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About Pinkie Category

Sunday, May 23rd, 2010

Protected: Nervous Chatter

When I get nervous, I become a chatter-box. At least when it comes to my personal sex life.

In business, I’m stoic — bitchy, even. I realize the power of silence — my silence. And I use it to my advantage. But when it comes to the silence of a Master, I can’t seem to shut up. I want approval, to be reassured… I chatter to make sure no one’s forgotten about me.

So while I wait to hear from Blackie about this whole mess I’ve made, you can expect a lot of postings here at the blog.

So far all I know I know from Marc — and aside from his promise-threat, all I’ve heard it that they won’t be home until the middle of the week at the earliest. That leaves me with a lot of nervous chatter time.

Unless you’re going to make me shut up…

Schedule and other info for Member Masters below.

PS Oh, and my rates increase on Monday; Member Masters always get discounts (and specials too).

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Wednesday, May 19th, 2010

The Beauty Troubles Of A Sexual Lipstick Submissive

Marc often complains that I’m “a high maintenance little bitch” — usually when Blackie buys me something pretty and girlie. Which could be a whole other conversation just because the relationship I have with Blackie is completely different than the one I have with Marc; but still, Marc has a point…

When Blackie pampers me, his motivation isn’t just because I’m his loving wife; it’s because that’s the kind of submissive sex slave he wants.

He prefers to have me made-up, feminine, and lovely — and not only because that’s the kind of girlie girl he fell in love with and married either. He not enjoys my girlie lingerie, stockings, shoes etc. for a simple aesthetic, but for their fetish value. So Blackie insists upon such frilly accoutrement, in my status as what I call a “lipstick submissive.”

Perhaps this is also because he is in his late 40s, and, therefore, his recollections of porn and fetish materials have to do with the classic trappings of femininity…

Marc, on the other hand, enjoys debasing my beauty. He prefers me to present myself completely nude. The thrill he feels when he can destroy my made-up face with tears and drool is palpable. Which means that after Marc uses me, I must shower, dress, and apply makeup before I can present myself to Blackie again — even if it’s just to drive home and go to sleep at 6 AM.

(Do not mistake any of this for any less use of me, or kinder use of me, by Blackie; we are simply talking about appearances here.)

It may be just because Marc enjoys “taking the bitch down a few notches” — something I won’t deny, as I have too much proof of it! — but I also feel there’s something else which motivates his desires to have me nude, streaked in makeup, dirty, and animalistic…

Marc, being close to my age (we are both in our 20s), has gown up with a different image or standard. For simplicity sake, I call it more “graphic” and extreme. Marc says it’s simply more realistic.

I think it’s different ideals of beauty and sexual attractiveness based on the age difference of their masturbation materials.

My only real proof that this difference in fantasy images is based on the decades of difference in their sexual materials history is that of pubic hair.

Blackie, who grew up seeing plenty of bush, prefers my pussy in its more natural state. Trimmed, of course; but he likes a dark bush he can see — and tug or otherwise use to torture me. Marc, on the other hand, wants me as bald as a baby — and that, in fact, is a real problem around here.

Blackie finds a completely hair-free pubis to be too much like that of an immature human child — and as such, a complete turn-off.

Marc finds the hair equally unappealing — except for the fact that I too am a product of this age of non-hairiness, so I would prefer to be waxed smooth (or with a tiny strip or something), and so Marc humiliates me for my “gross hairiness.”

Of course I really have nothing to say about it. So when Marc shaves me, or, his favorite, punishes me with a cruel waxing to remove my pubic hair, Blackie wants nothing to do with my cunt.

Currently, I believe this only adds to Marc’s delight; he knows how a lack of being fucked — especially by Blackie — hurts & frustrates me.

Like I said, I have no control over this situation. I suffer the consequences of this battle over the hairless smoothness vs. the natural hairiness of my pussy. And one way or another I am yanked about by the proverbial short-hairs. But I really wish they could come to a consensus about my appearance.

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Sunday, May 16th, 2010

Protected: Marc Breaks Me In

I haven’t written much about my being given to Marc. But I can no longer hide; I’ve been ordered to confess…

I want, always, to please Blackie; so naturally I knew I’d submit to Marc because Blackie had ordered it.

At least I’d not physically resist. But I also secretly (or so I thought) had a weapon: my spirit.

I’d let Marc do whatever he wanted to me, yet I’d retreat… If not to sub space, than to that place of lofty scorn where nothing can touch you.

Yeah, Marc could use me all he wanted. But I wouldn’t react. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of my tears; I’d master my pain. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of my moans; I’d let my disdain distance me. Whatever he might elicit from me would merely be reflexive and boring.  Like a bully with a stoic victim, he’d tire of me and leave me be.

But I should have known better; I have no secrets from Blackie.

And he made sure I’d have no refuge.

Marc’s introduction to me was more than a bit of play, a test, or even an assault; it was indoctrination.

The morning that Marc arrived back at the house, I had been presented as gift, bound nude on the sofa awaiting him.  My arms were cuffed behind me, my legs bent at the knee and spread so that my pussy was fully exposed.

Marc strolled in, cocky and assured. I assumed the same stance in my mind; in spirit I was defiantly replaying how I’d rebuffed his advances when we first met. I didn’t dare roll my eyes for fear Blackie would see, but I held onto that image.

Marc stood over me, he pawed at my tits and told Blackie he was looking forward to getting to those later. Then he held out his hand, palm up like a doctor waiting to receive a scalpel from a nurse. Blackie slapped the Hitachi Magic Wand into Marc’s waiting hand. The switch was turned on and just like that Marc placed it onto my clit.

I hadn’t been prepared for such an attack! I tried to fight it mentally. I did everything I could to withstand it, using every trick I knew to deny an orgasm. But then Blackie’s breath was at my ear. “How’s it feel to have him take it, darling?” he whispered.  “How’s it feel to have this man you hate in charge of your body, of your most sacred offering?”

His taunts meant two things: one, my cover was blown and two, it was being used against me to violate my resistance.

I was panting and squirming trying to fight it off, but with my hiding place no longer a place to hide it was no use. As the first waves of orgasm hit me, I began to cry in frustration and humiliation.

Marc had won.

“I would say, ‘Take that, bitch,’ but it’s I who takes,” Marc gloated.

Orgasms are about as personal as it gets. Having them forced, taken from you, despite your will is the ultimate bodily betrayal. You blame yourself for not having the mental and emotional strength to prevent it, leaving you crushed, beaten — Mastered.

Forcing that orgasm was more than a confidence booster for an already cocky man, but a way to rip away any pretenses I had about who was in control. There was no place for me to hide. Any attempts would merely be exploited.

They could have left it there, but that would have been too easy, at least in their opinions.

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Saturday, May 15th, 2010

Member Master Confessions: Exploiting Resentment, Forcing Service, & Denied Orgasms

Member Master D.D. Tom has ordered this confession, in case others would like to learn a thing or two to exploit.

D.D. Tom likes to play with my tolerance levels. He likes to provide detailed descriptions of how I shall spend my days — and nights. He’ll control and limit my sleep; decide what, when, and if I’ll eat; make to-do lists of chores and corporal punishments — and masturbation sessions.

But D.D. Tom refuses to allow me to orgasm.

He likes me frustrated, tired, and more than a bit angry. He doesn’t mind my anger any more than he minds my exhaustion — in fact, he loves both. Does his best to bring it out in me.

He wants me to hate serving him, hate my helpless position doing what he says because I am bound to Blackie’s terms of service.

He combines the control of basic necessities with forms of mind control — trying to make me adopt ideas and ideals intolerable to me.  It’s difficult to explain… Here are some examples:

  • Masturbation sessions to Rush Limbaugh and Fox news, so that I learn to associate them with pleasure (or connect my helplessness to conservative power?)
  • Masturbation sessions interrupted by “domestic” tasks to perform, to accept that my pleasure is not only secondary to his (or any man’s) but entirely meaningless
  • Repetitive writing exercises in which I must copy “A woman’s place is wherever a man says it is,” or “I am a woman; I can’t do the things a man can,” or “I am a sex object and servant only, not an equal – anywhere,” or “Dirty girls with dirty thoughts have not been busy enough; idle hands mean her man isn’t satisfied,” 100 times — by hand. Like Bart Simpson at the chalkboard, only neatly on paper.

He manages me mainly through NF messages, emails, and Twitter posts — the timestamps of my confessions (my descriptive messages, photos of hand-washing my panties and the bruises on the insides of my thighs, scans of my handwriting copying over & over & over again what he wishes me to believe) are proof of my compliance — so that even while he sleeps, he does so satisfied that I am doing as he wishes.

(He also likes to message Blackie and Marc detailed descriptions of his opinions, and this, along with my commanded confessions, is how he finds out how to push my buttons.)

All of what he orchestrates via messages builds to a rather short phone call, during which he quickly orders performances to exploit the aches, pains, and frustrations he’s created during the day.

He knows to use physical pain to tamper with my temper, using violence to force past my anger and resentment, shoving me into a sexual ache. Oh how I ache for that orgasmic release from him — even as I hate myself for doing what he says.

Satisfied he’s got me hungry past reason, he then supervises my masturbation.

He listens to the noises I make, manipulates me by his will, if not his actual hand, and makes me beg and cry for what I desire. I beg quickly and far too easily for an orgasm. I hate it. Am humiliated by it. And he knows it. When I’m too close, he’ll order me still and silent while he speaks…

He’ll speak softly, but with an icy steel command that forces me to listen while he calls me names; tells me how it pleases him to make me, a slutty bitch who doesn’t know her real place in life, do what he says; tells me that he enjoys knowing he can make me hate him, yet reduce me to tears and begging for a release I know I won’t get…

I listen in humiliated anger and shame while he masturbates to his own blessed event.

He makes sure I know he comes. His sighs of pleasure echoed by my whimpers of desire, tiny sobs I try to hold back out of pride, and despair.

Then, in a voice that sounds like a condescending pat on the head, he tells me to go to bed “like a good girl, now — no touching, no sin, just sleep.” That’s if I’m lucky. Usually he gives me some other service to perform, to make sure my hands aren’t idle and so have no time to stray…

In any case, just before he hangs up, he laughs — at me, enjoying the knowledge that he leaves me to my aching misery.

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Tuesday, November 10th, 2009

The Gift, Explained

Some of you likely don’t care so much about this conversation which occurred after Marc left — you’d prefer I’d get on to the parts of the story in which my body is used and abused. But I think it’s important to share some of the realities of such BDSM fantasies. Not so you “believe me,” but so you understand what risks there are here… And why Blackie was willing to risk them.

Any relationship fights against boredom, but with BDSM relationships, there are often times when couples need to consider just how far they can go — and whether or not they should. Some fantasies are probably best left as fantasies; either reality will never ever live up to them, or the dangers outweigh the gifts. But how can you tell which are which? And when you are in a relationship — even one in which a partner, like myself, has given their control over their intimate sexual lives over to their Master — the two of you must either A) agree or B) the Master must bear the weight of decisions which may ruin or end the relationship. So yes, Blackie had put much thought into this seemingly ‘fast’ decision.

Blackie and I had, several times, discussed his fantasies of having me serve others at his command. His concerns were health & safety. My concerns were that by allowing others to use me, the door was opened for him to play with others. And we both worried about the possible risks to our relationship that would obviously exist outside our sex lives.

So, after Marc left, Blackie turned his attentions to me. He didn’t release me from my position — nor did he remove the ball gag — while he told me his plans. (I bet every husband has wanted to keep his wife his silent captive audience while he broke discomforting news to her, but in this case, I suppose it was really the only way he could be sure he was heard.)

“I’ve been thinking about this a very long time, Pinkie,” he began. “I know you have questions, concerns, but let me assure you that I’ve given this a lot of thought. Not just masturbatory thought — though that’s been delicious — but I’ve thought about our relationship as well… I suppose it began last year, during the golf circuit, when I saw Carmen bitching to hotel staff and I saw how those men looked at her… I toyed with offering them you in her place — and knowing how they’d looked at you, how they assumed you were the same sort of rich bitch as she, I knew they’d delight in taking their frustrations out on you — but there are health and safety concerns. I racked my brain, trying to work out how to create such scenes, how to make you serve me & my whims by serving others — and others you had no feelings for but would still see again, and so be humiliated.”

“And then it hit me; I didn’t need to look so far away — I had someone in my backyard that was drooling for such an opportunity. Marc. And along with testing your love and our agreement, along with the fun of training this novice, I would have the pleasure of using & exhausting you as never before. Now when I leave town, you’ll have your own temporary Master, you’ll play by his rules. All I needed to do was get a clean bill of health — and as his employer, that would be a snap. So I hired him. I hired him for me, for you, for us. By hiring him, he can easily travel with us on my business trips too. Because you love me, your training has been somewhat easy… It’s easy to submit to someone you love — but someone you dislike, don’t respect? Someone who by this point, has no illusions about his feelings for you — he just wants to use you, put you in your place, humiliate you. And I get to watch it, control it, hell, even orchestrate situations and conditions neither of you have thought of yet.”

“I know you are probably flattered at this point,” he mocked me, fully aware that I was nowhere near sold on the idea, let alone excited by it, “But you may be worried about Marc’s loyalty… Will he keep his mouth shut when and where needed? Of course he will. Not only does his salary & resume depend upon it, but he hungers to punish you. And his need to punish you, this bitch who rejected him, has only intensified his deep desire to explore BDSM — and who better to learn from?”

He leaned in, trailing his fingers over my bare breast, and continued, a fire bright in his eyes. “And such a pretty bit of meat to play with, abuse, and learn — and make mistakes — on!”

“All for free — no, all that and to be paid for it? No, Marc has nothing to gain from overstepping the rules.”

“And we, you & I, we have plenty to gain from this.”

At this point Blackie gently lifted me forward and freed my arms. I briskly rubbed them while I avoided his gaze. “Look at me.” I refused for a second, but before he could repeat himself I looked him squarely, defiantly in the eyes. “I’ll remove the gag now, but you will say nothing. Just get yourself ready for bed. We have company to entertain early tomorrow. And you should really save that silly prideful anger of yours for tomorrow’s play — I have a feeling it will be a long day, Pinkie dear.”

With that he said goodnight, ordered me to sleep on the sofa (so that my tossing & turning wouldn’t bother him), and went up to bed.

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Wednesday, November 4th, 2009

Birthday Wishes, Part Two

After being struck by the news that my birthday gift was to be put into some service for Marc I was understandably shocked; gagged-speechless, unable to move, there was nothing I could say or do but try to absorb the information as it came in.

Millions of concerns and questions circled in my mind… My intense dislike of Marc, though, paled in contrast to worry about the potential relationship consequences of being used by another man — did Blackie really know what he was doing to us?

As Blackie and Marc joked about how Marc would have to get himself a drink from the bar because I was “tied up at the moment,” I swallowed hard and tried to clear my head so that I could pay attention to whatever information I might learn. By the time Marc returned with his glass I thought I had composed myself; but when he sat on sofa, on the side opposite Blackie, resting his left thigh against my naked body, I jumped. At least on the inside.

Both men sat there, discussing whatever was on TV (I was completely oblivious to it by this time), as if this was just the same-old-same-old, while I tried to calm myself down. Fear was tightening in my throat. I could feel moisture growing under my arms. I tried to concentrate on slowing & controlling my breathing.

Blackie, who knows me so well, likely was aware of my efforts; so it was probably no coincidence that once I had more control of myself that the men began to talk about me — and talk about me as if I wasn’t there, or as if I were some object, not a sentient being.

“So, tomorrow morning, 8 A.M.?” Blackie casually confirmed.

“Yup, right after I do those few things on your list,” Marc replied before taking a swig from his glass, the ice tinkling as if laughing at me too.

“Because you know, we should celebrate the whole day, even if Pinkie isn’t really a morning person…” Blackie began then smugly chortled, “Not that I imagine she will sleep well at all tonight.”

“Eager little beaver, hmm?” Marc mocked.

“Oh, I imagine the anticipation will keep her as up tonight as her nipples are right now,” Blackie laughed, punctuating his point by tweaking my left nipple.

“Lovely, just lovely…” Marc said. “May I?”

“Of course!” was Blackie’s gracious reply.

And with that, Marc took a firm grip of my right nipple, slowly rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Now, that Marc, is not a flush of arousal; it’s a flush of anger,” Blackie pointed out, “A most delicious thing to see…”

“I suppose it is when you know you can wipe that smug refusal away anytime you wish,” Marc said, changing his grasp of my captured nipple from a firm rolling motion to a tight press that continued to hold as Blackie spoke.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll soon be doing what you want, when you want, no matter what her face says — in fact, you’ll do more than that. You’ll take what she believes she can refuse to give you. And, over time, you’ll soon have her dependent upon you — humiliated and hating herself for it too. And won’t that be delicious.”

Marc was silent for a moment, still holding my nipple firmly. Still silent, he jerked his hand downward, yanking my nipple and tit with it, then gave a slight twist before letting the nipple slip away and sending my breast bouncing. Then Marc stood on his feet, “Well, tomorrow we’ll start all of that, won’t we?”

He said goodbye to Blackie, then bent down before me, towering over me and looking me in the eyes, “You have sweet dreams, Pinkie, cuz tomorrow mine begin.”

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Thursday, October 29th, 2009

Birthday Wishes?

It was the Friday before my birthday weekend. I was home with Blackie. He sat on the sofa; I was sitting at his feet in his favorite position: nude, on my knees (spread wide), my arms tightly bound behind me, back arched so that my breasts are up, with my head resting (if you can call it that) on the edge of the sofa cushion as Blackie held my hair — looped around his wrist twice then held in his right hand.

In this position, I have very little range of movement (and over time, even less comfort); Blackie has full access & control. I knew he had something in mind because I was also wearing the larger ballgag — something Blackie usually reserves for very unreserved plans (or in hotel rooms etc., when we travel, to keep my noise down).

He sat, rather ignoring me, lazily playing with a riding crop in his left hand, keeping me on edge.

There was a knock at the door. I jumped. As well as I could in my position anyway. I turned my head the inch I could and rolled my eyes at him, asking if he was expecting anyone. He steadily looked me in the eyes and said, “Marc is coming by to drop off some papers.”

Marc is this young guy, just a year or two older than I, who I actually met the same night I met Blackie. Both men were in the bar, both men were hitting on me, but Marc was just, well, a slick jerk who thought he had skills as a “playa” but didn’t. He’s annoyed — and creeped me out — ever since. Something Blackie has enjoyed every time our paths have crossed, taking delight in making me be polite while Marc drooled all over me. Now Blackie was claiming Marc was here, at our home? Invited even?

Incredulous, I thought he must be joking. If there was any mirth in my eyes, Blackie stoically watched as it faded.

“It’s open, Marc,” Blackie called.

Instinctively I tried to move, even though I knew I couldn’t. I felt Blackie’s grip on my hair tighten just a second before he yanked it soundly.

Marc appeared out of the small foyer. He stopped dead in his tracks, drinking in the scene. “Damn,” he said, trying to reinstate his air of faux cool.

“Did you bring them?” Blackie asked.

“Got ‘em right here,” he said, striding fulling into the room and proffering some papers to Blackie. Blackie, I gather, waved them away with a dismissive, “I received my copies by fax this afternoon.

“Yeah?” Marc replied, who still couldn’t take his eyes off me, a miserable blush of a mess at Blackie’s feet.

“Yeah, so why don’t you tell Pinkie here, what you’ve brought,” Blackie commanded more than asked.

Marc took a few steps forward, so that he was right before me, towering over me, and placed some pages in front of me. They were at an angle, so I couldn’t read them — not that my addled brain could have made sense of even Mother Goose at that time.

“What I’ve got here, Pinkie, are papers to fuck you — and fuck with you,” he said smugly.

I think I shook my head — to clear it, or in denial, I don’t know — but I felt the hairs strained in Blackie’s grip.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Blackie breathed onto my neck, taking a nip of my left earlobe.

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Thursday, October 29th, 2009

A Quick Update For Fall

Wow, so much has happened in the past few months I’m not even sure where to begin! Well, you know I’ll begin telling stories in the order Blackie wants me to; but you get my point, right? I’ve been busy. Not just work busy (finally clearing my schedule for the remainder of the year, as I do every year at this time per Blackie’s wishes), but busy with training. Advanced training.

I do believe that I’ll be put to the telling of the training, of my pain and shame, soon — as well as be put back on the phones (though I hear NF is very confusing in Beta right now?).

So stay tunned; your patience, I hope, shall be rewarded!

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Tuesday, July 28th, 2009

Birthday Treats & Training

I’ve been undergoing some serious additional training — the details of which I will be telling you soon — but I just wanted you to know that my silence here does not mean I’ve been gone…

I believe my new schedule, including serving you via the phone, will be set soon.

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Tuesday, June 16th, 2009

The Demise Of The Three Martini Lunch Isn’t All Bad

The three martini lunch may have ended a few decades ago, but the ways I spend my lunchtime these days may be just as intoxicating for phone Masters — and it might just drive me to drink too.

Master Jim especially likes to make use of lunchtime — his & mine.

Because we are in two different time zones, he assigned me tasks for both our lunches today. First, during his lunch time, I had to do the following:

Print neatly on an index card, “I”m a slut masturbating in the bathroom for Master Jim,” take it to the bathroom and play with yourself for 10 minutes. You will not come, just make yourself so wet that after 10 minutes, you will hold up the index card with your sticky fingers & photograph it as proof and message it to me.

Then, two hours later, when it was my lunchtime:

Take two clothespins and return to the ladies’ room — not your office where you can hide — and wait for my call.

Once he called, he instructed me to pop my big tits out of my bra & place a clothespin on each nipple. Under his direction, I was then forced to twist the clothespins — trying desperately to remain silent in the public restroom so that my coworkers wouldn’t hear. While other women came in & out of the bathroom, Master Jim shamed and humiliated me…

What would happen if I made enough noise to be discovered…

What would they think of their boss, their consultant, found in the bathroom obeying a stranger, twisting her clamped nipples, the pussy juice on her thighs proof that she was a pain slut.

He was right too; the combination of nipple pain and his humiliation of me, telling me what a slut I was — especially after masturbating just hours earlier — had me very wet. In fear, shame & humiliation I whimpered & cried as silently as I could.

To make matters worse, the call only lasted five minutes — five free minutes for him to celebrate my birthday.

And he has five more minutes to use yet…

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