Dec. 20th, 2016

phetish: (Default)
I swear to god. I have to stop dressing like this and start wearing some real damn pajamas at night.
It's hunting season and somebody is going to get hurt. And I'll plead self-defense. :)

phetish: (Default)
I give. I give up. You win, god. I'm just going to get "Live To Fuck" across my lower back and call it a fucking day.

For the past twenty-three years, I've been trying to hide my sexuality.
I've become better and better at it over the years...but my appetite has correspondingly increased. So I'm plagued with snafus.

Like the time my mother found ejaculate all over the glass door of the entertainment center. Somehow I missed that...until I heard my mother's shrieking voice and saw her picking at the glass door, "Is that come?!"
Very uncool, culprit. Very uncool.

And the time my former housekeeper found our flogger and I convinced her it was a cat toy. My poor cat was terribly confused when she proceeded to spank him with it. "Naughty kitty! Who's a naughty kitty?"

And the time my father overheard Michael's conversation at his uppity little gala and asked me what a money shot was. Without missing a beat, I replied, "It's like the conversation you never want to have with your father, only it lands all over your chest."

Or the time my boss told me that he doesn't wear underwear, and I asked how he doesn't sit on his dick all the time. In front of our entire department, he said that's only a problem for men with huge cocks, "like Michael."

Or the time my former boss overheard us talking about oral sex and told me that his brother had plastic surgery on his testicles and he was considering the same thing.

You know, I don't know why it happens. People with whom I have no sexual relationship whatsoever somehow drag me into their sex lives. I was trading sex jokes with an Austrian rabbi last Sunday. He kept rubbing my knee, too, as if to confirm that I wasn't wearing underwear and had recently had sex in the vehicle down the street.

Despite the apparently impossible dream of hiding my sexuality, I still try to appear (to an ever-shrinking group of people) to be a normal (if not asexual) human being.
So I can keep unwitting contact with unwanted bodily fluids to a minimum.
Trust me, you don't want certain people (waiter, gynecologist, dry cleaner, contractor) associating you with sex.

Every Thursday, my housekeeper cleans my house. A "housekeeper," as "a person alone with your bed and your toys for several hours per week," should be very near the top of the list of asexual creatures in your life.
I don't want her knowing I own batteries, because if I were her, I would take advantage of the local resources and fuck like an animal in that house. And I'd bring friends.

So, every Wednesday, I go into cleaning-panic mode, packing away everything I don't want her to see. I jam it into hard-to-reach drawers or leave heavy shit sitting on top of it.

But Christ that's hard. I mean, there's so much to hide. So, for the past three months, I've been going home on lunch to finish the job (meaning, I clean what I can and throw the rest into the storage closet and spread blankets over it). She doesn't come until 3pm, anyway.

This past week was particularly bad. You know I've been fucking like a beast five, six, eight times a day, and you also know that Michael was raising the bookshelves. So, I had to empty them. The shit was all over the house. So I re-stocked the bookshelves but left everything else to my lunch hour. Worst case scenario, I thought I'd shovel, drag, and throw it all into the workout room and sort through it over the weekend.

Imagine my surprise when I stopped home at 12:30pm and found the deadbolt locked. It wasn't that way when I left this morning.

"Oh no," I said aloud in the hall. Turning the key, I opened the door to my spotless house. "FUCK!" I screamed.

My mind raced to remember what it looked like when I left that morning.
The video camera was still on the tripod. There were torn panties and lingerie all over the floor. There were lubricant handprints all over the walls. There was come on the ceiling. There were sex toys in the sink.
There were sex books all over the house. There were ropes and handcuffs still resting under the mattress. There were stiffened towels all over the house. There were bottles of lubricant everywhere. There were half-empty bottles of alcohol and empty bottles of whipped cream on the kitchen counter, resting on an ass-shaped syrup print. There were ripped pillows and sheets all over the bedroom. There were scarves still tied to the bookshelves. There was candlewax and latex embedded into the floor. There was a pile of vinyl and studs next to it, remnants of my dominatrix outfit.

There were similar piles everywhere. Schoolgirl. Corporate woman. Geisha. You name it. Panties were nowhere to be found. Probably hanging on some light fixture. There were vibrators everywhere, of all shapes, colors, and sizes. Living room, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom.
Everywhere. Paintings were crooked. Mirrors were splattered with bodily fluids. There were journals of erotica all over the dining room table...stained with hand-prints and tit-prints and ass-prints from our fucking on top of them. There was a bright yellow vibrating duck wedged between the couch pillows. I walked through the house, trying to remember what was where. I've been too busy fucking a mess on top of last night's mess to pay attention to it until now.

Worst of all, my desktop image was a picture of Michael lying naked on his back, his big, wet, shiny dick sticking out of my pussy as I knelt over him, spreading my ass cheeks and grinning over my shoulder. Sure, my monitor was on low-power standby, but she had to wake it up when she moved my mouse to dust my desk.

And there it was, glowing in brilliant color. Dick, balls, cunt, and ass glistening in all its splendor like a campground river on a sunny Sunday morning. Michael gripping my thighs and pressing down as his mouth gapes in a moan, me grinning like a flower-fresh douche model as I spread my cheeks, my cunt yawning over his giant dick like a five-year-old trying to mouth a submarine sandwich. Oh, titties in the sunlight, too. That's nice.
At least it was a beautiful day outside.

I don't even know if that's worthy of being called "worst of all." My ass toys are now sitting in my dish drainer. She hand-washed my anal sex toys.
She made the bed and neatly hung the ropes and handcuffs from the workout equipment. She unscrewed the camera and put it all away in the closet.
Maybe she watched the video. She wiped our come off the walls, mirrors, and ceiling. She fucking folded and put away my freaky, dirty, sex underwear in neat little piles in the corner of my bedroom beside the hamper...apparently unsure as to whether I wanted to save my come-stained hand-ripped fuckrobes for the sake of nostalgia.

The more I think about it, the more I remember, and the worse it gets. I didn't even take inventory of what was there. I don't even know what she saw and didn't see. We even played kinky little sex games and left notes around the house. "Can't wait to fuck your pretty little ass and pump my come all over your tits," and such. She left those in a nice, neat little stack on my computer desk, right beside the handcuff keys, half-burned candles, and nipple clamps. Right next to the stack of porn that I'd tried to wedge behind the desk. And the panties on the floor beneath it. She even washed the chair, which apparently smelled so much like sex that she felt compelled to wash the fucking thing.

Some part of me feels like I should get a new maid.
Some part of me feels like I should get her a gift certificate to Victoria's Secret.
Some part of me feels like I should just let it go and ignore it, since she apparently had no problem washing my butt toys.
Some part of me wonders if she came early just to see what I was hiding.
Or if she went through those hard-to-reach places and already knew.

I'm nearly certain that this is the first time she's seen me naked, though.
I called Michael to tell him. He laughed and said we'd have to try harder to mess up the house. At least she managed to dig out the floor. Now we can fuck on that, too. Maybe tonight we'll order Chinese and have a threesome.


I whined to my friend network as I wrote this. My old buddy spookychik suggested that I leave increasingly deranged items in the house until she finally cracks. Do they sell inflatable Ron Jeremys?
Should I get some brown hamsters? Maybe I should waterproof the bed with saran wrap. Or leave a gimp mask on top of a bottle of bleach and a box of sewing needles. Maybe leave a chalk outline of a midget. Apparently the trail of blood leading through three rooms didn't phase her. Jesus, but this woman has an iron will.

That reminds me...
Dear Jesus, Please don't let strange people fuck in our temples. Amen.

Dear Housekeeper,
Please don't write about me in Customers Suck. Thank you. :)
phetish: (Default)
It has been eight years and six days since I became a dominatrix.
I want to buy myself a present, but I have built an entire dungeon.
What do you get the self that has everything?
I suppose I could use a new whip. You can never have too many whips or shoes.

Walgreens just had a sale on the original Hitachi wands, the #1 woman's toy since the 1970's.
I am in for two.
All I can think about are those pin-jugglers.
Forgive me the lack of bowling pins. This guy looks much cooler than the creepy old grease-painted clown I had seen in my mind.

You thought I owned a Hitachi?
I love saying it. It's like the Masamune. The Hanzo Sword. The Hitachi Magic Wand.
I had purchased a similar nameless knock-off (from Radio Shack) when I was too young to know about quality, and that has sufficed. I haven't met anyone who would recognize the Hitachi for what it is. I am, albeit, a little embarrassed of my youthful ignorance.

But my poor little toy (and it is, distinctly, a non-magical toy) is beginning to wear down, probably due to the countless abuses of friends cranking it against their genitals like a mortar and pestle. Savages.
I choose to blame it on my girlfriends and refuse to fathom the possibility that some errant man has ground it against his ass like he was performing a sonogram from the vantage point of his butthole. Dear God, why did you give men their g-spot in their ass? Why?

You always hear the man's side. How unfortunate it is, that he has to play with his ass.
You never hear it from the woman's side. Imagine if your partner "borrowed" your favorite toy...
...and stuck it in their butt. Like a mule.
I mean, that is an unfathomable reality to most men. They have no need to actively fear thieves "borrowing" a treasured object, thrusting it up their butt, and then returning it - "clean."
That is what it is to be a woman. To live with a disobedient man.

So, I bought two. One for myself and one stick to throw in the yard for the dogs.
Is that enough?
If you could reward yourself, what would you give?
Time? Energy? An organized home? A completed list of tasks? A series of soul-searing orgasms?
I think we all want the same thing.
A deeper, truer sense of self.
The gift to yourself is whatever puts you in touch with yourself.

For me, it is something as superficial and sensual as sex and beauty.
It reminds that this meat machine of mine needs attention and maintenance.
It reminds me not to eat junk food or skip on sleep. It reminds me not to put myself last.
To go that extra mile, even when I am tired and do not feel like shaving my legs.
Like moisturizing my body. Like doing something about my nethers so that it does not look like I am smuggling kittens in my panties. Like doing something with this goddamn medusa hair.

The world and its people can be beautiful, or they can be unkind.
It is easier to weather the unkind when you are confident because you did the work.
Do whatever it is that makes you feel awesome.
If it is a thing or an act. Give it to yourself. For me?
That's what I want for my birthday.
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If it were not for Amazon, there would be no such thing as Christmas in the Coals household.

It may have been a mistake to torment my UPS delivery driver by repeatedly ordering 240 lbs. of cat litter. He finds his revenge by hiding my packages like the Easter Bunny. I suppose I deserve that, and maybe more.
Or, he could be mistaking one of my very warm animal onesies for a bunny suit.
Maybe he thinks this is the way of our fuzzy people.

I am grateful the presents are arriving, and not a moment too soon.
Christmas is this weekend and all I have under the tree are cookies for the aides in Max's life.

His big present arrived, today.
It's not a toy; he has dozens of those. Toys, games, tablets, entertainment galore.
I bought him a pressure vest from Abilitations, designed to help children with sensory overload to focus. It's the same concept as Temple Grandin's invention to calm cattle.
He wears a vest in school and accomplishes tasks I have never seen while wearing it.

Six months ago, he could not say his own name. Now, when he walks up behind me and says, "Today is Tuesday," a chill goes up my spine because I fear that there is suddenly a (talking) stranger or, worse, a ghost in the house. He is developing so quickly that I can barely keep up.

My parents, I am upgrading their houses to "smart homes," to streamline simple tasks and provide additional (if not satellite ("me") support). Technology is one of the few areas where my skill surpasses theirs and I can be of great assistance.

Everyone else is so easy. Wants are always easy to sate. Fulfilling needs is the art.


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