Morning has broken

It’s the tinge of light before day. It slides its way over the horizon, forcing apart the heavens of night. She wakes from her light sleep. Although her bonds are comfortable, she never sleeps deeply. She wants to be ready at any time, to respond to her Master’s wishes.

She rolls onto her back and adjusts her arms, making sure that her breasts are completely uncovered. Her wide leather collar has four rings. Each of her wrists is attached to the rings on the sides. The ring in the middle holds a chain that is connected to her clithood collar. From the fourth and final ring behind her neck runs a chain that is attached to the bed.

The chain from her clit is taut and every movement of her head tugs her pink flesh. Her legs are cuffed together and a chain from her pussy rings connects to her ankles. The chain is not quite long enough for her to stretch out her legs. She spent the night in the foetal position, careful not to lift her head or uncurl her legs. Now lying on her back, she has to pull her knees up

She was always a restless sleeper but her nights of bondage had taught her that whether she would sleep or not and if so, how, would be as her Master wished her too. Some nights she slept as his animal, chained to the bottom of his bed, curled up on the floor. Other nights she would spend in her cage. ’Training nights’ were times when she slept in her slut boots, bound, strapped to the bed, not able to move an inch. She was always bedded down by her Master and always bound in some way. She lived as a slave, slept as a slave and woke ready to serve and please.

She could hear sounds from outside her cell. Her Master had woken and was coming to release her. She made one last check that her body was positioned attractively. She wished she could reach her hair to smooth it down, but she couldn’t.

‘Good morning Master’

‘Woke early did we slave?’

‘Yes, Master.’

He unlocked the chain from her ankles and released the cuffs. He tapped on the inside of her leg and she immediately spread them as wide as she could. He ran a hand along her pussy and up to her clit, checking her collar.

‘Happy to see your Master?’

He brought his hand up to her mouth and she smelt her slavery. She licked his hand greedily, sucking his fingers, removing herself from his flesh.

‘Yes, Master.’

He unlocked the chain connecting her to the bed and released her wrist cuffs from her neck collar, reconnecting them together in front.

‘Look at those nipples, hard and erect, perking for their Master. Pussy, wet and pulsing.You’re such a slut, you can’t get enough can you?’

‘I’m a slut. Your slut Master’

‘Are you?’

He lifts her head and starts gathering her hair into a pony tail. He wraps the hair around his hand and pulls her onto the floor. On her hands and knees she feels him pull her and she crawls along behind, her pussy leash trailing on the floor.

They reach the Master bedroom and he clicks and points to the end of the bed. She scuttles down to the end of the bed and waits kneeling, head on floor.

“My slut animal needs to be beaten I think, don’t you?’

“Yes, Master. Yes, please Master”

He attaches a spreader bar to her ankles and pulls her over the end of the bed. Pulling her hands out in front and attaching them to the top of the bed, He picks up her pussy leash and tugs.

‘Who owns this?”

“You do Master.”

“Who do you love?”

“You Master.”

“Then you’ll be happy as I beat you, won’t you?”

“Yes, Master. I’m happy to be used by you in any way Master.”

The leather strap made the most delightful sound. A slap and a smack all in one.

“One. Thank you Master”

Smack. It reverberated through her belly and her pussy.

“Two. Thank you Master”

Stingy, ouchie, heat.
She could feel her cheeks warming and getting red and it went on. It brought tears to her eyes and she bit down on her lip, muffling any sound. It always went on until her Master was finished.

“I almost forgot your favourite thing, slut.”

He lubed her ass and she felt as the butt plug was pushed up against her. She breathed out and tried to relax, letting it enter and fill her. She felt her ass accommodate the new addition and her stinging cheeks and her stretched ass pounded into her consciousness- slave, slut, fuck toy, animal…

“So we need to go back and start again, now that you’ve got your favourite toy in.”

“Yes Master”

“One. Thank you Master…Two. Thank you Master….Three….”

She knew there had to be a word for what she was feeling.




Nothing really quite seemed to be able to describe it.
Then suddenly she knew.

She embraced the thought, welcomed it. Spun it around and gazed at it from all angles. In her mind, she treasured it, polished it, cherished it and knew she really was living it.

It was her life.

The slave within

The slave within me abhors freedom.
She knows she cannot be free. She feels her existence as a free woman is a joke-it’s a character, a role she plays, it’s not really her.

The slave within me is base.
She knows she is an animal. She belongs on the floor at her Master’s feet. She grovels, she begs. She wants to be worthy, she wants to be deserving.

The slave within me is pure obedience.
She does what she is told without a qualm, without hesitation. She revels in having direction and knowing her place.

The slave within me is beautiful.
She has grace and finesse. She is pleasing to the eye and knows her body is on display at all times.

The slave within me is a slut.
She is a vessel and loves to have her holes filled. Her slavery keeps her wet, she is ready for use in any way at any time.

The slave within me is for use.
Her purpose is to be used in any way that her Master desires. She is an animal. She is a fucktoy. She is an object. She is property.

The slave within me is marked.
Her Master has marked her as his property. Anyone who looks at her knows she is a slave. She cannot hide what she is, there is no doubt.

The slave within me is controlled.
She has rules and routines, rituals and tasks. She lives according to her Master’s wishes. Her life is as he prescribes.

The slave within me is mentally bound.
She feels her slavery. She knows who she is. Her Master feeds her mentally. His touch on her mind keeps her in submission.

The slave within me is physically bound.
She wears constant reminders on the body that is no longer hers. She is restrained, she is caged, she is contained.

The slave within me feels discomfort.
She endures pain, she balances on the edge. Her Master pushes her because he can. She lives at his mercy and by his whims.

The slave within me serves.
She gains pleasure through serving her Master and those he wishes her to serve. Service fulfills her as a slave.

The slave within me is grateful.
She longs to repay and show her gratitude to her Master. She worships his feet in the hope that she will be worthy enough to worship his cock.

The slave within me craves touch.
She is a sensual being. She needs contact and closeness. She depends on her Master’s touch to soothe the beast within her.

The slave within me loves.
She loves her Master and pleasing him. She loves her slavery and service. She loves being able to be as she should be


Seeing the six walls, the eight corners and one entry point I see Mecca. It’s my light and my darkness, my freedom and my confinement. It surrounds and fills me, covers me up and soothes me. It’s my place, my home, my cage.

To feel the cool metal and know it cocoons me, is an indescribable feeling. It is quintessential slavery. I am an animal that should be caged, I should be confined and I should be locked up-not knowing if and when I am to be released.

A cage is quite different to any other confinement space. While in the cage you are still on display, you can still be poked and prodded, you can still receive tidbits from the outside world and there isn’t a centimeter that you can hide in. You are still a part of the world, not shut away and ignored, but your part of the world is trapped in a ‘bubble’ and until the door is unlocked and the bubble pops, dissipating back into the other, you are separate. I wonder if there will come a day when I will shy away from that open door.

I am to spend my first night in the cage. When a new slave comes, they are always kept in a holding pen like livestock. Cramped and confined, they are shown what their existence is to be-always at the mercy of their owner, always dependent for the simple freedoms free people have for food, water and toilet facilities.

Master swats my bottom as I crawl into the cage, urging me deeper forward. I hear the door close and the sound of a padlock being clicking into place. My wrists, ankles and collar are all joined together with chains. A cover is draped over the cage and I’m in darkness.

“Sleep tight slave.”

It is so small and cramped, I wonder how I’m going to do anything but kneel on all fours, let alone sleep. But I manage to work myself into a foetal position. Curled up so tightly with the wire digging into my back and bottom I know my body will be screaming in a few hours. But that is how it should be and I won’t complain. I’ll revel in feeling the pain as I finally stretch out my muscles, because only a slave can and does so because of their Master.

I’ll lay there tugging on my bonds every now and then, tracing over the wire with my fingers, pushing the door with my feet to feel that I’m secure. And I’ll lay there praying to whatever god is out there, thanking him for my fate, my destiny as Master’s slave.


Not of the winged variety, but of the stomach-churning, want-to-pee-all-the-time-because-I’m-so-nervous-kind. Those are the type of butterflies I have when I think that this time two weeks from now I’ll be heading off on that big silver bird to Perth.

I worry about starting a new life. I worry about whether Master will be pleased. I worry about losing my freedom through my choice.

I have a lot of love/hate relationships with things- canes, pain…. freedom. I continually want to give up my freedom, I want to lose my ability to choose and thereby embrace my slavery, but at the same time I fight and hold onto my freedom with dear life as I feel it slipping through my fingers. I have all the hang-ups of a free woman –does my bum look big in this? am I going grey? why do I have to have so much hair in the wrong places and so little in the right? But as Master said to me last night,

“It doesn’t matter. You are mine now and you have no choice.”

But does that reality release me from worrying about things that although I very rarely have the power to change, I feel an insatiable need to strive to change?
I know there’s no point fretting about these things, but I do and that’s that.

I love being in that space that he puts me in because in that space I lose my consciousness of self. When I’m deep in that space I cease to worry about whether my tummy is sticking out as I am kneeling, whether my hair is all mussed up. In that space I accept myself because Master has given me the permission, the freedom, to exist within the confines of my slavery. Within those confines is where I want to be and to be able to please Master is all I want to do.

I used to go downtown and be amongst people, knowing they were looking at me and staring, thinking things, judging me. It was like I shouldn’t be there. I was an outsider and that feeling of ‘sticking out’ used to make me break out into a sweat and I’d fidget and avoid eye contact and sometimes completely forget what I was shopping for. But then there are other times when I’m in my boots and feeling confident that I can walk around like I own the place. Listening to the sound as I walk, feeling my hips roll, knowing that soon I’m going to be pierced and marked and spend my days where I am supposed to be, with the permission to be what I really am, knowing that I will belong.

A butterfly’s metamorphosis is a primordial change. Irreversible and consequential though it may be, they gain beauty and the power of flight. Who would have thought that those grubs had it in them?


They say that everything is a learning process and I’m certainly feeling that the learning process has begun.

I’ve always been attracted to rules and protocol-prescribed things to dice up and define my life. I’m systematic, like things organized and I become exceptionally stressed when things don’t have places. Staying at people’s places or sharing flats and dorm rooms has always been an interesting exercise in patience and coping. I don’t like having things in plastic bags, rifling around to find what I want.

Master has been introducing me to the rules and rituals that will define my slavery. Everyday I learn another way in which my life will be made different, another way in which I am to please Master through obedient service.

Yesterday’s lesson was that I am to continue doing what I was told to do until I am instructed differently. Today’s lesson was that I am to worship Master’s feet before he goes to work and when he gets home. I am to be waiting for Master by the door, dressed as he wishes me to be dressed, leash held in mouth, ready to be lead. I will ask permission to enter Master’s bed. I will ask permission to eat or drink anything other water. Bedtime will be 9-9:30pm.

I will feel Master’s hand holding my leash at all times. He will proscribe the smallest details of my life. I am his property and he does with me as he wishes. No other choices, no other reality exists.

I licked the carpet greedily this morning, imagining that it was Master’s feet, feeling the need to touch him with even the smallest part of my body. I need to be touched, need to be fondled, need to know that this body can be used and abused at any time, at all times.

This morning Master also wanted my orgasm. My orgasms are elusive. I can’t seem to find them. I want to serve them up to Master on a silver platter, but I can’t. It makes me so upset and frustrated.

You will give me your orgasms, won’t you?

I don’t know what to say. The need, the want and the will to give them is there, but I don’t know if I can. The only way I think I’ll be able to release them is if they are taken from me.

I got all teary this morning. I’d already made a mistake. Things would have been better if I could have given Master an orgasm. But it wasn’t to be.

So I went for a swim and pushed. Pushed and prodded until I felt I’d done what needed to be done. Tired.


I woke early this morning-partly due to my relatively early night and partly from my bladder telling me to ‘get up now!’ It was about 6am (4am where Master is) and I knew Master was no-where close to getting up. So I waited and dozed…waited a bit more…dozed some more and my brain started to take refuge from my bladder’s insistent calls for attention in my imagination.

I stretched my legs apart and held my wrists near my neck. I was imagining what it would be like to be cuffed with ankles to spreader bar and wrists to collar. Then I imagined a chain running from my clit collar to nipple clamps and a wide leather collar around my neck.I was held tightly to the bed with cargo straps, unable to move at all. I could hear a dull murmur from somewhere near my bladder but the inferno in my belly was too much. Wetter than wet and burning up.

By this time it was 8am and I was thinking that Master would be getting up soon, so I waited. I waited in my little slave sanctuary, my bed, where I can be with Master and as long as I am there I don’t have to be here in my reality, alone and pining away for what is geographically impossible.

8:54am and the phone rang. I closed my eyes in rapture and relief. It was Master and he was going to free me. Almost an hour later and I emerged used and content. Kneeling head down, bum up and never happier (although the creaks my knees made when I stood up made me wonder if I was 29 going on

At 10:34am I finally tore myself out of bed. I’d been lying there for four and a half hours while I summoned the courage to go out into the vanilla world and start another day in the skin that’s not mine.
But as a consolation, my bladder did thank me.

Master drills me with questions- constant, repeated. He makes me answer until there is no other answer in my mind, until I can see the glaring truth that he is my first one and true owner. It is also a type of training. He poses rules and rituals as questions, confirming my desire to carry them out and please him. Through these sessions when I am in my space and I am slave and nothing more, I am learning what is expected of me-how I will greet Master, how I will eat, how I will count off and thank Master as he beats me.

Sometimes he asks questions that I cannot answer. I become confused and unsure. I fall silent because I feel that saying anything other than “Yes, Master” or “No, Master” is sacrosanct. Master is my god and in his house words seem sacrilegious. Questions like, “Why do you love your Master?” “Describe to me your slavery.” So many times there is no answer other than “Because you are my Master” or “It just is.” I cannot put into words what I feel…so I wait in silence.


I spent a little time looking through my clothes today, physically splitting them into two piles, “Casual slut toy” and “Other”. After I’d split them into piles I was both disappointed and relieved- I’ve got more “Other” than other!

I’ve done a lot of lugging around of my life and every time I lug it somewhere new, I think about how little I really need to subsist. And this time I think I’ll need even less. More and more my slavery fills my life- filling in those gaps that I plugged with trivialities. I can’t think of anything else but being owned, and time I spend on other things feels like a waste. I bought some books and have read 5 pages. Anything that takes me from Master is something I resent.

We had a little discussion about love last night. I’ve definitely felt a feeling growing inside over these past few weeks. I’ve never been able to put my finger on it and define it to my satisfaction but it’s a feeling of wanting to devote myself, to focus on, to please, to give my all and in many ways to ‘surrender’. It is a feeling that gives me a “higher purpose” and direction. I feel proud that I have an owner who cares enough about me to hurt me, who wants to control me and help me become better and grow. I want to be able to repay my gratitude to Master with impeccable service so I strive to utilize the encouragement he bestows upon me to please.

A cover makes the book

I’ve always bought books according to how much I like the covers-great colours, lovely pictures, anything with a nice cover became a part of my collection.

Covers are just like clothes. Change the clothes and the person becomes richer, more attractive. I like to dress up- spend a couple of hours choosing clothes, doing make up, adding the accessories and shoes. It’s a chance for me to change my cover and pull out what I have inside.

I think it’s a surprise to those around me to see that other side of me. Like today.

03:00am I finally go to sleep
06:40am First phone call from Master (love those morning calls!love that the first voice I hear in the morning is Master’s)
10:30am Second phone call from Master giving me my instructions for what to wear to my lunch date with my bestfriend-something bright, only bra allowed, suspender belt and stockings, big earrings, bright red nailpolish, hair in ponytail, bright red lipstick.
10:45am Panic attack- where are my stockings? what can I wear? where are my earrings? how can I shower, paint toe and finger nails, get dressed, do makeup and take pics before noon???
10:46am Search for purple top, pull out nail polish, start painting…
11:15am Finish painting, get dressed
11:35am Start makeup
11:45am Get sms saying they’d be picking me up in 10mins…
11:54am Doorbell rings
11:54:30am Friend’s partner nearly keels over when I answer the door wearing what I am
11:55am Leave friend’s partner waiting on verandah while I race around gathering phone etc.
11:56am Off to lunch

I thought Master would approve of what I was wearing-vampy, not too slutty, but nice. I was beaming when I sent the pics, called Master and he told me I looked lovely. It was a relief to know that he was pleased and such a lovely feeling to know that he cared.

I’ve never dressed for me, I’ve always only dressed me for others.

On display….sometimes. On display as Master’s slave….always.

My world

I feel the absence of presence
I feel the hollow in my heart
And I weep.
I have no more life to give.

The darkness greets me
Embraces me, envelops me
Conceals me from myself.
I have no more breath to breathe.

The emptiness engulfs me, eats me,
Consumes my soul.
I am dry.
My warmth bleeds away,
and I weep in isolation.

My crystal chamber, deadly shards.
Jagged mirrors, ragged flesh.
Bleeding, dripping, crimson beads of laughter.
Blood baubles decorate my world.

Eighty laps

I’m always amazed by what I can do when I put my mind to it.

Things I’ve done, places I’ve been, sights I’ve seen….I think about them now and wonder “How did I do it?” It’s amazing what you can do when you have purpose,a focus, a reason for being.

I’ve never been good at self-motivation. I prefer gym instructors who yell at you, people next to you in the pool who swim faster and make you swim harder. I find it tough to be alone, doing things just for me. But now I’m not alone and I am not doing things for myself. There isn’t really very much of ‘me’ left at all.

So I’m happy on a very deep level. It’s not the fleeting happiness where you smile for a minute and then it’s gone, it’s a joy that resides in me, that fills me and makes me feel whole.


I can’t seem to get onto my knees fast enough. Pushing myself into the carpet, wishing that I could get lower. Head down, legs apart, two of my holes open and ready for display. It feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Who owns you?

The reality beats down on me. There is no other answer.

You do Master

Bricks and rope

Something that you said to me a while ago Master, seems to be so relevant now and is stuck in my mind:

“You don’t teach a person to swim by tying a brick around their waist and throwing them in the deep end.”

I’m feeling a little now like I’m unable to float near the surface, where it’s safe. I’m being dragged to the bottom and I have all these little niggling worries and doubts that are pulling me down faster.

I’ve come out of something that was easy. There were almost no expectations. I did my little bit, lived my life basically as I wanted and although I found it lacking in the essential aspects of slavery that I craved, I wasn’t pushed out of my comfort zone very much at all and it was an “easy” slavery.

These last six months I have had almost zero training. I can count the number of times I was used on one hand. I was hardly caned or whipped and my pain tolerance is so low at the moment it’s sad.

So now I’m scared. Things are moving forward so fast that I can barely keep up. I don’t know if I can do these things. I don’t know what I want anymore.

Sleeping last night in my boots with my ankles bound together, it was so uncomfortable. I don’t know if it’s something that I will ever get used to. I felt claustrophibic and it made me panic a little.

I don’t know if I will be able to walk in my slut boots. I don’t know if I can be graceful, if I can kneel and hold position for so long. I don’t know what it will feel like to be marked and pierced. I don’t know if being whipped until I cry is something I can endure. These are things that I think a slave should do. I just don’t know if I am that slave.

So many things I have never done before, never felt before.I want to do them because I know it would please you Master and it worries me like nothing on earth that I won’t be able to.

My fantasies are clear. But they are fantasies and nothing more. Without being there, without feeling it, I have no idea what I can and can’t do, what I will like and hate. Not that it matters whether I like or hate what is required, but Master you always asks if that is what I want, if that is what turns me on.I find the ideas exciting but I have no idea about the reality.

I have worked my mind around the idea of having my clit collared Master. It was to happen much later but you have decided that it will happen sooner rather than later. It is something that I have come to accept and embrace.

Having my pussy pierced and padlocked is something that I am still dealing with the idea of. I want you to gain pleasure from all of my holes equally Master.I’ve loved anal play. It gives me a very strong feeling of being used. It’s humiliating and objectifying and I feel as though my pleasure really has nothing to do with it, that another one of my holes is providing pleasure and that all of me can be used. But in some ways it saddens me to think that my pussy will not be used.

I can’t deny that I get a lot of pleasure out of being used. For me, it is not 100% about giving pleasure to others- I’m not that pure a slave. I want to be used in certain ways, have certain fantasies played out. I have a need to receive pleasure too and having my needs met keeps me happy. It doesn’t sound like a very slavish way to be…

When you talk to me Master, my mind goes completely blank. There is just you and your voice and I hang off every word. I can’t put into words how I feel, I can’t tell you what I think, I can’t describe what I want to do. It’s like I’m hollow. I have urges to say yes or no and I manage to squeeze out a “Yes, Master” or a “No, Master” and then sometimes things you say scare me on a certain level, but I can’t vocalise how I feel.

I think I need some floaties until I learn to stand on the bottom.

In reply to a friend

I’ve always found discomfort hot. Being tied in positions where if you stretch it pulls on something (like hands cuffed behind back and attached with a chain to nipple clamps etc.) whippings/canings/floggings that welt and break the skin leaving trails of blood, having your mouth fucked until it’s numb and spit covers your breasts, legs and has formed a pool on the floor between your legs, being choked until stars explode in front of your eyes, sleeping bound in positions that make your muscles ache, your circulation stop and all you can think about is being unbound and stretching…all these are normal things that drive us slavegirls wild.

I need to be bound and suffer in order to orgasm because I need to feel control completely taken away from me in order to release. I need my cunt to be taken away from me and know that my orgasm is pleasure for my Master. I don’t feel like an orgasm (pleasure) is something that I should be having because I am a slave and that’s just the way I am.

And ownership is so much deeper than anything those ‘nilla folk experience. It is an intense, passionate, trust-filled exchange. It’s ownership of body and soul. By its very nature it breeds love and gratitude, it completes and fulfills while giving both satiation and comprehension. It is beautiful in its animalistic nature and removes the superfluous crap that smothers so many other relationships. It’s not perfect, but it comes considerably closer to the ideal than most.

There was a time that I believed the only difference between a sub and a slave was whether they had a master or not. But I know now that that is a superficial distinction. Master cleverly summed it up for me by saying that I needed ‘permission to exist’. I believe that permission, or purpose is given to me through ownership. Only through ownership, can I be me, only through service do I have a purpose. I don’t merely submit, I am submission. And that by definition to me, is a slave.

The you in me

Show me the other side of your face.
The one without a name
That smiles in silence.

It is the infinite you.
In stillness you enfold upon yourself,
Down into yourself,
Becoming less than what you are.
Fleshy walls conceal you.
Not you from me,
But you from you.

I will give your face a name.
I name thee

In the naming comes completion
That the nameless and the named become one.
And you will no longer be
Two halves of yourself,
But one half of me.
And I, one half of thee.


Things are never as they seem-they are usually quite different and I am no exception to the rule.

I weave and twist from one emotion to another, falling in and out of mindsets and all the while on a subconscious level I am changing. Things are pulled from deep inside me. I watch and I writhe as they are revealed, stripped bare and are woven back into my surface.

My little secrets are secrets no more. I never kept them consciously as secrets, they were just things that I couldn’t begin to explain. I thought they were things that whoever I was with should know. They were such an essential part of me, why didn’t anyone know?

I lay on the bed in my honeymoon suite, crying because my husband was asking me for sex. He was touching me with love, talking to me as a lover, wanting to kiss and make love to me and it was so wrong. I can’t describe it in any other way.

The few times that I did relent, he wanted me on top or beneath him…he wanted to watch my face. He didn’t like fucking me from behind because he couldn’t see my face. And he never, ever wanted to use my ass. I used to wriggle my hands under his, trying to get him to hold me down. But he didn’t like it. It was so wrong.

I didn’t want a face…or a name. I didn’t want him to whisper sweet nothings in my ear and kiss me tenderly. I wanted him to fuck me, take what I had, force me, use me like an animal, treat me like the slut I was.

It was so wrong. So I built this wall around me, thinking that I could live without pleasures of the body, thinking that it was weak of me, thinking that I couldn’t orgasm because I shouldn’t. And I pulled all these little threads of my sexuality back inside of me and wound them up into a tiny, tight ball.

But I still had cravings. Watching certain scenes in movies would make my breath come faster and I needed to feel things-fetters around my wrists and ankles, pegs on my nipples, a collar around my throat. So I did these things to myself and I managed to get by, but there was a pain. A pain which Master identified for me this morning-the pain of being a free woman.

I was never meant to be free, I was born to be owned and used.

I need pain and I need bondage. It’s a core part of me. I like to feel my destiny. Master uses me as he wishes, my life is as Master prescribes, he does what he wants to me because he can.

As a free woman I have my way of doing things. I enjoy my autonomy. I am strong-willed, decisive and, in many ways, fearless. But the pain that I experience is starting to be much greater than I can bear. I think it’s the pain of the slave in me wanting to be free.

So I am embracing the changes that I am facing. The reality of my future life will be a lot harder, a lot dirtier than my fantasies. Kneeling on the floor is fun for the first 10 minutes. The first 10 minutes are a game. It is only after that that the slave in me begins to revel in the situation. I don’t move because that is where Master wants me to be. My knees hurt for Master. This is what a slave and only a slave can do.

I love the specialty of my role. I want to be the best I can be. I want to be well-trained and make my Master proud.

I want to be better than any other slave for Master.
Because he has saved me from myself.

The vessel

A hideous satiety of pain and joy ought, one would have thought, to have edged her further and further along that gradually declining slope at whose lower depths are sleep and somnambulism.

But to the contrary. The corset which held her upright, the chains which maintained her in subjection, silence, her sanctuary-perhaps these had something to do with it, as may have had the constant spectacle of girls being pressed to use, and even when they were not undergoing use, the spectacle of their at all times accessible bodies.

The spectacle also and awareness of her own body. Daily and, as it were, ritualistically soiled by saliva and sperm, by sweat mingled with her own sweat, she sensed herself to be, literally, the vessel of impurity, the gutter whereof Scripture makes mention.

And yet in all, those parts of her body which were the most continually offended, having become more sensitive, seemed to her to have become, at the same time, more lovely, and as though enobled:her mouth clamped upon anonymous members, the points of her breasts hands forever were fondling, and between her wideflung thighs, the twin ways leading into her belly, avenues trod by a whole wide world to pleasure.

However astonishing it were, that from being prostituted her dignity might increase, the crucial point was nonetheless one of dignity. It illumined her as if from within, and one could see her calmness in her bearing, upon her countenance the serenity and imperceptible inner smile one rather guesses at than perceives in the eyes of the recluse.

From “The Story of O”

Wet, wet, wet

It’s such a warm, inviting space.
My mind is foggy, half-asleep, content in that warm, inviting space.

“You want to feel my collar in your clithood, don’t you?”
“Yes, Master.”

“You want to have your slave markings on your inner thigh so everyone who comes to use you knows exactly what you are, don’t you?
“Yes, Master.”

“What are you?”
“A slave. Your slave Master.”

“You know whose slave you are, don’t you?”
“Yours, Master. Your slave, your slut toy.”

“You can’t be anything else can you?”
“No, Master….That’s what I am.”

He’s using me through my mind and I’m so addicted to that feeling of being used that hearing his voice is like coming home.

I wake and I want to be used. I sleep and I want to be used. I want to be woken to be used. But I can’t be…not just yet.

And it hurts. Wanting so much, needing so much. It’s an ache that starts somewhere near my belly and curls itself around my pussy, licking my insatiable holes that are screaming to be filled.

Last night I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I needed release, so I asked for permission to give his body pleasure and he gave it to me.

I lay between the sheets naked as I should be, running my hands over this body that now belongs to him, wondering whether its shape will please him, whether these nipples will please him, whether these holes that were now both so wet would please him.

I am a vessel. Something that needs to be filled. So I filled my pussy with fingers and wanted more. So I took a plastic bottle that was wide enough to stretch me and pushed until it slid in. My pussy eagerly took it and welcomed it in.

I fucked the bottle, squeezing my clit with my legs and got the release that I needed. All the while, images of masks and spreader bars and floggings played across my mind.

Things that will soon become my reality…

If the collar fits…..

Lying in bed last night after a few too many drinks and a close encounter of the unfortunate acquaintance from high school kind, I was thinking how life changes so agonizingly slowly, yet so quickly and how you never really know what is going to happen from one instant to the next.

When I looked at the date, it was almost exactly a year to the day since I had first felt the cool steel of a collar placed around my neck. The last four collar-less months of my life, including three months of pseudo-ownership and one month of total freedom have been a test. Am I happier with freedom or in slavery? I’ve come to know that my sense of belonging, is a sense of belonging to someone.

There are eternity collars and play collars, public collars and mental collars…without even realising it, I had been wearing a mental collar for quite some time. So it was in many ways, such a natural thing to ‘feel’ a collar sliding back around my neck again. I felt shock and worry about whether this was ‘too fast’, ‘too soon’ mixed together with a kind of peace and butterflies.

It will be a very different kind of ownership for me…something very new but something which I have also craved for a very long time. Ownership that will resonate in my belly and my soul. I know he won’t let me go, that he will shape and mould me into that slut toy that I have the materials for inside of me.

He knows me so well it’s disturbing sometimes- there are moments when I feel like a specimen on a slide, no-where to hide and transparent. He knows why I do the things I do…why I am the way I am. And I feel that he accepts me and understands. And he talks with me…really talks and really listens. I had been so starved of communication for so long. And his voice probes into my mind, coaxing out his little fuck toy, bringing her out into the light, putting her on display. And I delight in it…lapping up the attention, lapping up his caress on my mind.

Thank you, Master.


Take me away.
Take me far away.
Tie me tight.

The road is not my path.
The shadows call me, wake me and come inside.
I am not who I am.
The warm breath is not mine.
Me, I’m down below.

I will not let it take me, I’m gone.
I will not let it break me, I’m torn.
I will not let it beat me, no more.


I had a very interesting conversation with a lovely gentleman who is exceptionally knowledgable about energy.

Things started to click like why I always felt drained, why people always say they find me calming, why people tell me their deepest, darkest secrets. Apparently it’s because I’m empathic. A lot of people tell me I’m intimidating (in certain moods) and perhaps it’s because I see into them..I feel them and see them for who they are. I’ve always felt that I was different, felt that there was more to life, felt that this can’t be all that there is, knew that there was ‘something’ I was supposed to do.

I don’t know why I just can’t be, can’t let anyone else behind my walls. I suppose that I always feel that people want something from me. I don’t make friends because I feel a pressure to “perform” and because I lose a part of myself in the process. I think, I rationalize and analyze. I suck everything back inside and bottle it up, but the “Essence of Kathy” isn’t going for much these days…lol.

I don’t want to have to think or make decisions. I fuck things up every time I’m left to my own devices. But I don’t think I’m simply crap. I don’t hump everything that breathes because I do feel that I am special and that throwing open the doors to my ‘temple’ is wrong. I know that I have a lot to give. I know that I could be so perfect for the right person that would appreciate and utilize me and I don’t want to be wasted or under-used. Having a purpose, having a use is what keeps me going. That is why I like service and being a pet. It’s all about me, just me-not what I can do or teach or say or whatever- me, my body, is a tool, a vessel, something that can be used in whatever way to give pleasure and be appreciated.

But I do like a certain amount of autonomy inside very clear boundaries. I like to be able to joke and play around, pay my bills, participate in the running of the household and I like to be policed to know that someone cares enough about me to look out for me, worry about me, tell me when I’m wrong, stop me from being the selfish, blinkered brat I can be on occasion. And I like to feel small, to be able to curl up inside someone’s pocket. I like to have my girlishness indulged, and to be treated like a lady when I put on that face, and I like to be humiliated and ground down into a dirty, cum/ piss/whatever covered whore when I need to be. I’m not one-dimensional, I’m multi-faceted..I am me, I am slave, I am who my owner wants me to be.

Without wanting to want

Can you “live” without “living”?


Can you “die” without “dying”?


“Want without wanting?”


I did my first really hard session of retail therapy today. Clothes, a mobile phone, a pedometer…all things that I had wanted-not needed perhaps, but wanted nonetheless.
I usually get what I want in some form or another, sooner or later. I suppose I can only resist the retail bug so long.

I have no problems recognizing what tangible things I need- “Oh, mobile phone battery has died…need a new phone.” I just don’t know why I have so many problems with the intangible aspects of recognizing my emotional needs. Or perhaps I recognize them and am just afraid to fulfil them- what looks lovely on a coatrack can be hideous when worn.

I’ve had several people tell me that I need two distinctly different types of ownership-one with lots of love and support, tender stroking and romanticism, the other impassionate, devoid of the “I love you’s”, but one in which my sense of being owned is crystal clear.

I want to be cherished, to be considered an asset, to be a valuable addition to my owner’s property. I want to be nurtured and looked after. I want to feel useful, be appreciated, know that I am pleasing and be praised/rewarded for good behaviour.
I want to feel my slavery and the ownership of my owner.

I want to feel like me.

Too much, too little, too late

Destiny, fate, kharma or whatever you want to call it throws a spanner in the works sometimes…

It was a voice that seemed full of confidence, fearless and smooth. Pristinely smooth like a super salesman able to make women swoon and causing wallets to be considerably lighter.

“Hi, this is the xxx hotel….”
“Hello there xxx hotel. What can I do for you my dear?”

His friendly way of talking made you feel comfortable. One day I asked him his name and from that day on we were friends. Little by little the conversations we had when I called got longer and then came the invitation for coffee.

I never went out with him for coffee-mostly because I was too busy and going through a difficult time and partly because it felt like the “wrong thing to do”. I was no longer owned, but I wasn’t completely free.

Several weeks later he dropped by work. He came up to the desk and I knew from the voice that it was him. He talked to my gm for a while and when he had finished he came back to talk to me-he wasn’t quite finished with me yet.

So I told him that it was my last week, that I was leaving and going back to my hometown. He told me that he was leaving too and going to study externally at the university in my hometown. Destiny, fate or whatever you want to call it…

On my last day of work he called and we talked forever. We talked of relationships, partnerships, why I was leaving and he suggested that after my farewell drinks that we go for that coffee and he gave me his mobile number and email address.

After one too many drinks I ended up going to sleep on the bench out in the back office at work and “Mr AS”, as he used to called my ex-owner, covered me with a blanket and put a pillow under my head. I never called him that night or the next day. Two days later I had caught the plane and was gone.

I decided one day to send him an email. I knew he liked me and I thought he’d be worried. I knew that if I were in his position, I would hate it if I never heard from the person again. I discovered we had so many things in common-same interests in books, movies, games, same ideas about life and relationships. It was great to have an “uncomplicated” friendship where we could banter and bounce ideas off one another. But I knew that we could be nothing more than friends because he was vanilla and I was not.

Then I begin to pick up hints…there was innuendo and talk of fetishes… and I began to wonder if I had been selling this guy short. And the story of his sadism and interest in the lifestyle came to the surface. But he was there and I was here and I was not going back there to test my theory. I’d done my time in that place and I wasn’t going back. Destiny, fate, kharma or whatever….

He kept asking me why I thought he was vanilla. I suppose it was a feeling that I had. I didn’t pick up any domly vibes from him and I certainly didn’t have any fear. I always feel that a healthy dose of fear is vital to an D/s relationship. I couldn’t fear him because I “knew” him. He was me wrapped up in another package. And this lack of fear and domly vibes sent off little alarm bells in my head. Mr AS had been the same and I had done the pseudo-slave thing and I didn’t want to be there again.

I really don’t know if you can be friends and have an M/s relationship. I feel it tap dances into the places of complicated and heartache. I don’t know how you can joke and laugh and dine on chicken soup for the soul and still have clear rules and clear boundaries. M/s is so precarious to begin with, why make it any more fragile?


I was walking the dogs today and thinking how lucky they were. All done up in their little harnesses, given pats and encouraging words. I noticed they just kept enough pull in their leashes to feel that I was there. If I gave them too much slack they would stop and turn around, seemingly panicked by their supposed freedom.

My experiences have totally changed how I feel towards pets. God, I have such an affinity now with them! I understand why they are always trying to nuzzle up close, how they love the pats and the attention, why they feed off the attention and crave more and more of it.

Eating out of my kitty bowl changed the way I felt about the temperature and size of food- I really do understand why hot food is bad and angles can make eating a nightmare. So I suppose it is only natural for me to have feelings about being the one on the other end of the leash.

I was walking along listening to the jingle of their harnesses having little flashes of precious memories and thinking how I would never look at some everyday things the same way again-knives, pegs, the pet aisle in the supermarket. I spent copious amounts of time buying a leash once and after checking all the supermarkets bought one from the pet store where I bought my kitty bowl (although in reality it was a big, heavy, steel doggy bowl.)

And then I started thinking about instinct… What was it that attracted me to our dog’s leash and collar so many eons ago? It always used to hang up on the back of the kitchen door. I was strangely attracted to it and remember putting it on several times when I was, god…less than 10 years old.

Without any prompting or foreknowledge I knew that collar and leash should have been for me. Was I born this way? Was my genetic makeup wired so I need to be owned? It’s an interesting thought and a comforting one for me, a person who doesn’t like taking responsibility for anything, including making myself kinky…lol.