On The BDSM Utility Of A Modern Pedometer
The new pedometers, they’re all high-tech and they log every step you take and remote-synch it to a website if you want. There’s an app for that, you know. But I hadn’t considered all the implications. What if you have a dominant person in your life who takes an interest in your physical fitness? Kaya tells it like it can be:
He bought me a pedometer. A fancy-shmancy one. With a quick touch of the button, can tell him how many steps I’ve taken, how many calories I’ve burned, how many flights of stairs I’ve walked, how many miles I’ve walked… and, once logged into the website the device automatically syncs to, he can see all sorts of other information about my day and what I’ve been doing, including a bar graph of the hours of the day and what my activity level was at each hour. “What were you doing between 10am and noon that this thing didn’t move, cunt?” Like, srsly?
I tried shaking it to run up some numbers but somehow it seems to know the difference between actually moving my body and only moving the device. Hmmph. (What? It was for science!)
A friend referred to it as a “Pocket Scott”. Pretty accurate name, if you ask me. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it pulled out a miniature riding crop and smacked me one.
Among the many other dietary restrictions and exercise orders he’s given me (because fat), he set the minimum steps per day at 10,000.
At first I was like, pfft. 10,000 steps, I got this. I probably get that in before noon!
Turns out 10,000 is a LOT. Especially if you’re just a housecunt. Seems one doesn’t actually take that many steps cleaning the house. Who knew? (well, he did, obviously.)
The first day I was barely halfway there at dinner time. So he took me and the dogs for a walk. The next day I was a little closer but still a thousand or so away. He took us for another walk. Same routine the next day.
The day after that, the entire first part of the day was off. I was off, my body was off, I was struggling. I told him so, we talked about it, he told me to slow down and take it easy for a bit. My brain went “Sweet! Come on, body! To the couch we go!”
(Well, okay, not really. But I sure didn’t head for the treadmill.)
I knew we had plans later that day. He’d invited company over and I knew we’d be busy. I also know his expectations on housekeeping ramp up if someone is expected so I spent most of day cleaning.
Refer to: “Seems one doesn’t actually take that many steps cleaning the house.”
Long story short, we spent the evening entertaining and not walking. It was late when we got to bed, and I had a measly, shameful 4,000 steps on the counter. I showed him, he said nothing so I thought nothing and we went to bed.
The next morning he informs me I have to have 16,000 steps on the counter. At my puzzled (and slightly terrified) expression, he did the math very slowly for me. “10,000 plus the 6,000 you didn’t give me the day before equals— equals what, cunt? How many? Come on, you can do it.”
Smug, sanctimonious bastard, ain’t he?
Oh, I did the math alright. In my snottiest voice. I’d been busy doing what he wanted me to do the day before and now I was being punished for it? I then proceeded to tell him that if his house wasn’t clean and his dinner wasn’t on the table, to not get mad at me because I can’t do everything if he’s got me out walking stupid fucking laps!
“Oh, you’ll do it.” he said, very quietly and very matter of fact.
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