M. told me yesterday afternoon to make sure that the house (or at least the bedroom) was warm when he got home. I got an instant pussy clinch and then full-on body thrill. Wait. He never plays with me at night, and never when he’s just driven home three hours. (Making it my job to keep the house warm? Evil. Why didn’t he live in Texas, damn it? Whine.)

Thursdays are long days for me. I’ve got to re-sort how much shit I need to do on Thursdays, man. Somehow adding milking chores back into my routine is really stretching my ability to keep the fuck up with everything. It’s harvest time in the garden, too, so I’m canning a lot, and now I’ve got all the milk to keep up with. Who the hell’s idea was it to get a cow? Oh. Right. Oops. But I have three sets of things I got canned this week all still sitting out to make him proud of me. (Peach jam, sweet corn and corn relish. Go me.) (Also? I don’t know where the hell he’s going to store them. Not My Job. Plus, shelves full!)

Getting ready for him entails time that I don’t have a lot of. I’ve got all the shaving to do, plus I try to scrub the ground-in dirt off of my hands and feet, and that’s a huge chore. Farming is dirty, dirty work. As much as I love my Crocs, I really should come up with a cleaner solution. But he made me giggle last Monday when he was tying me up and said he was going to have to keep my feet out of any photos. Oops. Sorry, M.!

It takes me 15 minutes to braid my hair, but he likes me to have bumpy hair, so I’ve got to get it up so it looks cool when he tells me to take it down. (I love it when he (anyone) tells me to take my hair down. Hottest thing ever.) I wish my shoulder would heal a little faster. I still have to take lots of breaks to rest it, which makes braiding a little tricky.

I was juggling two canners, a batch of cheese, baking bread for us and muffins for the CSA in the kitchen yesterday. Those muffins came out divine, though. The CSA folks have all been asking me what I did, and the answer makes me laugh: Add twice the butter to the batter, then dip them in butter and roll in sugar. What wouldn’t taste better with that answer, really? And yet I’m the thinnest I’ve been in my adult life. Go figure. I don’t eat much, though. I still keep forgetting. I eat more when M.’s here because he demands food on a pretty strict schedule. He likes having a personal chef, and I love cooking for him.

Not thin enough yet, though. Damn it. I’m working on it. M. left my chainsaw all sharpened up, gassed up, and I didn’t forget to use it this week as expected. I posted on Facebook that I was a bit of a princess about my chainsaw, which is true. It feels like True Love when he does all the servicing of it and all I have to do is use it. Using it is an awful lot like work, but I think about how strong and thin it’s making me. I want him to be proud of all I accomplished, and the wood pile is proof. See how much I got done, M.!

I was huffing and puffing to get the sheets changed on the bed before he drove up, but I got it done, barely. The kitchen didn’t get done and nothing got vacuumed, but he didn’t get upset at coming home to a messy house. Whew. That’s one thing I miss from my old life: the cleaning lady. It’s been Grand Central Station around here lately, and it’s just a mess in here. I’ve got someone coming on Monday from out of town, so serious sanitizing MUST happen this weekend.

After I babbled at him about a million things when he got home, he finally told me to get my clothes off and put cuffs on me. I still had the collar locked on from last weekend, and noticed a couple of times this week that I forgot to hide it, in front of people who probably really shouldn’t have seen it. Oops. I’ve got to be more careful about that. (See: Grand Central Station, above.)

He hooked my hands to the bed, one to the post, one to the center thingy, and fucked me for hours, I swear. My tits are so sore this morning from all the nipple twisting. He says he uses them as a lubrication knob. When he wants me wetter, he hurts me more. I don’t remember coming. I don’t think he let me. That’s not very nice. I remember lots of face slapping, too.

He says I may get to come when he plays with me at lunch today. Woo. I wonder how he’s going to play with me today? Just knowing he is going to has my pussy all twitchy.

Milking the cow this morning with cuffs locked on was weird, just for the record.

I looked at the photos from Monday on his camera and don’t like them, boo. It was way hotter in my head. He took red rope and tied me to the post in the living room, then put one of the face harness things on and tied that up above. I could barely move at all. Then he got out the singletail and drove me out of my mind. I didn’t handle the pain at all well and he just Would Not Let Up. He even sounded all disappointed, that I was “too sensitive”. I made sure to show him the bruises all over my pussy and at the tops of my thighs when he was checking out my shaving job last night. Huh, he said. Just “huh”.