that he’s in charge, that he enjoys bottoming and the feel of submitting so he allows me to play at that role, but I don’t always feel that truth on a deeper level. Sometimes I miss falling into submission like I used to, that heady feeling of being controlled, the fuzzy warmth of being owned.

With this instruction, to have two of my holes filled all day, I can feel a bit of that old subby headspace coming back, especially as I write this. It’s intoxicating and makes me want to think more subby thoughts. I want to be obedient and fulfill the orders given to me. The large dildo may be uncomfortable, but I’m not going to ask for him to change his orders. I risk public humiliation if someone notices or if the dildo slips out. That doesn’t matter. I’m going to do what he told me to do. Because I don’t have a choice. When he says to do something, I do it. Property doesn’t get to refuse, doesn’t get to haggle or negotiate.

So, I’m going to sit all day at my desk, my cunt soaked from being filled. Not only from that, of course, I’m also wet from the knowledge that two of my holes are stuffed at the direction of my owner and that I’m willing to obey him at all times, even at work. And I’m happy to do it. I’m grateful that he is willing to spend the time and attention on me to give an order like this. I’m glad for the reminder of my real place as owned property.

I can pretend to be an independent person. Can say that I have my own job, my own apartment, my own life. But coming to work with a dildo in my cunt and a plug in my ass proves that in actuality, I’m an obedient, eager to please, desperate girl who craves giving up that independence in order to submit and be controlled. To give up ownership of myself to be owned by someone else.

I haven’t been engaging in consensual misogyny/fulfilling my misogyny kink very much lately. I miss it. I got some misogyny when I played with Legolas last week, I talked about it with Cunt Destroyer on Sunday and Reaction Junkie teased a bit of it, asking for someone to apologize on behalf of their gender, which I did, and then I got to Skype with The Super Sadist last night and we touched on it. All of that was very hot.

It’s not that I haven’t been being degraded and humiliated. Of course I have. And I’ve been hurt and scared and used. It’s incredibly satisfying and I don’t feel like I’m not getting what I want. I’d be quite happy to continue with the things I’ve been doing.

It’s not exactly the same as having the context of male superiority, female inferiority, oppression of women, of being submissive and obedient to all men, etc., though. I don’t need that, necessarily, or want to do it all the time, but the bit I’ve gotten lately has whetted my appetite for more.

I shall have to ask my partners to remind me of my place as a woman and their place as men, above me. I want to be forced to say that I deserve the treatment I get, that women are asking for it, that I want to be used and hurt, that I’m a dumb cunt for wanting those things, that I’m only valuable for the things men want me for.

I need to be told that I’m lesser, a silly little girl, a set of holes to fuck and flesh to beat, just a cunt. We wouldn’t want me getting any ideas that I’m an equally valuable member of society, now would we?

Last night I shaved my legs,pits, and pubic hair (see links for pictures). I hadn’t shaved my legs and pits in half a decade, and I hadn’t shaved my pubic hair in more than a year and a half. I loved not shaving. I loved feeling the wind in my leg hair. I loved surprising people with the fact that I didn’t shave my pits. I loved feeling like I was still a little bit radical.I loved having hair on my cunt, because it helped weed out douchebags, I liked the way it looked, I enjoyed not having to deal with the shaving, and because it helps reduce infections. I’d even started pulling on my pubic hair while I masturbated, after MLAM did that to me a few times.

I didn’t shave because my feelings about my body hair changed. I did it because my owner told me to. I’m visiting him at the end of this week, and he finally gave me the order I’d been expecting for a while. He instructed me to shave, telling me to take before and after pictures for this tumblr, to explain that he is taking away my “stupid little feminist hissy fit shit.”  I used to say that I wouldn’t shave for any man because I liked having the body hair and if some guy didn’t like it, tough. My owner tolerated that for a while, but planted the idea of making me shave in my mind, fucking with my feminist beliefs, making me wet thinking about him making me do that for him. 

He’s let me keep my hair for a long time, longer than many owners would indulge a little feminist bitch like me. Let me hold on to this idea that I’m a strong, independent woman who can make decisions about her own body. We both know now that’s not true. I’m a toy for him to play with, including deciding how I will keep my body hair.

Having to do this was not unexpected, but it was a big deal to me. Not shaving may seem like a passive thing, since shaving is an action one chooses to take. But in this society, women are expected to shave, and I’ve gotten more than a couple of people online tell me I was gross or unattractive because I don’t shave. I was actively, and aggressively, deciding to not shave. It became part of my identity. 

And now it’s gone. My owner has control over my past, present, and future, and can fuck with them however he likes. He decides what aspects of my identity I get to keep, and what aspects I have to get rid of.

A man came to my apartment today to fix my laptop. A not so small part of me felt like I ought to be offering him a blowjob as thanks.

That would have been entirely socially inappropriate, and likely would have just served to make him uncomfortable, so I didn’t. But the desire to offer is a feeling I should hold on to and cultivate. If a man does something for me, and it’s even the slightest bit appropriate for me to offer my holes, I should.

As I was getting ready to Skype with MLAM today, I was looking at what I was wearing. It was a shirt from Sexual Assault Prevention Week at my undergrad, and on the front it says “If you see something, say something.” It’s just a unisex tshirt I was wearing to put together a couch. Not attractive. Normally I would have taken it off and been naked, or put on something cute. But that shirt reminded me of another one I have, from a different Sexual Assault Prevention Week.

That one says “Consent is Sexy” and I thought “Oh. I’ll put that on. I bet he’ll like it and/or make a comment about it and that will be fun.” Again I underestimate him. He knew I’d worn it for a reason. He informed me that I’m going to cut it up and make it into a sexier cut, a croptop, a shirt with a racerback, something much more attractive than a blah unisex cut. In addition to that, I’m going to cut fabric above the word “Consent” into the letters “NON,” so that the shirt will read “Nonconsent is sexy." 

I told him that I wanted to say no (but of course wouldn’t and lol who cares if I do, I have to do it anyway), because the shirt is a memento of my time in undergrad. He smiled and said "I know. I like fucking with your past, too.” Excellent point, sir. He owns me. That means he owns my past, he owns my present, and he owns my future.

Saturday night, I went to a grand opening for a new play space. I picked up Reaction Junkie, Legal Lolita, and Repressed Boy and we headed to the play party. As we stood in line, we said hello to Legolas and talked. Finally, they opened the doors and we walked in. We explored the mostly empty space, poking around at different pieces of equipment, until Reaction Junkie looked at me and said, “You’re far too free. Let’s go fix that.”

We found a space and put down our stuff. Next thing I knew, I was against the wall, Reaction Junkie’s voice in my ear, asking me what a girl like me was doing dressed like that in a place like this. I whimpered in response, already starting the descent into a nice little headspace. He pulled out his knife and pressed it against my throat, saying “You’re going to do exactly what I say. Do you understand?” I said that I understood. He held the knife in front of my face and said, “Now you’ve seen this and you know I have it, so I can put it away and you’ll behave?” I nodded, and he stepped away, telling me to strip down to my panties. I hurried to comply, afraid of the consequences if I dawdled or acted silly.

Reaction Junkie came up behind me and tied a blindfold over my eyes. I’m very glad he did. Since we were in public, and especially because Legal Lolita was there, I would have had a larger part of myself than usual on the sidelines, observing, instead of being fully immersed in the scene and the headspace. Not to mention, being unable to see leaves me with a heightened uncertainty. Of course, the scene itself was making me uncertain. I had no idea what he had in mind, or even what he might do in a public space. At the beginning of the scene, I had been grinning and happily enjoying myself, but as it went on, the smile fell off my face, and the happy enjoyment shifted to fearful, pained, submissive enjoyment. It became an enjoyment of the reminder of my place, of his power, of his control, and the fact that this isn’t a game.

Once the blindfold was in place, he tied me with my arms behind my back. There would be no getting away, no fighting back. Not that I would try to do either. And not that it would even matter if I did try. He was in control of my mind, my body, and the entire situation. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. He pushed the knife into me, and I felt the sharp tip digging into my flesh. As he pressed the tip into different parts of my torso, he mused aloud, “How much pressure do you think it would take to pierce your skin?” It was all I could do to keep my reactions to a mere tremble, trying hard not to move too much, not wanting to find the answer to that question by accident by shifting unexpectedly.

Reaction Junkie dragged the knife (Okay. I half believe he used the actual knife for all of this, but I also half believe he used parts of the knife besides the blade or something else for at least some of it but wasn’t and am still not sure and I don’t even want to know because I do like the uncertainty.) along my skin, pricking me with it. Sharp pokes like that tend to make me cry really easily, and I like to let people know, even people I know are okay or like crying, that I may cry soon, just in case they don’t feel like having me cry (yet). I told Reaction Junkie that if he poked me much more I might cry. He asked if I was okay with that. Normally, I’m fine with crying, but this would have been crying in a new place in front of people, so I told him “Let’s keep going, and if I cry, I’ll let you know if I need something else at that point.” He agreed and resumed menacing me.

He pressed the knife against my cheek and threatened to fluid bond me to it. As he pushed it into my skin, there were a couple points where I legitimately felt like it might cut me, or wondered if it was. I was strangely okay with that. I don’t like the idea of actually being cut, but if he wanted to do that, I would try my hardest to take it for him. At one point during the scene, Reaction Junkie said something along the lines of “Do you understand that you’re mine and I can do whatever I want to you and no one will do anything about it?” and when I started to say I understood, he asked if I understood it at an emotional level. I did understand, but not at that deeper level. Not until this scene.

Now I get what it means to say that he owns me. Obviously he can do whatever he wants to me. Not just because he’s physically stronger than I am. More than that, I’ll accept whatever he decides to do because all of me, and everything that is mine, is his. And no one is going to stop him because they would see that I want what is happening. Maybe I won’t want the particular thing at the particular moment. In a broader sense, though, I do want it because he decided to do it. My purpose is to take whatever he dishes out, and to give him whatever he desires. I want him to do anything and everything he wants to me, no matter my preferences.

dumbbigtittedslut wrote something that really made me think a lot about my consensual misogyny play/misogyny kink. Before I go into my navel-gazing, I wanted to make sure to say that this is super well-written and, if I was in a different place with my kinks, would have turned me on like whoa. DBTS, you’re an excellent writer.

As I wrote in an earlier post, I haven’t been doing much consensual misogyny lately. I’m not entirely sure why, but I think a large part of it is that the person I did the most intense play of that kind with was MLAM, and we basically stopped playing together. The Super Sadist and I also played with consensual misogyny, but in a very different way than I did with MLAM, with a different focus, and we’ve both gotten busy. The Marxist poked at that button, and did so well, but we don’t play anymore. Legolas and I are both into it, and we still use it, but, again, in a different way than I engaged with it with MLAM. It’s definitely not an all-consuming context that seeps into most things I do.

I’ve been realizing (and this post really drove the point home) that in addition to not doing very much of it, I also haven’t been getting turned on by it or masturbating to it, which, of course, plays back in to not doing it as often with others. I’m sure one reason is the simple fact that I haven’t been playing that way, and have been engaging lots of other kinks that draw my focus, like the death threats, violence, pregnancy risk/forced pregnancy, weapons, gaslighting, being owned, abuse fantasies/abusive relationship kink, etc. Some of those do draw from consensual misogyny and have threads of it running through, especially the pregnancy risk/forced pregnancy, ownership, and mentally/emotionally/physically abusive relationship kinks, but they aren’t quite the same.

Another part of it is that there were aspects of misogyny kink that always made me a little uncomfortable (especially people I don’t “know”/follow reblogging my stuff and adding their own comments, and even more so when they have no disclaimers in their info), and without people helping me to push past that, or use it against me, the discomfort has increased, and not in a sexy way. I always saw playing with misogyny as something I did as part of my feminism, taking the fucked up parts of society and turning them to my purposes, taking away their power. When I’m not actively participating by writing things myself, having a partner encourage me to write/think/speak about it or within the context of it, having a partner, or someone I know or at least whose tumblr I enjoy say and do things to me, or having someone give me a misogyny kink context to consume things from, it feels much more like I’m just seeing trying to be edgy, run of the mill sexists writing things. That’s not hot; it’s icky and kinda boring.

Like I said, the context MLAM created was a heady thing, and I feel the urge to see if I can recapture some of those intoxicating feelings. If it works, great, if not, that’s cool, too. I’ll talk to some partners about it, of course, ask if they’ll use more misogynistic language when they talk to me, see if they’re interested in having me be polite to men who say stupid shit to me or, at least, ask their permission before flaming them, and/or do other things that create more of a context outside of just playtime. I’m not expecting, and don’t necessarily even want, it to be like it was with MLAM, but having a consensual misogyny headspace I can slip into and use to contextualize other kinks is a useful thing. It’s not urgent, and before/as I’m doing that, I’ll do some of my own work making misogyny hot again.

There are a number of things I can do myself. I’m going to try to write more captions and have more fantasies that draw from my misogyny kink. I’ll especially try to use the language that used to really get me going. Fucktoy, cunt, bitch, fuckhole. Talk about the fact that what I’m for is to be used by men, that all women are for that, some just are smart enough to know that fact. Remind myself that I should be grateful for anything a man is willing to do to me, whether it’s fuck my cunt or as, use my mouth, cum all over my face, or even just use me as a urinal. Keep in mind that I’m a fucktoy for the pleasure and entertainment for all men, and especially for the men who own me or use me on a regular basis. Admit that I deserve all the pain and punishment and suffering those men generously inflict upon me.

Hell, it’s already working a bit. Writing this last bit did indeed make my fuckhole clench.

A thing my owner does when out in public is make verging on constant comments on people he sees, mostly girls. Clothing, bodies, hair, whatever. When we first started hanging out, it bothered me, but I eventually adjusted, and even started to join in, after a couple of weeks of hanging out with him for a couple days in a row each week. In fact, I started noticing more women, and finding more women attractive. I like that.

Despite that, I guess I’d gotten un-used to it, because it bothered me this weekend, which is stupid for any number of reasons. Chief among those reasons, though, is the fact that nothing he does in relation to other women should bother me. Women are meant to be objectified. We’re objects. And when a man is out with a woman, or even a group of women, it only makes sense that he would continue looking for additional toys to please him. Feeling uncomfortable or letting it make me feel bad about my appearance are very stupid reactions from a very stupid little cunt. He has every right to point, to have a word for every woman he can lay his eyes on. He owns them just because he is a man. And if I’m not holding a man’s attention, that doesn’t fall on him. It falls on me to change to be more attractive, more interesting, more appealing.