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Tag: serving

Monday, June 20th, 2011

Birthday Specials

Tuesday is my birthday, and Blackie would like to give you the gift of me.

Member Masters have already been given their special options, but the rest of you can join the celebration too… Simply message me at NiteFlirt and tell me which gift you’d like:

* Five free minutes for a call with me. (If you’re new to NiteFlirt, you can use these with the free three minutes for new members! Email me at pinkieandblackie@gmail.com and I’ll send you an invitation.) Free minutes are good for 60 days.

* One half-price assignment. (To be redeemed within 60 days.)

* One free day, during these 48 hours, as a Member Master with full access to all the Bound Posts.

So, if you’d like to give me the birthday blues via a bruise, play with lighted candles, frost my tits with your own personal icing, give me birthday spankings, or, well, whatever you wish, be sure to contact me at NiteFlirt (that way we’re all sure we’re consenting adults!) in the next 48 hours and tell me how you’d like to celebrate my birthday!

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Thursday, June 16th, 2011

Protected: A Homecoming For Three (Which Doesn’t End Well For Me!)

Blackie’s been away for days. When he returned home, but he didn’t say a word to me.

What have I done? I wonder.

He sits in his chair and just waits.

I sit at his feet, hoping to appease.

This is the scene when Marc arrives.

He greets Blackie with a quick hello. Blackie nods as Marc sits in his own chair.

Silence engulfs the room; uncertainty sits on my shoulders, and a chill runs down my back causing me to physically shudder.

“Strip, holes,” orders Marc.

I nervously stand and begin to undress. First the t-shirt, which I begin to fold.

“No time for that, holes,” Marc barks. “Just leave them on the floor.”

I drop the top, peel down the straps of my bra and reach around my back. When I unclasp it, it falls to the floor. I unbutton my jeans, shrug them off my hips, let gravity do the rest. I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my pink panties and tug them down until they lay nestled into and on top of the jeans. I step out of the clothes at my feet, then use my toes to remove my little white socks.

“Crawl here, holes,” Marc commands.

I hate crawling, especially to him. Reflexively my eyes seek Blackie, some unconscious desire to have him save me… Or seeking his approval. But his face is stone.

So I sink to my knees and begin to crawl the 12 feet to where he sits.

It seems like a mile in the silence.

Just before I reach him he raises his hand, like you do with a dog, ordering me to sit.

I do.

“Been awhile since you’ve had an orgasm, I hear,” Marc rhetorically asks, amused.

I say nothing. It’s not like I was actually asked a question.

“Been awhile since you’ve even had a hand laid on you too,” he continues his mocking. “Bet you’re aching for it.”

I remain silent. My thoughts more on what Blackie’s thinking than anything else — until Marc speaks again.

“Ask me to fuck you in the ass.”

I hate being fucked in the ass. It hurts. Plus, Blackie never fucks me in the ass — which makes me think it’s dirty and I’ve no desire to appear a dirty used whore fucked in the ass in front of him.

“Say it,” Marc says, with that threatening tone in his voice.

This time I’m afraid to look at Blackie. I know this must be some sort of a test — a combination punishement test. I’m afraid of disappointing him. And afraid of disgusting him too.

Keeping my eyes lowered I quietly say, “Please fuck me in the ass.”

“Ask me properly…” Marc says. I can hear the arch of his eyebrows in his voice.

I sigh and manage to say what he wishes, “Please, Marc, fuck me in my asshole”

“If you want it that bad, then assume the position,” he replies.

I turn around on my knees, put the side of my face on the floor — facing away from Blackie, place my hands on my ass cheeks and spread them.

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Tuesday, May 31st, 2011

Coffee, Tea AND Me?

Sent in by The Farmer:

For those who just love the idea of fresh milk for their coffee (or tea), can anything be better than breast milk fresh from the teat? Forced lactation has many merits.

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Friday, May 6th, 2011

Serving Milk & Cookies

Once you’ve got the milk, how about having her serve some cookies?

Via Sex Is A Red-Blooded Thing.

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Saturday, April 30th, 2011

Go Wait Outside

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Thursday, April 28th, 2011

Recipe For Forced Lactation

The Farmer sent this in response to my research about HuCows and forced lactation:

It takes discipline and time to force a milk supply quantities substantial enough to meet our requirements.

In order to get your nipples and areolas tough enough to handle what’s ahead, every time you’re washed, rough loofah sponges will be applied until your areolas are red, puffy and sore. To be certain there are no small scrapes to be infected, rubbing alcohol will be applied. Then oils and lotions will be applied to your udders via vigorous massages.

For the first three days, your udders will also be used every six hours to effectively stimulate hormone levels. Likely this will involve abusive acts of clamping and rough tit fucks by members who delight in talking your freshly abraded sore nipples while you cry.

On day four, your udders will be suckled upon by greedy mouths every four hours for a minimum of 20 minutes. This is in addition to any other activities to stimulate your udders and hormone levels — as well as meeting any other needs we have.

Of course, you’ll have other duties to perform, things to submit to, during this time.

After three weeks, we’ll begin milking those udders with our hands after the 20 minutes of sucking.

By week four, you’ll have some milk coming in — and that’s when we must work on increasing the volume of milk by putting you on the milking machine. For five to ten minutes at the low level every four hours at first, replacing the human sucking and milking (save for community members who want to take milk as they wish). To increase milk production, we’ll then increase the amount of time and level of suction power over time. Along with monitoring your milk production, we’ll be monitoring — and controlling — your whorish cow in estrus breeding need responses.

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Tuesday, April 5th, 2011

My Name Is Holes

A report on my task for Master Member Damon.

First I had to watch this video:

 

 

Then I had to begin my repetitive writing task. I had to write “my name is holes. i’m just meat Damon uses to entertain himself.” by hand. Over and over again, three pages full — while replaying the video over and over again. Her screams were both unnerving and quite distracting.

I had to turn send it to him on time — I think I just made it. Then post my task here, sharing the last page.

Now I await his appraisal of how I did…

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Saturday, March 12th, 2011

Confessing Things I’m Afraid Of Continues…

Following Blackie’s order that I confess five things I am afraid of, today’s confession is about that farmer fellow

Here are parts of email exchanges from him which I think rather nicely encapsulates the severity of what he’s talking about:

Many have pets, puppies and kittens they allow to be companion animals; I’m looking for a particular piece of livestock.

As an a piece of livestock in our community, we’ll control when, where, how and what you sleep, eliminate bodily waste, menstruate, produce milk, bathe, cry, laugh, come.

…We’ll decide when and what you eat — and you will be producing some of your own food, cow.

This isn’t some cuddly pet ownership; livestock is expected to perform duties.

…Like many human – animal relationships, part of your worth is how much you entertain us. You won’t be fetching tennis balls, or sitting at feet purring and awaiting use; no, as livestock you’ll be judged in public shows and competitions — along with providing private entertainment.

Where to begin?

Marc has often complained that Blackie treats me too much like a pampered pet, so I know he finds this sort of thing more to his liking… But can even he imagine or go far as to control when I “eliminate bodily waste, menstruate, produce milk,” etc.?

That’s as base as it gets.

I can’t even wrap my mind about how all this is done…

For that reason, Blackie has ordered me to do some research, to ask the farmer himself what he has in mind… Obviously the latter has me terrified.

But perhaps what’s most on my mind is why Blackie is even entertaining such talks… Is this something he really wants me to do? Or is this just some investigative work into my fears, my mind…

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Friday, March 11th, 2011

A Confession A Day (Number Two)

Continuing to obey the command that I confess five things I’m afraid of

Today’s confession is regarding a physical fear. Ever since Marc — with a gleam in his eye — showed me this photo from Sex and Submission, I’ve been worried that I’ll have to carry out his fantasy.

I don’t want that hook in my ass. I know it’s not so pointy as to pierce or cut… (It isn’t right?) But it looks like something you’d find a dead cow on in a butcher’s shop or slaughterhouse. *shiver*

What a message that you are just meat.

And to have it tied to your hair, Marc using it as leverage or to steady himself — or just for his thrills, while fucking me… It’s too much, really.

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Wednesday, March 9th, 2011

Confessing Things I’m Afraid Of, Number One

There have been a lot of changes here at Chez Blackie…

Some I’ve resisted discussing because I haven’t felt brave enough to talk about them when I’m not even sure how I feel about them myself. As usual, Blackie orders me to confess my fears — in part to enjoy the delicious exploitation of it, but also to help me find my way out of the murky bewilderment of fear and confusion.

He cloaked his order in a “confess 5 things you are afraid of” task — which I’m sure is partly a test to see if I confess this one big thing. He’s also commanded that I confess each fear, one at a time, giving each it’s exploratory due; so there will be (at least) four more confessions this week.

But here’s the big relationship one…

Blackie wants me to hand my business over to him. Officially it ill be a sale of the business, with money going into my bank account for that Female Rainy Day Protection Fund. But the woman in me knows selling my company, even with cash in hand, means more dependence upon Blackie. And, should the worst occur, getting back into the business won’t be as simple as setting up shop once again… Time away is blank on a resume or portfolio.

There are pragmatic reasons for such a sale. Much of my work is done for Blackie’s company, so it makes sense for his bottom line to do more in house — keeping my employees employed and money still in our pockets. Blackie’s work forces him to travel a lot and he’d like me by his side (or under his thumb lol) more — which the sale of the business would allow.

But I can’t help but worry-wonder what else he has up his sleeve…

I’ve been around Blackie long enough to know he’s shrewd enough to have more on his agenda than his corporate bottom line — what plans does he have for my ass?

Further convincing me that this is more about our lifestyle than money or even our relationship, are his continued talks with that farmer fellow

I don’t think this decision is a make-or-break one in terms of our wedded bliss — Blackie’s style isn’t to force or make ultimatums; he prefers I acquiesce and submit to his desires as softly as a kitten. But if I do not agree, will there be lingering resentment? If so, his — or mine because I will never know the road not taken? Of course, if I do take the plunge, will I like the waters I find myself in?

I tell myself if I knew what his ultimate intentions were, it would be more fair or at least easier to decide… But then I know that’s not what he wants. He wants me to trust in his choices, to submit to them always, no matter how they test me, body and soul. So knowing what his full intentions are would come at the cost of failure to at least trust that far… Which, I suppose means, that if I am to succeed, I must say, “Yes, Sir.”

But I cannot find peace with that yet.

…Though can anyone find peace until after then have made the choice?

The future, my future, is filled with uncertainty.  I know most of the future is just that, uncertain. But times like this, when you are faced with a choice, you know you are responsible for most of what lies ahead and you want to do the right thing.  After all, you are going to have to live with it. And the fact that it was your call. For many submissives, this is one thing they believe they are handing over when they’ve got themselves a Master.  I suppose for a great many of them, that is true. But not all BDSM relationships are so simple.

Ours is a relationship built on less cut-and-dried certitudes.  It’s a more complicated tangle of lifestyle and bedroom choices that we’ve built over time… Perhaps if we had met as Master and subject, the lines would have been more crisp and defined, but the evolution of our relationship wasn’t that way.  It’s been a discovery — and sets of navigations and negotiations along the way. Where we find ourselves is not as neatly defined as many BDSM sites would tell you. This isn’t just fantasy; it’s our reality.  We have to live here, love here.

So now that I’m faced with a situation in which changing things doesn’t just affect the “Lifestyle” of BDSM but rather one which changes our actual style of life — and all that implies in terms of finances, attitudes, daily activities, etc. — I’m stymied.

I have to wrap my head around my feminist ideas of bread-winning equality, public reputation, the dreaded “what if our marriage ends?” and other practical matters and attitudes I’ve held all my life.  I also have to line those ideals up with the actual relationship I am in… What does being submissive and, indeed, being in a submissive lifestyle mean to me — in this specific relationship?  What prices am I willing to pay? What rewards could there be? What is my own personal identity and how do my actions reflect that?

Am I just playing Lifestyle BDSM house? Or am I committed to this relationship, despite all my teachings and beliefs about keeping myself safe as a woman?

It’s one thing to accept spankings, to be woken up after just two hours of sleep to suck cock simply because he says so, or even to subject myself to the sexual orders of another man because he wishes it; but completely another thing to divest myself of my professional identity, of the company I built, to know that he holds the financial power and all the clout which comes with it.

Just how far am I willing to go?

And just how far does Blackie want to take all this?

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