Unspoken words

I was put to bed the night before with wrists cuffs on, ankles cuffed together and a gag in my mouth. A gag was always a part of my little ‘tie myself up nice and quick’ sessions, usually a scarf or two with a piece of towelling to go inside the mouth and stop the drool from coming out. I’ve never found a lot of body fluids exciting and a wet spot made of drool was something I definitely didn’t want on my bed.

Ball gags seem to be made for humiliation- there is no way to stop the drool. I was lying there in bed prodding the thing with my tongue, trying to find a position that was comfortable. My bum was still smarting from its workout and on my side, with head tilted a little down to get some slack in the strap and take the pressure off my jaw -that was how I finally fell asleep.

It’s been plague week (known to everyone else as ‘I’ve got my periods’…lol) so I’ve been getting off relatively easily.I ‘m not sure if it’s a good or bad thing and as he spanked me last night with that hand of his that sometimes feels like a wooden paddle, I was thinking about how ‘hungry’ I felt. As I thought about my hunger, I was less and less inclined to count the spanks that were getting harder and faster by the second. I wanted more. I wanted ‘something’.

Master asked me why I wasn’t counting and I answered with something I had been mulling over for a while:

I don’t think you should be limited by numbers.”
“I’m not. I’ll beat you as much as I want.”
Don’t you think it interupts the flow?”
” Well, it makes you count faster, doesn’t it?”

At that point Master decided that I needed to have glowing cheeks.Then the gag was brought out and Master’s comment from yesterday echoed through my head…

“You know now when l gag you l intend to mark you well to let you scream into your gag to hide your tears in the pillow as l work my crop across your cheeks.”

Gag in. Hands behind back. He was going to get medieval on my ass.

I didn’t even do my little mental scorebook tallying that I usually do. I just lay there and took it and breathed and thought, ‘Nothing is forever…it will end,’ which is usually what I say to convince myself.  Then he stopped and ordered me onto my side so he could see my face and kiss my gagged mouth (there is something very hot about being kissed while gagged!) I really don’t know what he sees in my face. I’m not thinking about anything at those times, because I know that if I do it will hurt more.

“Face down.”

Then it started again and I knew he was going to keep going until he was done.

He calls me things like ‘bitch’, ‘slut’ and ‘whore’. Because I don’t have a name, those are his terms of endearment.
I’m happy to be what he wants at any given moment, but I can’t think about it. I can’t pull back into myself and think about it. I used to worry about what would happen when my fantasy and reality met, but I realise now that they never will. Fantasy is fantasy purely because it will never happen. Nothing will ever happenthat pristinely and so totally perfect-it’s not life, it’s fantasy. We can sometimes get what what we want, learn to live without the rest and discover that some things we have are what we wanted all along. 

Unchartered territory

A slave girl boldly going where no slavegirl has gone before….

Here I was the other day about to put in a tampon and I reached down and thought, ‘Where the fuck is my hole?’

Now, I’m usually fine locating all of my holes, where to wipe for a number one and where to wipe for a number two etc, but now there were all these obstacles to navigate through and it was all a bit daunting. Those little bits of metal were enticing me to head off in the wrong direction and there was a very high danger of having an extremely disappointing butt plug experience. 

And speaking of butt plugs, I had the pleasure of the company of one on a recent shopping trip. I was dressed as a gothic slut- black crushed velvet short skirt, black frayed bustier, boots and the standard heavy slut makeup (there is some very wrong about drinking a capaccino and eating a muffin on a Saturday morning dressed like that…) We parked just outside the entrance to the shopping center, what with Master being the Master Parker and all, and we were walking in and I dissolved into fits of laughter which made Mr Butt Plug pop out. It was a good thing I was wearing underwear or there would have been a very nasty butt-plug-exit-into-car-park incident, So I shuffled into the toilets, popped the offending self-exiter into a glad zip-lock bag (brought along thanks to the exceptional thinking-ahead skills of Master), popped the bag into my purse and headed off for some retail therapy.

Just to set the record straight, all of my previous butt plug experiences had been of the large variety-the ones that only really start to feel good about 15mins after they’ve been pushed in and your muscles have suitably stretched to accommodate it. It was always a pull and tug manouever to get it out because once it was in, it used to put down roots and was there for the duration (granted, I never did a lot of walking around with it in though.)

So this slippery little sucker is a new ball game. I’m not used to having to ‘hold it in’ and if I’m in any other position than on my knees with a butt plug inserted, it makes me want to pee…lol. I don’t know about anone else but I’ve always found my urethra to be in a really inconvenient place…between the clit and vagina? Please! Who the hell planned it like that?
Any sort of movement down there is guaranteed to make a girl want to pee. And I really don’t feel that it’s the case that we’re making mental shopping lists or ‘to do’ lists when men are doing the deed…we’re simply trying to hold in that last cup of tea!

Bugs and valiants

So Master has this game that he likes to play-this is in addition to the mindfucks and other games of ‘let’s toy with the slave’.

Volkswagon bugs are 10 points, valiant utes are 50. Spot one and the points are yours (of course the other person has to be there to validate the sighting.)

I get negative points and Master gets  positive points and they are added up and transferred into the number of strokes my tender bottom receives courtesy of the implement of his choice. I can also gamble points and try and guess what he’s going to beat me with- get it right and the strokes are reduced, get it wrong and, you guessed it, they are increased.

A long drive into the hills of perth resulted in a total of 50 strokes for me the other day. For some reason or another an extra 149 were added just for fun (including 25 for a previous bad implement guess).

I don’t know about you but I like to enjoy the scenery on drives, not spend the time frantically scanning for cars, only to have them pointed out to me gleefully by Master as I blink or check my sms or doze off in the warm sunshine. It all seems a bit one sided…lol.

I haven’t ever received as many strokes at one time as that and they’re definitely getting harder. Those couple of practice swings Master makes in the air before he begins make the hair stand up on the back of my neck and I can barely control the urge to pee.

There is also a spot (and I’m not going to say where it is!) that simply hurts like hell. I don’t know why, but this little spot is so tender that it brings tears to my eyes immediately. So as I lay there and feel the crop/flogger/ Mr Strap moving over my butt, I pray that it’s not heading for that ‘sweet spot’. I always used to wonder why the butt was chosen as a place for beatings. I guess because it’s ouchier than the back but more bearably ouchie than the thighs. And also because it is generally covered, so the bruises and welts and broken skin can be kept under wraps.

I’ve noticed that the skin on my butt is definitely getting smoother. It must be all this attention it’s getting. Maybe Ella Bache should start offering ‘bdsm wraps’ to tone and soften the skin. They might be a big seller…lol

Day by day

‘It’s good to get what you want, better to want what you get.’ (courtesy of pure_blue)

Good words to live by and considering that what I want changes on a dime, if I could stop being so needy and greedy, wouldn’t life be so simple? 

I want to be beaten when I’m not being beaten and not beaten when I am, tied up when I’m free and free when I’m tied up and when I am unowned all I can think about is being owned and collared, yet being owned and collared is sometimes so hard that all I want to be is me (or should I say who I was?)

On the Monday after I was pierced I sat down in the bathroom to do the cleaning routine with the antiseptic stuff (that I was told would hurt like hell) and I looked down at the rings and the barbell and I thought to myself “How the hell am I ever going to be able to touch them, let alone clean them?” So I took a deep breath and started to turn one of the rings.

As soon as I touched it, I heard this buzzing in my ears and everthing started going dark and fuzzy. I couldn’t breathe. I was gasping and wheezing and I knew I was going to pass out on the tiles. I hung onto the vanity and tried to stop swimming in the oozy fuzz that was crowding my head and making me nauseous. After retching a few times and  breaking out into a sweat, I crawled out into the bedroom and lay down, trying to breathe and hold down what was left in my stomach. An hour and a half later I was fine.

I think it was a panic attack. Just the shock and realisation of what had happened. I didn’t want to look or touch anything down there because that would make it real. But little by little over the days I learned to touch them and look at them in the mirror. I listened to them jangle as I got out of the bath and felt a strange sense of pride from cleaning them and seeing them gleam.

It was a little bit different with my collar. Something that large around your neck is something that you can’t ignore-it stares you in the face everytime you look in the mirror and and it screams to everyone that looks at me that I’m different. For someone who has tried so hard to blend in and stay under the radar for so many years, it’s so very hard. My piercings “down below” can be covered up and ignored but the collar is just there.So I get a bit “collar crazy” every now and then. You know when you get really hot and you just need to rip off some clothes? It’s like that. I feel it constricting my neck and I just want to rip it off. But I swallow the screams of frustration and just get on with it.

The piercings are not so ouchie anymore but they have a constant presence. I can’t do anything without feeling them. It’s like this now with two so I can’t imagine how unnerving it’s going to be with six. They really do change the way you act. I can’t just flop down on a bed or lounge anymore and I can’t throw my body around with wild abandon. I have to make adjustments in what I wear, how I bathe, how I dry myself. It takes a lot of adjustment physically and mentally.

I was put to bed the other night and Master ripped out another little surprise- a padlock. Well, I now know what it is like to have your pussy padlocked shut. With my rings still not fully healed, I wasn’t moving my legs an inch and everything was fine until I decided to move position. Lol…’interesting’ feeling.

I woke up the next morning and saw the padlock on the bench. It was black with “Master” written on it. “How appropriate!” I thought, but I was still completely stunned that he had done that.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, anytime anything is done to me I just can’t get happy or excited about it. I don’t process things in that way. I get huffy and indignant and, generally speaking, angry. I’ll probably get very subconsciously turned on by having my pussy padlocked, but all I’ll be consciously feeling is “How dare you! You’ve got to be kidding!’
I look at and perceive everything in a negative way, and through enduring the ‘bad things’ done to me by the ‘bad man’ I feel content. I’m not happy and perky and jumping off the walls through being beaten or slutted up or whatever, I’m fearful and angry and just happy to get through it.

Strange aren’t I?

To exercise, or not to exercise…

“A choice that you can’t exercise is not a choice at all now, is it?”

The truth in that statement is such a bitter pill for me to swallow. It’s been a very tough few days filled with crying sessions and epiphanies of all sorts, brought on by a circlet of stainless steel locked around my throat-that signifies to me another milestone has been reached in my slavery.

Don’t get me wrong, I love collars-always have and always will.They are such powerful things and having one locked around your throat is so much more final and binding than slipping a wedding band on a finger.

I feel like such an animal, pierced and collared, and it’s hard to wrap my head around it. I feel like I have the same social standing as dirt (although dirt may be a bit better off because at least it can go places freely…lol).

In my mind, “I’m a slave(aka ‘I have no choice’)” seems to be an appropriate answer to most questions too:
What do you do?
I’m a slave.
Where do you live?
I’m a slave.
What do you think of your new home?
I’m a slave.

Something inside me hopes that “I’m a slave” will be explanation enough, but it’s not and there are quizical looks and more questions. Because ironically, I do have a choice- the choice to be a slave or not. But it’s a choice that almost broke me in half to exercise before so I’m not sure whether I can do it again. By submitting, everyday I exercise my choice to be a slave, but I know that I can be nothing else, so do I really have a choice at all?

I think the thing that is getting to me so much is not being able to do what I want when I want to. Submitting to the ways and lifestyle choices of another- and it is those little things that are so hard, those ingrained habits and ways of doing things, as well as thoughts and opinions.Trying to erase what has been carved in stone sometimes seems like an impossible task.

If I need to be in a certain position to get to sleep or make my coffee in a certain way, tough shit.Being lower than dirt means that none of my little hang ups need to be accommodated.So everytime I have another sleepless night and feel like complete shit, I need to get over it. Because it’s not about me- it’s about what he wants. Why? Because I am a slave.

Education

Freshly bathed with pussy rings gleaming, I sit down to play with my puter and the English language…

I’ve always found it ironic that I can be so expressive with the written word but really am lacking when it comes to speaking.It’s often the case that I have a dry run of what I’m about to say through my head before anything is vocalized and I usually end up abandoning the thought or idea or plea or episode of begging or whatever it is long before anything leaves my lips. It really is a challenge for me to voice what I feel. Take for example last night’s ravishing:

Master: ‘How does that feel?’
(…said as he inserts a vibrator into my cunt haloed with ever-so-tender tampered cunt lips…)

What I’m thinking: ‘You really want to know how the base of the butt plug is tugging on my rings and the angle of the vibrator is hitting that ouchie spot inside, and how if I say that it hurts that it’s not very slavish and you’ll either ask ‘Does it?’ and keep doing it anyway, or stop, which I don’t want you to do and how if I say “I like it” then I’ll feel like a slut, which I am, but I’m still struggling to feel comfortable about admitting, and I’m already feeling embarassed lying back on the bed wearing nothing but the slutty black thigh boots with my legs akimbo, so I’m thinking of a suitable answer and discarding things like “nice” or “good” or anything that seems ridiculous and while I’m doing that I’m thinking ‘Does it matter what I say anyway because ultimately you’ll do what you want regardless of how I feel about it (see pussy tampering)?’ but I also know that you like feedback and that you want to know how I feel and what turns me on so we can start our search for my elusive ‘O’, but by now too much time has passed since you asked me how it felt and I still don’t know what to say…

My response: “……..”

It’s kind of comical in reflection.

And take this morning as another prime example:

Me: “……..”
(I remain silent while he pulls down my panties and proceeds to flog me.Ten minutes later when my brain has woken up I get a sinking feeling…)

(much later) Master: “Looks like we need another visit from Mr Strap.”
Me: “Why is that Master?”
Master: “What were you doing while I flogged you earlier?”
Me: “Nothing Master.”
Master: “Exactly. What should you be doing?”
Me: “Counting off and thanking you after each stroke.I realised that I hadn’t after Master.”
Master: “So why didn’t you ask for forgiveness? You had ample time between realising your mistake and now.”
Me: “I thought it was too late by then Master.”
Master: “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Me:“No, Master.”
Master:Looks like you need another education. Do you want a gag?”
Me:“No, Master”
Master: “Why not?”
Me:“So I can count off the strokes.”
Master: “Well, I’ll gag you for the first ten then take it off for the next ten so you can ‘remember’ what you are supposed to do.”

Gag on and twenty one strokes of Mr Strap later, he pulls my head up by the hair, takes the gag off and says,
“How many strokes was that?”
“Twenty one.”
“See how bad I am with numbers…that’s why you need to count. And why weren’t you counting then?”

A girl really can’t win! But I really should have realised this by now, shouldn’t I?

The following ten strokes of Mr Strap were accompanied by chirpy counting and “Thank you Master”s. Funny that…

It’s not like I didn’t count off the first time on purpose. I really was half asleep and by the time I realised, it was over and too late (or so I thought). I don’t know why I didn’t apologise when I realised-maybe part of me hoped he wouldn’t notice…while the other part of me did. I’m not sure whether there is pride involved-that I’m ashamed to admit that I did wrong or whether it’s because I like to entertain myself with excuses (it’s early in the morning, he’ll cut me some slack.)

“Do you like me saying ‘education’ instead of ‘punishment’?”
“Yes, Master.”
“So do I. I’ll educate you to be an intelligent and obedient slave.”

Hmmm… I’m not sure whether I’m eligible for Austudy for this education or not, but at least it’s an education for life.

Mr Strap

Mr Strap and I have become aquainted over the past few days. Master introduced him to me just after I arrived and he left a fantastic deep purple and red calling card in the shape of a perfect oval bruise on my butt cheeks.

He’s an interesting guy to know, but being a bit full on sometimes, you have to be careful what you say- you’re never quite sure when he’s going to make an appearance.

On a hook behind the door is where he hangs. His two tightly stitched, thirty centimeter leather tongues have a gap of about a centimeter between them. He makes a slappy sound and leaves a stingy bite and I’m not sure which one I’d rather see- Mr Cane or Mr Strap.

Master says Mr Strap is going to visit on a regular basis because I need to be and should be beaten. Silly me and my conceptions of what a slave should be agree with Master.

I’ve always felt that there is something so delicious about saying or hearing that I get ‘beaten’.

Beaten
Flogged
Whipped

They’re all great words, but beaten has such a finality and completeness to it. The nuances are rich and multi-layered and hit or smacked just don’t have the same connotations.

Thrown down on the bed and roughly gagged, she knew what was coming next.

He came out from behind the door, ready and eager to sear her buttocks with his firey touch.

Mr Strap, that dastardly demon, was honing down on yet another innocent victim.

Lining up to beat her into submission and mark her as the slave that she was.

Hussy hooker slut

“I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again”

Well, it wasn’t a jet plane, but a propeller plane (close enough!) and after I had boarded I felt a wave of relief -I’d actually managed to fit everything into my suitcases and I’d actually managed to get on the plane without backing out.

Tying up all the loose strings, saying goodbye and doing the rounds of farewell lunches and dinners had all put me in a sad state. Jumping on a plane and jetting off across the country to live a life of slavery, I’ve always felt like I was committing myself to an asylum or admitting myself to a nunnery. Although there’s none of that cut off from everyone you love and the world, there is a sense of leaving everything you had known behind and consenting to putting yourself through hardship. But I suppose that is what submission is all about, putting yourself on the line for the one that owns you.

So I had instructions to wear the sluttiest thing that I could find and after an emergency purchase of a short skirt and a top at the last minute I thought I’d be ok. I had spent the last week combing through the shops for something slutty and had found a bustier that I thought was great and even better it was such a bargain (I should of paid attention to the warning bells going off in my head at that stage, but I foolishly ignored them)so now I had the things to go with it. I was planning to wear something ‘normal’ on the plane and then do my make-up, hair and nails and get changed at Sydney, which was great in theory but a little bit more difficult in practise.

After locking myself in a toilet cubicle for 1/2 hour while changing etc, I emerged to find a line for the ladies stretching back into the departure lobby and some very nasty glares. I’d been cooped up in there trying to figure out what to do with my stockings because the suspender attachments on the bustier were plastic and snapped as soon as I clipped the fish nets to them (god damn cheap crap!)I ended up taking them off and just wearing the stockings…a wardrobe malfunction at a time like this!!!

Walking back through the lobby I was so conscious of exactly how short my skirt was and with nothing underneath, I kept tugging it down, wondering how far it rode up when I walked. Anyway, I sat back down and waited, and waited through a 1 1/2 hour departure delay getting more nervous by the second.

I felt cheap and exposed, slutty and a bit bimbo-ish. People were staring and it made me want to tug my skirt down more. I’ve never worn anything above the knee -I just don’t have the legs for it-so my thighs and pussy were confused by the sudden freedom and air circulation.

Five hours later I was there and Master was waiting. It’s a terrifying thing to meet your new owner and pussy tamperer and my brain was on over-drive thinking, ‘Do I look ok?’, ‘Does he like me?’, ‘What’s he thinking?’, ‘Is that a face I’ve seen on Australia’s Most Wanted?’, ‘Is he going to bury me in his swimming pool?’ etc etc and all the other stupid things you think in a panic.
But he brought me home in his caring and attentive way, pointing out the different sights of my new prison and showing me the lay of the land, but I really wasn’t in any state at all to absorb anything.

He held my hand and told me I had beautiful eyes. It all felt to me a bit wrong-isn’t this the guy who was going to tie me up and beat me? He was always so gruff and a bit scary, dragging me through the emotional wringer every other minute on the phone and directing me to lick carpet in lieu of his feet and beat myself with a wooden spoon. This gentle, thoughtful man was not the master of the sterile kingdom I had created in my mind, he was not going to feed me gruel and chain me up in his basement, he wanted to Master me in another way-through my heart and not through pain.

So adjustment had been the dish of the day for the past week-and it has only been a week although it feels like a lifetime. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing that I feel so relaxed and at home…comfort for a slavegirl? Unheard of!
In between the kisses and ravishings and quiet moments of just enjoying each other, there have been bruises and nipple torture (how can two fingers be so painful???)piercings, slutty outfits, bondage and boots by the boatload.

After agonzing and coming to terms with what would be required of me over the past weeks, how Master wanted to display me and use me and changing my appearance so radically to please him I think the moment that has really stood out for me this past week was Master’s comment on my first meeting outfit:

“I said ‘slutty’, not hussy hooker. Now, you know what you’ve gone and done to yourself, don’t you? You’ve set a new benchmark for the level of sluttiness in the clothes that you will wear.”

I’ve really got to learn to stop digging holes for myself-in pools and otherwise.

P Day

I kind of found it ironic that Piercing Day (P Day) fell on the thirteenth of August. Bad things always seem to happen to me on that unluckiest of days- the elastic snapping and my underwear dropping to my ankles in primary school, trips to a certain outback destination, pussy tampering…the list goes on.

So P Day came and went, but my cunt is not finished by a mile yet. It’s a hard sensation to describe and nothing like what I was prepared for or had expected. I don’t remember much of when my ears were pierced, except the sound of the gun and the stinging afterwards, but I knew the stinging of a needle so I had expected a really strong stinging, pricking sensation. However, it was nothing at all like the walk through the stingy field of flowers that I had imagined. It was a ripping, dragging feeling, something like peeling off a hunk of skin and leaving nerves and tissue exposed underneath. The pain in that instant or so was a howling roar that was repeated threefold as the jewellery was threaded through. Couldn’t they figure out some way to do it all in one motion?? People, please…this is the 21st century!!

She asked me how well I dealt with pain,

“Not well!!!”

(I felt that I needed to be honest in case I kicked her in the head in an involuntary knee jerk.)

I think I really could have done with a gag, so I could have moaned and groaned and not worried about disturbing the other clients. The piercer told me that I needed to stay as relaxed as possible, so I gripped one side of the bench that I was laying on with my right hand and curled the other up into a fist. Laying there trying to breathe and stay calm was like telling a bull to ignore the lovely red chinaware in the shop next door-not going to work!!

She kept talking and asking me questions about the spacing of the rings and if they were okay and I was still upset about having to have a vertical clithood piercing instead of the horizontal one that I thought was much prettier and looked so much more slavish, so I was in no mood to have to make decisions. The longer things dragged on, the more I was working myself up and breaking out into a sweat. Impatience and an unwilling victim, do not a relaxed piercee make.

“Baby, are you ok?”

I really did feel like a baby-a big, fat cry-baby alone and lost in a strange and scary place. I was touched that she was so concerned about me. I don’t think that there was a part of her that hadn’t been pierced and here she was worried about me getting what probably would have been to her insignificant piercings in my outer labia and clithood.

It was funny, but I really couldn’t tell what she was doing down there, which part of me she was touching or clamping or piercing. That whole general area down there declared itself a war zone and with the “please don’t hurt me anymore” martial guard deployed, everything was shutting up shop and refusing to enjoy the party.

I’d seen pics and heard stories of people receiving pairs upon pairs of pussy rings in one sitting and now I’m stunned. Well, actually more than stunned, I’m completely pissed off- how could they possibly stand that and why couldn’t I? So with me feeling like a bit of a failure in the slavegirl scheme of things, we left the shop with the promise to return in 6 to 8 weeks for the remaining 2 pairs. Just thinking about having to do that four more times brought tears to my eyes at the time, but now I have a morbid curiousity about whether it will be as bad the second time around- is it better now that I know the pain or is it worse?

Only time will tell

Languages reveal a lot about culture. More words to describe similar things mean that there is a high incidence of those things in the culture or that they are important.

Japanese has a lot of words for sadness- there is a word for “lonely sadness”, a word for “sadness due to relived memories” and my favourite word 切ない setsunai , which is an aching, cutting sadness. It cuts deep into the bone and sits there aching for a lost joy.

I saw my father sitting on the lounge tonight, watching a story on tv about a daughter who had become estranged from her family. There’d been some form of disagreement and before they could make up, the daughter was killed instantly in a car accident. He was sitting there crying- I have no idea what was going through his head and he said nothing. He just hurriedly wiped his eyes with a tissue from his pocket.

He’s a funny man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was walking through town today thinking about how comfortable I have become- knowing where everything is, having my little routines of lunching with friends and family and going to the gym. On some levels I am quite content. I was walking along thinking “tomorrow is my last day before I’m really in deep shit.” I’m in such a filthy mood at the moment- struggling with clashing realities and mourning the loss of my freedom. If I wasn’t angry, I really don’t think I’d be functioning well. I marched along chanting “I can’t do it, I can’t do it,” while the other side of me responded in time with my steps, “You’ve got to do it, you’ve got to do it.”

At this point in time I’m not sure what was harder, leaving my other relationship or choosing to put myself up on the block again. And then I got to thinking that I have probably never given myself so much and so completely before, that I have never really ‘submitted’. This loss of control and choice is freaking me out so much now because I have never really lost it before. I was still in control so much before that I never felt threatened, my life was as I wanted it, with just a little bit of tweaking that was within my comfort levels. Now, we’re talking about piercings and markings, cages…use of all types. It’s all coming thick and fast and probably in quantities and intensities that I’m not coping well with.

Am I scared? Yes.
Do I know what I want? Yes and no.
Am I ready? I don’t know.

There are a lot of dubious questions and answers there.

I’ve also been having norti feelings these last couple of days…feelings along the lines of Master is biting into my dwindling remaining freedom and I don’t like it.

“Enjoy it while you can.”

Is a sentiment I’ve taken to heart. I’m trying to squeeze the last out of my freedom. He’ll have me for the duration,but my family and friends won’t see me as the same person ever again.

Pre-emptive slavery

What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.

I like things that make me stronger and I like things that don’t kill me…sounds fairly straight forward, don’t you think? Or is it?

I do a lot of things that I don’t like and I mostly get them done by thinking of the reward, i.e. the pleasure to balance the pain. I bargain and push and shove myself and I think that anything I manage to get done will make me stronger in some shape or form- if I get through this aerobics class, I will have built some more muscle…if I drink this piss, I’ll be doing something a lot of people couldn’t. My mind is full of give and take equations.

I also tend to use the phrase ‘I need’ an awful lot, as in “I need to be owned”, “I need to be beaten”, “I need to be used”. I can’t replace those ‘I needs’ with “I likes” because when you cut out all the crap, all the misty-eyed, soft-focus-lens fantasies, being a slave is nasty, hard and terrifying and there isn’t a shred of anything I like in there.

Enduring…now that’s what I like. I don’t need to endure, I do it because I like it.

So I can’t say that I’m happy being a slave…who in a sane frame of mind could be happy? Everything we learn about what is fair and good in this world, speaks against slavery-loss of freedom, loss of choice, pain, loss of privacy etc. It doesn’t sound like something one should actively seek. And I don’t actively seek these things, it just happens that my endurance kink is fed by slavery, so that is what I need to satiate my craving.

Love is a by-product of enduring. Anyone who has ever formed an incredibly special bond with someone they’ve gone through an emotional experience with knows that to be the truth. I suppose in many ways it is like the Stockholm Syndrome-your incarcerator becomes your protector, and those trying to liberate you are the enemy. It’s not love for the sake of love, but because you exist for that person and they literally hold your life in their hands, there is a need, a drive to please and appease. Keep them happy and they’ll keep you alive; if they don’t kill you, you’ll get a little stronger.

So we gravitate towards the ‘Yes, Master’ rather than the “No, Master” and things only start to get hard when there are questions of enjoyment involved. “Should I say I enjoy/like something because I think he wants me to, even though I don’t?” “Is it better to lie than to disappoint? I’ll be doing what he wants regardless of what I think about it…so why is he asking me anyway?”

I pre-empt a lot of our conversations. I think of the implications of what I am saying waaaaayyy before the words ever leave my lips.”If I answer like this, will he then ask me this? Or do I say what he wants to hear here so that I can hear the pleasure in his voice?”

I am the star in my own little slave dramas. I script them out and block the moves on the stage.I need to be indulged so I can be that emotional,petulant and testy diva. My dramas and my life have been so separate that I can’t begin to imagine them blending and blurring into one and if it does happen, it absolutely, positively won’t be happening overnight.

Management

“My fucking anger management class pisses me off.”

This gets my award for funniest thing written on a t-shirt. But it also brings up my topic for today-I’m feeling a bit testy. Not really sure why, but probably due to my dwindling time to do everything that needs to be done and the pressure I’m feeling because of it.

My reactions to pressure go one of two ways involving either: (a) crumpling up into a crying mess, or (b) getting really angry. So I’ve had the anger on the slow burn for a while, which doesn’t really allow me to get scared and I just seethe at having to pack and cull big chunks of my life and rage about why the hell airlines are so stingey with their baggage allowances.

I think this is generally the time that people start getting cold feet…it’s a good thing my feet have been chillingly numb for the past two months…lol.

My mum asked me the other day, “Aren’t you scared about going away again? I don’t know how you do it.” I think my answer was “Yes” which translates to “Fucking hell, yeah!” Just because I do these things doesn’t mean I’m not scared shitless. It really is a feeling like playing russian roulette and this time is particularly terrifying because I really know what I’m signing up for and anyone in their right mind would, and should, think I’m fucking crazy.

But I’ve made a choice to not have any more choices…about anything. So I have to trust Master not to abuse my gift, not to harm me and trust that he will make the right decisions for his property.It’s a very tricky balance between practicality and doing what you want to do. For instance, there are many things that I don’t want to do and some things that I do, but I no longer have the choice about what I do. And when you do things because you’re compelled, and not because you like to do them, you undoubtedly resent the one that makes you do them, because even though you deeply care for your Master’s pleasure, you still have to function as both a person and a slave. So, what do you do with your anger and resentment?

I don’t think I can be ‘just a slave’, not when there is a world so removed from my slavery that I must also exist in. Although I may be Master’s slave first and foremost, I’m also a living, breathing, thinking person who is a member of society. The psyche is a minefield of regressed memories and trauma and the outside world is full of intolerant ‘nilla folk, so what’s a slavegirl to do?

Packing Part 50,000,0001

Listening to the Corrs and going through my things…a rather melancholy way to spend an evening. Looking through photos, reliving past lives, it’s all very surreal, ‘Was that me there?’, ‘Did I really see that?’ That’s definitely me in the pictures, but it seems like half a lifetime ago.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that I have too many things, not in the clothes department, but in the ‘things-I-really-can’t-live-without’ department…photos, cookbooks, cds, jewellery, etc. So I really started getting vicious and culled all my jewellery that won’t go with a steel collar (i.e. anything in gold) and I’m in the process of ripping all my favourite songs and storing them on my laptop (god help me if anything happens to my surrogate child!)But I still don’t think it’s all going to fit in one suitcase, so I may have to bite the bullet and pay excess baggage and take a second case.

And I always hate that time when you’re packing and trying to gauge if it will fit, but there are things that you can’t pack because you’re still living and still need clothes to wear and still need a plethora of toiletries and things to keep you amused until the day the big silver bird comes to smuggle you away.

I hate packing.

The way to a woman’s heart is with a heater

Woken this morning by Master’s call, as I often am, it took me a while to warm up- warm up my brain so I could make some sort of coherant responses to the volley of questions and drilling I was receiving, and a while to warm up after he was done using me.

I’ve come to the conclusion that my home town is not very conducive to slave training. It’s cold…and not just cold…it’s cold that seeps into your bones and stays there for hours and hours. Kneeling naked on the floor, my teeth are chattering and I’ve got more goose bumps than a flock of geese. It’s not a sexy look…lol.

Kneeling there this morning all I could think was ‘Holy mother of jesus it is freezing!’It would of been a good time to sign me up for a year’s worth of Danoz television shopping products, because my brain wasn’t warm enough to refuse anything.

I walk around the house in 3 or 4 layers, coats are mandatory. But on a positive note, I think I’m getting back feeling in my middle finger. I successfully managed to kill off some nerves and they’ve been a month growing back.

I went to see the doctor about my mysterious numb finger and was told that I have raynaud’s phenomenon-hyper sensitivity to the cold. I suppose I should have guessed-white, numb, aching fingers and toes with no blood flow are not really normal in the scheme of things. I used to get terrible chillblains as well. I still think that the funniest thing about chillblains is the fact that there is nothing to treat them but haemmorhoid cream. Slather it on and maybe it’ll get rid of some of the crap in my system.

Gossamer bonds of steel

It was coming from somewhere.

At the edges of her consciousness the sound was hammering, rhythmically, steadily. She had ignored it and settled back into the welcoming darkness. But the sound kept coming back, intruding, jabbing at her mind. She knew it was a sound that was familiar but her mind was so sluggish. Thinking was just such an effort.

She opened her eyes. It was pitch dark. She felt well-rested and wondered why it was still dark. The air through her nostrils smelled of something. She had smelled it before. A little floral and a little woody. Was it aftershave? Trying to remember made her head hurt.

Every time she swallowed the bitter taste at the back of her throat came alive. She needed some water to wash it away. It was time to move. She’d lain here for far too long. She needed a drink and some air to clear her head.

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Ebb and flow

Doing laps in the pool this afternoon I was thinking about Master-wondering what he was doing, wondering if he was wondering what I was doing and knowing that he was was and feeling very comforted. I feel my leash very subtley, but it’s there.

I run around at the end of my leash doing my thing, sniffing at bushes and doing hard retail therapy and every so often I get so caught up in everything that I don’t immediately acknowledge the tug to come back to heel. There are also times when I dig my claws in and don’t go where he wants. Sometimes I need a good hard push and other times I need to be carried for a while.
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Public private parts

Insecurity wrapped up in self-doubt. Self-doubt shrouded in a lack of confidence.

I’ve always been appropriate. I believe in fitting in, not being the nail sticking out that needs to be hammered down. I walk in the direction that the arrow shows. I dress in clothes that suit me, clothes that cover the bits that need to be covered, things I feel confident in. I try to be as inconspicuous as I can. I don’t want to draw anymore attention to myself. It’s hard to face the world when you know that everyone is staring.

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Permanent

I got off the phone from Master last night and the first thought in my head was, “I don’t want to talk anymore.” So I turned my mobile off, wondering what was going to happen tomorrow.

The phone rang at about 7:30am. I bolted out of bed not sure if my mum or anyone else was still here. My mum answered the phone and I was expecting to hear her walking down the hall to my bedroom. But she didn’t. So I got back into bed and turned my mobile on…lol. I really don’t know why I do what I do half the time.

I was dozing and thinking through some of the things we’d talked about-a permanent chain on my pussy rings, a permanent steel collar around my neck. It was kind of ironic how I’d described my pussy chain dragging along the floor as I crawled in my story yesterday…I didn’t have any idea at that stage.

To be honest, the idea of all these things freaks me out sometimes. I enjoy being active, getting out and about, swimming, gym…I worry about how these extra additions will affect me. It’s a worry about me giving up my freedom in the physical sense.

I had a very interesting reaction to talk of a permanent steel collar. More than anything I think it was a feeling of ‘Oh, no…not again.’A feeling that I really didn’t want to go there again. It’s not that I don’t like collars, I love them. I was so completely attached to my collar before. It was definitely a love/hate relationship though, because it was heavy and got in the way all the time-aerobics was incredibly challenging, involving tying it down and twisting it into a particular position.

Hardly anyone where I worked before recognized it for what it was. I was always conscious that a few people would look at it and know, but most of the time it was just a ‘chunky piece of jewellery’.And when my collar came off, it was days before anyone commented.

I suppose talk of a such a similar collar being around my neck again made me baulk at the jump.I don’t like the idea of things overlapping. I want it to be fresh and new. I don’t want to visit graveyards of old memories and things that should be put to rest.