I don’t get all hot and bothered over being humiliated.
Or so I’d like to think.
Master isn’t really all that into it…oh, he teases, and says naughty things, but it’s a rare day when he actually uses humiliation as a …a what? A weapon? A tool? I dunno. But we’ve come ’round to that place in his head where it’s playing a role. You won’t see the point to this post until Thursday, really, when I have to post a really embarrassing HNT.
So I thought I’d take a moment here and now to tell you about the “before” part of the picture, before you actually see the picture. And take a moment too, to natter on about the concept of being turned on by being humbled and teased..and yes, humiliated, too. I said at the start of this that it doesn’t turn me on. But really–doesn’t everything He does to me turn me on to some extent?
Because it’s him. Because somehow, that magic combination of Dominance over me, my submission to his desires, and my willingness to let him do what he wants….
(barring the duh, no shit rules, the ones that kinda go without saying, like ‘don’t kill my children’ or ‘don’t remove my limbs’ or ‘don’t eviscerate me and leave my body here to be found by room service’–because I don’t think anyone of us are THAT much into kink, you know???!)
…all of that swirls around through me to make me a quivery, whore-ish, wanton mess. Yes, I’d crawl across glass to be by his side, to do what he wanted. Would I walk through fire? No. But that refers to that wee little “duh” thing above, right? The point I’m obviously beating to a pulp in written form here, is that when I’m doing what he wants, even when it makes me uncomfortable, it’s a turn-on. Sometimes it’s pain, sometimes it’s the absense of fulfillment (those dreaded half-o’s!), and sometimes, rarely, it’s one of these scenarios.
Are you totally bemused? Because on the surface, what he made me do had no preface of D/s to it. We were having a conversation, an admittedly vanilla one, on my way home from work near the end of last week. I was tired, and starving, having forgotten my protein shake before I went to work.
“I’m going to make myself some crepes when I get home tonight, Master,” I said, my tummy rumbling in desire. We chatted a bit about that, and his tone was kind of funny, but I thought maybe he was distracted…I really didn’t pay much attention, really.
Classic slut mistake, right?
“nilla, that gives me a great idea,” He says.
Okay NOW all my alert beacons go off. They go haywire. The are beeping and booping all over my body. My arm hairs stand up, my clit kind of pulses, and my whole entire consciousness goes on point.
“uhm…a great idea, Master?”
“Your pussy needs a crepe.”
“uh….what?” (yes I could not hide the tone of utter disbelief there. Rookie move, that.)
“A crepe nilla. Cook an extra one. When you do your half o tonight, I want that crepe warmed up in the microwave, and placed on your clit. Large anal plug in your ass, too. And three good, hard strokes of your dildo in your cunt before you start. That crepe stays on the entire time, right up until you stop.”
Seriously, what the fuck does one say in response to that? In my car, all alone, on the phone, I’m blushing furiously. Like…what? The fuck?
“nilla…did you hear me?” He says after about 35 seconds of dead silence from me.
There is a pause as I struggle with my bemusement.
“Oh, I’ll need a picture of that, of course.”
“of course you do,” I whisper.
“Of course I do,” He says, and his tone is amused–and smug. He’s so very well pleased with himself, with the mindfuck. He knows that the entire time I’m cooking, I’ll be thinking about this task.
“Maybe I just want cereal,” I mutter.
“Nah. I know you want those crepes more than ever now,” He says, his tone bordering on ebullient. Master is rarely ebullient.
I do the task. It’s humbling, embarrasing, to take the picture. One well made crepe rolled up and stuffed against my clit. The anal plug prominently sticking out of my ass. The bright pink dildo…
But I take it, shuddering. Egads, my large old ass. And before I can think about deleting it, I send it to him. The next morning He is up well before I am, and texts me the ultimate of humiliations.
“This will make a great HNT for this week nilla. Let’s think of a creative title….”