Lamento não estar traduzido, mas a falta de tempo é drástica.
No entanto, esta pérola do BDSM tinha de ser partilhada.
Tentarei traduzir, a seu tempo...
"10 July 2007 @ 10:48 am
Warning: Liberal use of the word "fuck" to follow.
It was pointed out to me that I "appear" very ungrateful.
That I'm not properly aware of how lucky I am to have a Master who comes home to me every day.
Followed, of course, by the usual "you're a lackluster slave" and "don't know how your Master puts up with your crap". Because when they are "lucky enough" to be allowed to spend time with their "master", this person not only behaves perfectly and performs perfectly, their master would accept nothing less. Well la-de-da.
Lemme tell you something, you anonymous chicken-shitted bitch. I
've been somewhat where you are. Remember that year and a half of HELL where I only saw Master on the weekends, sometimes with weeks and weeks inbetween trips home? I know exactly how fucking easy it is to sit home day after day and plan for the perfect scene. I know how fucking easy it is to "perform" for a few stolen hours. You sitting on your couch trying NOT to think about what your master is doing at home with the wife and kids and planning your perfect submission?
This is not a judgment against any of you having affairs with married men. Personally I don't give a shit who y'all are fucking. But I am so sick and fucking tired of having my marriage compared to the once a month hotel meetings, or having my M/s compared to fucking Second Life goddamn avatars. And god forbid I try and point out that daily interactions are *different* than someone's clandestine, sporadic relationship because then I'm just trying to be "better", or trying to lord the fact that we live together over someone who doesn't.Take it for whatever it means to you but I am no longer going to pussyfoot around the fact that we are married, we do live together, we are trying to raise kids and if that means I'm trying to be "better" than you all, what. the. fuck. EVER.
If you don't know the meanings of the words DIFFERENT and BETTER, then buy a fucking dictionary. All the fucking time I hear how I'm judging this person or I'm judging that relationship.. blah-de-blah-fucking-blah. If saying that an affair is DIFFERENT than a marriage is "judging", then call me Judge Kaya and get me a tv show. If saying that Second Life is DIFFERENT than real life is "judging", then someone hand me a fucking gavel.Different is not a judgment. Different is a description.
Imagine being starved. Days without food. Days with nothing but a few sips of water. And then you walk into the finest restaurant in town. The smell of cooking food covers you like a cloud. Aromas and scents and wisps assaulting you from every angle. Surrounding you are tables and tables loaded down with every dish imaginable. People are eating, forkfuls of food disappearing into mouths all around you. Glasses of wine dot the tables like liquid flowers. A waitress walks by holding a plate with a fresh, hot slice of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on the top. Right under your nose, so close you could stick out your tongue and lick it.But you can't have any of it. Not one lick. Not one sip. Nothing. Now compare that to being a little bit hungry and seeing a McDonald's commercial on the television.
Fucking different, yes?
That's what I've felt every day for the two fucking months that Master's been home. Every day I stare at the empty hooks in the ceiling, stare at the closet full of unused toys, stare at the cunt cupboard collecting cobwebs, stare at HIM and have a running mental movie of what we could be doing right that very second. Every day I suck His cock and imagine Him grabbing my hair and choking me until I puke, face fucking me until my nose bleeds and I pass out... but I just suck it like the good little cocksucker I am, nice and slow and steady, just the way He wants it. I serve Him with a quiet smile, I do my chores and follow my rules. I take off His boots, dry Him after His shower. I do every fucking thing He tells me to do with not an argument, not a groan, not a single "what about me?" The only hint He has that I want, need, something dark and bloody is this fucking journal right here. You think because you can remain "graceful" for a couple of hours in a motel room that you have the right to judge what I write here then I have the right to tell you to go fuck yourself.
Your affair is a far cry different from my reality. And when He does knock me down and beat the fucking hell out of me? I'll perform fucking beautifully. I'll perform exactly as He wants me to. Because He always gets what He wants from me. If your master thinks having a needy, begging, eager masochist at His disposal is "too much work", I might suggest you practice your robot moves. And leave me the fuck alone........
I'm a bitch on a good day. Add in some pms and I'm a fucking cunt. Sometimes it just feels good, fucking good, to not hold it in. Last night He fucked me. He came at me with His cock in His hand, yanked my legs open and tore into my cunt like He owns it. Wrapping my fingers around the bars above my head and giving me strict orders not to move those fucking hands, no matter what, He slapped and swatted at my pre-menstrual, swollen, aching tits, enjoying the sight of me squirming, gripping those fucking bars so tight that my fingers cramped and remained bent even after I was allowed to let go. My quiet gasps and writhing body and defenseless breasts, open for Him to beat on, was finally enough to pull His climax from Him, emptying it into my mouth. That was a taste. That was a fucking stolen lick of the ice cream when the waitress walked by with that tray under my nose.
Am I satisfied? Hell fucking no I ain't satisfied! What am I going to do about it?
I'm going to post this because it feels good to rant now and then, then I'm going to go outside in the 96 degree heat and humidity, and do that kinky task called mowing the lawn.
Because that's what Master wants me to do.
And *that's* what slavery is about.