Life is much more the sum of its parts

It’s been six weeks of adjusting and pondering. Adjusting to your ways, your expectations and your idiosyncrasies, while pondering my body image issues, my slave fantasy, my slave reality and most of all about my life with you.

The fact that you value me so much makes me immensely happy, but it also scares me at the same time. It raises questions in my mind about whether you can do what is necessary as my Master. I see now there are times when you indulge me when I don’t feel that I should be. I often use these interactions as ways of testing my leash, my ‘life line’, I give it a good tug and see what happens. I sometimes need you to be harsh and cruel and to hold onto my leash so tightly that it hurts.
As you say, you own me, you control me. I get freedom and release from your ownership. I talked to you the other day about ‘place putting’ and I see you putting me in the head-space of a slave as a way of ‘living my slavery’.
To tell you the truth, I’m happy that you’ve put ‘restrictions’ on my communication with others. I don’t see it as an injustice or as the first step in you ‘cutting me off’ from the outside world. I see it as you exerting your control and authority over me. I liked you laying down the law. I liked the threat of severe punishment. I like the fact that you keep tabs on me and care enough about me to do so.

I think we’re both very guarded and defensive. In this type of relationship you open yourself up so much more to be hurt, but you can only get out of something as much as you put in. If you fear and hold back, you won’t experience the maximum potential of anything.

You asked me if I am happy . It is hard for me to say ‘yes’. Being happy is my ultimate goal, it has been the motivation behind everything that I’ve done since deciding to leave Japan. I’ve thought about happiness so much that I’m not sure what it even is anymore. I see is as a sort of spiritual fulfillment, a peace that permeates deep into the soul. ‘To be happy’ is a state of being, it’s a frame of mind and a destination on a certain journey.
I’m not at that stage where I can simply ‘be’ .  I am not satisfied with myself as I am and I don’t have the generousity of heart to accept what cannot be changed. I don’t think I’ve reached the culmination of my inner search yet. I’m looking for me as I’m supposed to be and perhaps I will find that me and perhaps I won’t, but I’ll need to be able to accept what I find either way.

What I do have at the moment is joy. You said the tone of my journal entries has changed and that I smile a lot more. Things were very bleak and dark inside me for quite some time and I now feel a lot brighter and lighter and that is because of you. You have accepted and welcomed me and taken a great risk. Funnily enough, we never really had that ‘uncomfortable getting to know you stage’ . We just seemed to take off from where we left off and it’s been like coming home. You’ve been patient and tolerant and I am so grateful for the effort that you’ve put into me. We are both intense and passionate people and I think we both know that there is more to life than what we see on the surface.

I always wanted to be someone’s pet project and I’ve always felt this niggling calling that my purpose in life is to bring pleasure. I’ve never wanted the big career with the well-paying job and power suits. Mindless paper pushing and staring into computer screens never quite seemed like what I was supposed to do- I want to feel useful and be valued. You said that you’ve never felt so alive and you have never felt so much pleasure. It gives me so much joy to hear you say that. I think I’ve awoken something in you and I hope you discover much more within yourself.

Demon ass

I apparently have what’s known as a ‘demon ass’. Now, this doesn’t mean that my ass takes on an occult life of its own, puking everywhere and making unsuspecting heads spin, it means that my bum is so inviting that Master finds it hard to stop beating it ’til it’s black and blue.

I’ve got a very pretty decoration of reds and purples there at the moment from a spectacular visit from Mr. Strap over the weekend. It really made me laugh because Master had said that Mr. Strap was so heavy and harsh that he should really only come out for punishments and never for more than 30 strokes or so. 115 strokes later I was feeling my bum burn like fire and wondering where along the line had Master’s thoughts about Mr. Strap’s use changed.

Master gets this very intense look in his eye when he’s on that ‘beating high’. It’s probably the same look I have when faced with a fountain of hot flowing chocolate fudge and a self-service all-you-can-eat ice-cream machine….a look of ravenous hunger. He really does look as though he wants to gobble me up sometimes.

It’s often a case that Master doesn’t mean what he says. It used to and to a certain degree, still bugs me that I often have to sift through what he tells me in order to find out what I’m supposed to do.  Infractions of the ‘boots in My bed’ and ‘Mr.Purple in during relaxation time’ rules were pointed out to me the other day and all my bum could think about at the time was, “Oh, so you really meant that!” I said to Master that for the sake of my bum I really needed to see a copy of this ‘variable rulebook’ (i.e it changes every other minute just so he has a plausible excuse to beat my bum.) And his response?

“You can’t. One of the rules is that the slave can’t see the book.”

Gee…you win some, you lose some.

It’s not so much the beatings that bother me-I quite enjoy the fact that Master gets so much enjoyment out of them- it’s just that I don’t like to ‘do wrong’. I’m a stickler for doing stuff by the book and it upsets me to think that I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing and can’t fix the situation because I don’t know what it is that I’m supposed to be doing. 

There are things that Master says in the ‘heat of the moment’, things that he says to fuck with my mind or ellicite some sort of reaction from me. He’s really very good at it because his tone doesn’t alter in the slightest and there’s not a glimmer that he doesn’t intend to do what he’s saying. One of my favourite mind-fucks to date was the ‘beat you, ravish you, beat you, ravish you’ one. He had that ‘hungry’ look and had already cropped and smacked my bum a hundred times or so and it was hurting. I had the gag in and everything was looking bad for my bum when he said:

“I want you to roll over so I can beat you some more, then I’m going to come back and ravish you. Then I’m going to beat you again and ravish you. Beat you, ravish you, beat you, ravish you until I’m satisfied.”

So I was laying there on the bed thinking, “Oh, shit” and Master said later that I had this wild look of fear in my eyes.I knew my bum was going to have a bad time of it.

Twenty seconds later he did that long, self-adjusting sniff of his that signifies a mood change and asked me if I wanted coffee.

You tell me how the rules go and we’ll both know…lol.

Drool, dogs, d-clips and Bob

After dealing with my over ouchie pussy for some time, on Master’s advice I decided to call my piercer and find out what the hell was happening with my nether region:

“Sounds like you might need to change your rings to barbells. Come in and see me on the weekend and until then get some betadine ointment and apply it to the exit points and jewellery and run it through the piercings.”

Betadine. I knew it was going to hurt like hell, but then again the piercings already were hurting like hell so what difference did it make?

So I faithfully carried out the betadine treatment, smearing that icky-looking stuff on the bloody granulomas and on Friday headed into town and rocked up to the piercing place. I knew my in-between-brazillians hairy pussy was going to be the last thing they’d want to see first thing in the morning, but there I was anyway.

“That is a very nice collar. Let me have a look. Where did you get it from? Are you sub or slave? Who are you collared to?”

That was the beginning of the ‘grill-the-slave-with-her legs-spread-wide-open’ session. I find it challenging to have a normal conversation when the floral decoration in the middle of the table is my pussy.

‘What do you call your owner girl? Sir, Master?’
‘What has he instructed you to call other dominants?’
‘We haven’t really discussed it, but I think it would depend on what the dominant wanted to be called.”
‘Well, you can call me Bob.’

It was very surreal to discuss these things with Bob. A big part of me does a double-take every now and then when I *actually* realise that other people do bdsm-that it’s not just my fantasy, my secret, that I’m not Robinson Crusoe alone and shipwrecked on a bdsm oasis surrounded by a sea of ‘nilla folk.

Bob assured me that my piercings were fine as they were and that I’d just have to keep up the betadine and stay patient. It had me really worried there for a while. I hate my rings sometimes, but I have become quite attached to them. They are another sort of trophy for me-something that I know not every one has and they are a testament to my endurance. I keep wanting things that show that I’m not a complete and utter wuss-more bruises, tougher bondage etc. I sometimes feel that I have a lot more to prove to myself than anyone else.

“Take my card and get your Master to call me. You could come over for coffee and have a look at my dungeon.I have a slave cage and a St. Andrews Cross. I also have a TENS unit and a violet wand. The electric arc it puts out is quite interesting.”

Mmmm….slave cages. I’m sure I completely perked up when he mentioned his slave cage. 

I got home that afternoon and Master sent me a message to say that he had already been in contact with Bob. (Talk about a mover and a tamperer!) Bob had told him that he wanted to do my next two pairs of rings so that he could personally make sure that they were done correctly and with Master’s interests at heart. Bob also said they could be done at anytime and there wasn’t any need to wait. Great….I am so dreading going through that again. I know it is going to happen regardless of how I feel about it and how much pain it causes me, but if I could, I’d avoid a repeat experience like the plague.

So that night was a black leather teddy, black boots and Mr. Purple night. Mr. Purple is really an attachment for a strap on so he doesn’t function all that well as a butt plug, being that he doesn’t have that little narrow bit at the end for your sphincter muscle to close around, but he is big and every so often feels delicious. Kneeling at the door, all slutted up I waited to see what Master had in store.

It was a bondage night. Goodie! Cuffs d-clipped together, spreader bar, blindfold and that gag. Ball gags are supposed to be safer because they let you breathe through your mouth in case you can’t breathe through your nose, but they also let drool escape and in my case, bucket loads. I’d rather risk suffocation than have the virtual Niagara Falls of drool situation happening. It dribbled down my chin and pooled on my thigh before trickling onto the carpet. I was so embarassed and what was worse was that Master was getting snap happy.

I have this thing about bodily fluids and gases. Those chilly mornings when your breath turns to steam freak me out. I always wrap myself in a scarf and breathe into it to stop myself from ‘steaming’. Condensation on fogged up windows in cars and rooms makes me want to scream.Everyone else is drawing pictures or clearing it to see out the window, but I can’t even bring myself to touch it. Drool is a definite no-no. If I hadn’t been tied up I would have been running around the room like a head-less chicken hoping that someone would wipe up the grosse stuff on my leg (Master licked my face the other day and it was a challenge to control myself. )Breathing in other people’s expelled air, though is my biggest hang up. That’s why I don’t like planes or any other enclosed space. I need to have windows open and breathe in my own unadulterated air. That’s my little OCD and I think if you dig a little into everyone’s psyche, you’ll find something in the OCD line of behaviour.

The three-eyed monster

Laying there this morning with drool and snot and tears dribbling out, I was thinking, “Whatever! Do whatever the hell you want- it doesn’t make a smidgeon of difference to me.” Having the gag in was probably a good thing. It stopped me from saying that or anything else that would endanger my bum and it gave me something to help me swallow back my thoughts.

“Sullen” was what Master called my mood. “Pissed off” was how I would describe it. I’m not really sure why, just one of my little mood swings and perhaps a little bit of ‘back to reality, now need to find a job, make career decisions and get some money’ depression.
I find it so hard to be both a slave and a normal member of society. No matter how many times I’m told that I am a slave and that I’m not free, I’m not a slave when I’m balancing finances and I’m not a slave when I’m pondering my future studies.That’s life.

I’d been up all night with the most amazing arm cramps-tossing and turning and just aching. I had a bitch of a headache since the night before, and I was already tired and aching before I was put into bondage. I swim, walk, go to gym all in an attempt to make myself more pleasing. In many cases I pound myself into oblivion in an attempt to reach that ideal and it’s never good enough. There are piles of boots and clothes that Master has bought and I can’t fit into. They taunt and ridicule me. They’re like some mold that I think he wants me to fit in. I see nothing but the cellulite and flaws in photos he takes. I make myself overtired by walking or swimming or doing whatever-then I’m too sore/tired to give as much as I do in other situations.
I can’t do right either way.

Are you ready to please your Master?”
“I don’t think it matters if I am or not.”

That had apparently been the wrong answer to the question. Apparently I’m always supposed to be ready to show my willingness and desire to please and whether I’m physically ready or not is another question. I think that I am a person with thoughts that don’t change regardless of whether I am a slave or not. I’ll do whatever is required, or die trying because I am a slave but it doesn’t mean that I have to like it or want to do it. Laying there with him pinning me down, his hand tugging my hair back and his face so close to mine he had three eyes. He was so close that he was out of focus and the three-eyed monster came alive.

Up on my knees and heading south I couldn’t think about anything other than how the cuffs were digging in and my knee that was starting to quiver under my body weight. I’m not the lightest slave in the world and I could hear my knee crying out for enforcement of the Geneva Convention.

“I can focus more with my hands free.”
“I don’t care. I want you like this.”

Fifteen minutes and fifty strokes with Mr Strap for an ‘unacceptable performance in relaxation’ later, my attitude still hadn’t improved. In my defence I had aching arms which had just been cuffed behind my back, circulation grinding to a halt in my knees, a dysfunctional nostril and a throbbing head. Guys may think that sucking cock is easy:
1. Open mouth.
2. Suck like you’re trying to get a golf ball through a hose and lick like there’s no tomorrow.
But in the great words of Samantha from Sex in the City ,“They don’t call it a job for nothing.”

I was not in the most tolerant of moods-pain-wise and other-wise that is-and those fifty strokes had me bawling my eyes out like a newborn. All snotty and sniffling, I’d made things harder for myself and part of me was just fuming. 

“I’m not happy.”
“Well, I can’t suck when I can’t breathe!”

I don’t think the words convey the tone I used and I knew as soon as they had left my mouth that I was going to be in so much trouble. He uncuffed my hands and told me to go blow my nose and come back to make amends. I wasn’t trying to acerbate the situation, but I just couldn’t kiss him like I’m supposed to pre/post relaxation. It annoys me immensely that something I did as a way of getting back at him for his copious amounts of relaxation time has been turned into something that he enjoys and is a frequent cause of my education. I was getting a bit of sadistic enjoyment from kissing him after he’d cummed in my mouth but now it’s no fun at all.

“That’s seventy five with Mr Crop.” 

Twenty five each for 2 x pre/post relaxation kisses had been transmuted into seventy five and I really couldn’t give a rat’s ass. That little thrill of defiance, that buzz of rebellion was liquid sunshine for a thirsty man and I drunk it in…. for about 5 seconds. Then the reality of it sunk in and put a dampener on things. But ultimately, he could of gotten medieval on my ass with a blowtorch for all I cared. It riled me that he’d judged my performance as lacking, without giving me the chance to do my best. But as he remindedme, I’m a slave and things ain’t supposed to be fair.

I’m thinking a lot more that being a slave is what I do and not what I am. I don’t think the ‘me’ in me will ever really change. My thoughts and feelings keep ‘me’ alive. I could only ever really be a slave if I stopped thinking and if I was in a position where there wasn’t anything else but slavery in my reality. Lock me up in a cage and feed me from a bowl 24/7 and I may learn to bark like my life depended on it…

But not ’til then.

Shitting where you eat

One would think that during our trip back to Master’s roots, the slave routine would be suspended-but it hasn’t. I think there is something slightly disturbing about being cropped, sleeping in bondage and sucking cock in rooms in family member’s houses without locks on the door. So while I’m doing my daily duties I’m straining to hear footsteps approaching or getting ready to take a dive under the doona if a door is suddenly wrenched open.


I suppose that most people would respect a closed door, but I’ve been sprung before. Kneeling on the floor with a brush handle up your ass doesn’t look good anyway you look at it.


The last bastion of vanilla innocence was Master’s sister’s house. Nothing funky had been done there because the last time we’d been there, so had the rest of the family.  We were downstairs and everyone else was upstairs:


“How about I take you into their bedroom and you can relax me?”

(Relaxation is Master’s euphemistic term for a blow job, mostly due to the fact that he is not the one getting lockjaw or an intense core muscle workout from holding himself upright over a cock for extended periods of time.)

Fortunately, he realized that that may have been too risqué and that last kink-free sanctum remained unconquered.


This trip to Master’s family home has made me realize something interesting though-how much parents shape their kids and how the house determines the kids’ futures. Everything from parents’ preferences in furniture to prejudices is carbon copied onto their offspring.  I noticed it too when I moved out of home and was setting up my first flat- I’d buy the same sort of wire rack for drying dishes that my parents had had, I put up towel rails behind the door. It wasn’t because they were the cheapest or the most practical, it was because that was what I was used to and I couldn’t break the mold. However, change the family and you get another completely different set of ‘standards’. This coming together of two different ‘standards’ is often what makes or breaks a couple when they first move in together. If you’re not willing to compromise and blend some of the their standards with yours, you’re doomed. I’ve found these last three weeks to be a time for learning Master’s standards-just what is the norm and what can and can’t I get away with. Not that I have much to worry about anymore though. Any suggestions or complaints that I have about ‘standards’ or anything else for that matter, are generally responded to with the Ultimate Masterly Response (UMR):


“It doesn’t matter, because you’re just going to be so cropped.”


So some of our conversations end up sounding something like this:

”Don’t you think it would be better if you used the fuel vouchers you get from the supermarket to save 4c off the price?”

“What, so you can save maybe $2 a week, a bit over $100 a year?”

“Well, that’s another $100 you can use to buy a pair of boots.”

“You pay for that ‘discount’ in the price of the groceries. I’d rather shop at a cheaper place like where we go.”

“But you get a voucher on the docket from the supermarket where we go.”

“Well, I’ll use it next time then.”

“Glad to hear it.”

But it doesn’t really matter, because you’re just going to be so cropped.”


You’ll note that the UMR wrapped that little conversation up quite nicely. If it didn’t hurt so much, I’d laugh. I’m sporting colourful bruises at the moment from a rather ‘intense’ beating session. I lost count of the strokes somewhere around 400. And the strokes were hard-not the flickety- flick-flick type, but the reverberating they-can-feel-this-in-Texas-yessiree-that-hurts-where-the sun-don’t shine-thwack type. I think Master was spurred on by the musical acoustics of the high ceilings at his brother’s  place. And you know what he said to me?


“You know, you were right. I like it much better when you don’t count-when I can just beat you.”


Me and my big fat mouth.

It blows me away though sometimes- he can be beating my bum into oblivion one minute then offering to make me coffee the next. I can’t seem to switch so quickly from “On” to “Off” like that. He makes some gentlemanly gesture after removing his hand from my throat where he was squeezing the life out of me a mere 10 seconds ago and I just lay there trying to get my breath back and searching his words for ulterior motives: ‘If he makes me coffee does that mean that he’s going to crop me later for not making him coffee?’ (Not that he needs an excuse to crop me, he just delights in me trapping myself into being cropped.) So I lay there puzzled in silence as I ponder the ramifications of my response and I end up being cropped for not


The most interesting part of the session was that while my bum was being cropped into a pulpy mess I managed to bite back all the moans and groans, but when he started tweaking my nipple with those demonic fingers of his, he’d reduced me to tears in about 15 seconds flat.


I have a bruised and battered bum, a nuked nipple and a petulant pussy.

It’s been a bad week for the pussy. For some reason my piercings have been causing me more grief over the past 5 days than they have over the past month. We had to hunt for some saline so I could attempt to quiet them down. I’m not sure if it’s the inactivity of my recent hectic lunching and dining schedule, or if there’s something funky happening down there, but I definitely feel that the pain is making me hornier than usual. I’m a firm believer in the “anytime-that-I’m-not-feeling-100%-is-a-good-time-to-masturbate” law. Stomach cramp? Masturbate. Depressed? Masturbate. Eaten too much? Masturbate. PMS? Masturbate. It’s my natural painkiller and mood enhancer. Not having it on tap has been hard. I mentioned to Master that it would be good if I could have some ‘personal playtime.’ His response?  (Smells like a prime time for a UMR, doesn’t it?)


But it doesn’t really matter, because you’re just going to be so cropped.”

Melbourne and border security

I’ve never been a good plane passenger. Those 3, 5 or 7+ hours on a plane seem to pass agonizingly slowly and half way through I’m usually ready to jump out and make a free-fall landing. For me, the distance and time difference involved in traveling from Perth to Melbourne was like going overseas and I had a lot to think about-meeting the family, meeting the friends and packing.


I have a little packing ritual that I go through when I go somewhere usually involving music, coffee and ideally, something to chew on. I spend a few hours choosing clothes, shoes and making sure I have the essentials for the duration of the trip-makeup, toiletries and a book. I find loading my accoutrements into a bag to be a spiritual experience full of memories and déjà vu – it’s a bit like my life flashing before my eyes- and having it all over and done with in about 10 minutes like the boys do, seems to me a waste.


It was my first travel experience with my collar, and not only was I going to have the reactions of his family and friends, but also airport security to deal with. I had images of flashing lights, alarms and snarling dogs as I was hauled off to be strip-searched. I walked up to the metal detector like it was the gallows to accept my fate:


“I’m not quite sure about that necklace. You might have to take it off.”

“It doesn’t come off.”

“(looking like he’s just seen road kill) It doesn’t come off???…..Well…..take off your shoes and if it goes off, we’ll know that that’s the only metal and then we can use the wand on you.”

“(thinking about another type of wand and wondering whether to mention her pussy piercings) O.k…sure.”


There wasn’t even a peep out of the bloody thing. Master said I had the funniest shit-scared look on my face as I walked through the detector. He then proceeded to inform me that the detectors are set for different sensitivities at different heights on the body and that he had no idea what I had been worried about. I think I grew a couple more grey hairs.


I had had a bet with Master about my collar. I bet him $100 that no-one in his family or circle of friends would comment on it. In my previous experience, I hadn’t even had a whiff of a comment from one of the twenty or so people I came into contact every day with, so I thought that naturally these people, who I would be meeting for the first time, might think it was strange but wouldn’t say anything directly to my face. That idea was shot to shit on day three. We were sitting around the table having morning coffee when Master’s dad said:


‘I don’t mean to be rude, but do you have a chain for that thing?’


I groaned inside and out. Not only had I lost $100 but it was the beginning of the end of my theory. Dinner with his friends the next day included a surprise interrogation session and I turned question time over to Master. I think I blushed a hundred shades of red in the space of about ten seconds. It always throws me so off balance. I can talk about things on my terms, but I always break so easily under a grilling. Part of me was morbidly curious about how Master would handle some of the questions:


“Do we have an Austrian hostage situation going on here?”



“Does he chain you to the bed?”



“What did you have written on your profile that you were seeking?”

“A certain type of girl.”


“You said you had a girl cleaning your donger, didn’t you?

“Yes, and now I have a bigger donger and a prettier girl cleaning it.”


(And although it would be so very appropriate, they’re not talking about the you-can-ring-my-bell type of donger, they were referring to the pre-fab accommodation Master stayed in while he was advising on site.)


I thought he fielded the questions quite well. It all caused a bit of a stir, but I am happy in a sadistic kind of way- if I had to go through the explanations with my friends etc. I think he should too! But it’s not over yet. There are still some juicy dinner and lunch dates to come, which I sure will involve some more delightful questions.

Biting myself on the bum

I’m always in two minds about venting in my journal. There really are times that I need to get stuff off my chest and putting it into words becomes very therapeutic, but there are also times that I dig the deepest holes to bury myself in.

‘Leniency’ has been a word that I’ve heard at least every 10 minutes for the last couple of days. As in, “Oh we can’t let you get away without not being punished for not making me cum within 5 minutes. That would be lenient of me. But if I was being practical I’d give you 3 mins of leeway because there are factors other than your tongue contributing to it. It’s such a good thing that I don’t have to be lenient anymore isn’t it?”

So given a choice, I’d love him to be lenient, or at least give me a nice balance of indulgences and place putting. It’s only natural. As humans we will gravitate towards the easy in everything we do. It probably dates back to those cavemen times, i.e. ‘don’t expend more energy than you have to because you don’t know when your next woolly mammoth steak is going to come along.’ If given a choice, I wouldn’t wear a collar, I wouldn’t have funky slave jewellery in my pussy, I wouldn’t spend copious amounts of time licking feet, balls, cock, hands and any other part of the body that takes his fancy, I wouldn’t be crawling around on the floor on a leash or doing the other multitude of ‘slavish’ things that I do. Choice takes away my slavery.

Master tells me I have to stop being so black and white about everything and I fully agree. I’d like to be more flexible-enjoy my play sessions and my ‘nilla life with equal abandon and flit between both with little or no fuss. But there is this huge need for me to justify things in my mind, to justify what I am doing and why. Ideally, ‘because I am a slave’ should be justification enough, but I’d like it to be ‘I do what I do because there is nothing else’. I need to be trapped behind my wall because having no choice just makes things so much easier…lol (as if I’m going to get away with ‘easy’…)

I’m a very tactile person.I often don’t understand or believe things until I really see or feel them. One of my longest lasting impressions from Japan was when my hubby’s grandmother died and I went to the funeral. I knew all about the customs and what to expect, but not a shred of reading or hearing about what was going to happen prepared me for the reality of seeing her post-cremation form and picking up her bones with chopsticks to put them into the urn. Very, very bizarro. This was a lot of the reason behind my copious amounts of slave markings-so that I would know everytime I looked at myself, that there would be no mistake, no doubts. The funny thing is that I look at them and see them but I don’t realy ‘feel’ them.

I’m having a bit of an identity crisis I guess. I’m not really seeing anything definitive that makes me a slave and I’m still having trouble accepting it. I had a chat with a friend the other day and his view was that slavery does exist but slavery in bdsm is not really slavery at all. I did the whole “well, slavery and consensual slavery are different” thing and he responded with, “There ain’t no such thing as ‘consensual slavery’. That nullifies the concept of slavery in itself.” All very true on reflection.

I don’t know why I have a hang up about labels. Maybe because it gives me some meaning to the games we play. It is the ‘theatre of life’ so maybe suspension of belief is the first pillar?

Mixed messages

I’ve been in a feral mood for the past couple of days-one of those moods where you want to be left alone to mope around the place but when being left alone is probably the worst thing that could happen.

The ups and downs of it all confuse me. Why aren’t I deliriously happy that I have what I wanted? I suppose the easy answer to that is because I don’t have what I want and never will and who knows ultimately wtf I want anyway??

“I think you need a non emotional commitment owner…someone who just thinks you’re property and uses you for their purposes. ‘I love you’ gets in the way. It doesn’t mean they don’t care for you or cherish you, it just means they give you the life of slave without question or hesitation so the person’s needs are met and reassurance given. I call it the ‘theatre of life’. You are providing a role play existence for them and the important point is you must be able to sustain the play-the feeling of a natural existence for them.”

Master and I had many a long discussion before I made the decision to allow myself to be enslaved. It was hard to do it all again. We’d talk about things, promises were made about what would and wouldn’t happen to me and often all that was running through my head was, ‘here we go again’. I hated that my experience had been so tainted. I wanted to be the virgin in white walking down the aisle with nothing but joy and excitement glimmering in her eyes. I couldn’t be happy about being owned again. I realised that it was something I needed like food or air, but I couldn’t welcome it with open arms and and I couldn’t feel joy.

Perhaps my problem is that chop and change between the theatre and reality. I want to live my role and not just play it. When I feel that ebb and flow of the control over me, everything wavers. Reality and my limitations ensure that I’m not ‘playing a slave’ 24/7. I can’t be locked up and beaten 24/7. Life must go on.
It’s when I have something other than my role to contend with that it all becomes meaningless. I can endure all that nasty stuff when that is all there is. But when the toys are put away and I’m sitting on the lounge eating dinner all my mind can think about is ‘Wtf was that? If I can be sitting here in comfort stuffing my face, what the fuck was I just being beaten and drinking piss for?’

Now, technically, all of that is happening because Master wants it to- he uses me and indulges me with equal abandon. But when I have the freedom I will resent the control, when I am being controlled, I will resent the freedom. I don’t know how I can have themco-existing within me. The foundation may be that I am owned, collared and will never be free, but 95% of my life is doing what I want, when I want to, without a conscious thought that I have a Master or a collar around my neck. I suppose most people would think that that is a good thing, that it has become a ‘natural existence’ for me, but I simply feel that it is something that I am able to ignore.

Micro-managing is a term that is often thrown around. It’s supposed to be the domain of those obsessive compulsive types who freak out if the instruments of torture aren’t laid out just so.
I’m not a neat-freak and I do mumble under my breath about grumpy old men and their particular ways, swallowing back a snappy comment every now and then before it gets loose, but I do feel the need for boundries, rules, routines. Lay them out for me in a booklet 10 pages thick if you want to, I’d do every single one until it broke me.

I used to translate instruction manuals for a living:

1.  Check manual matches product.
2.  Open manual.
3. See (1).

It opened up a whole world for me about many different ways there are to interpret the simplest of things. Common sense is not common at all. You have to be explicit and implicit in everything you say. Having every single little syllable I wrote scrutinized and having to defend and explain my choice of a simple ‘a’ over  ‘the’ made me incredibly conscious of what I say and how I say it. It also makes me do triple layer scans on everything I hear. As a result I lay there at night sometimes checking for light leaks in my eyelids and testing the ‘bonds’ of my slavery with equal passion. I’m a TC and PC girl through and through. It matches the kind of ‘all or nothing’ attitude I’ve got ingrained into me. Give me an inch and I’ll take a mile, but take away more than the inch and I’ll rise to the challenge.

So we had a discussion about this ‘affection’ thing. I was seeing all these kisses and cuddles and things as bad things-not only do they make the beatings hurt more, but they send me mixed messages, they seem too much like the ‘I love you’ thing. Master says he does it because he wants to, that it has nothing to do with me and what I want and don’t want. I suppose the fact that he has continued with it even though I have bitched and moaned and called it ‘bizarro’ until I am blue in the face is an indication of that, but still….

I said to Master that a lot of his kindness smacks of leniency (I wrote about leniency before here ). He said that I have it all so wrong.

I don’t want to be in a sterile relationship. I don’t want to be in pain all the time. But can you have your cake and eat it too? I just don’t know…

The first cut is the deepest

“Wearing a collar is a lot deeper for you than just wearing leather around your neck…”

Wearing a collar and even just the idea of a collar is something that is so intense for me. I find it hard to explain sometimes.
I love my collar to distraction and hate it with a passion. The noise it makes drives me insane, it’s hot, heavy and gives me headaches, yet the thought of having it removed is enough to make me cry.

My collar has been a point of contention between Master and I (well, I don’t really think you can have a point of contention in an M/s relationship…let’s say it has been something that we’ve had quite a few discussions about) and I have bitched and moaned and complained about wearing it for starters, then when it went on how it won’t be coming off and an assortment of other hang ups I have had about it. Yet, when he wanted to take it off yesterday so I could wear the lovely dragon choker he bought me, I couldn’t think of anything I didn’t want to happen more.

I suppose it’s a case of acceptance. Once I’ve worked my head around something and melded it into my life, I can’t stand to let it go. It would be the same as my piercings- if they were rejected or I got an infection or something, I’d be crushed. Once I’ve embraced something and made it ‘mine’ I mourn the loss of it intensely.

If you look at it in another way, it is a case of wanting what I have got. I have got the collar and, at least for the interim, it’s not coming off. So even though I hadn’t wanted it, I have it, and now I’m wanting it. Technically speaking, as a slave I can have nothing of my own-no rights of ownership, no rights except the choice to be a slave- so wanting anything is a dangerous path to go down. Therefore it is better to want what you ‘have’, because a slave has even less chance of getting what they want.

Make it so Number One

Crisis situation!!! I’m tempted to dial 911 and become another schoolkid statistic, one of those ones that doesn’t know to call ‘000’ in an emergency because of the influx of American tv….but I’m smarter than that, I’ve got an arts degree!!! Lol…

Now I’m trying to breathe and calm down and not look at my ring finger. Twenty nine years it’s taken me to get this far. I couldn’t even do it for my hubby when I was getting married, but in order to become a better slut, I’ve managed to grow my fingernails. Now one of them is chipped-hugest crisis of my life! I’m going to have to file it down…sob….

But other than that it is turning out to be a fairly standard day in the life of a subtle slavegirl:

1. Get woken up pre-dawn by an inhumane ripping back of the covers (which I think he does just so he can see my nipples perk up)
2. Be released or not be released from the bed bondage depending on his fancy
3. Crawl/ elephant walk/ shuffle to his bedroom
4. Feet licking/boot application/get into his bed-but not necessarily all things and not necessarily in that order
5. Morning ravishing session- always includes copious amounts of kissing and question drilling and can include spanking/beating/squeezing of the throat/ nipple jiggling
6. Morning cock and ball worship-can include hot towel application and has recently been including pee drinking
7. Start breathing again
8. Get a couple more hours of sleep while Master gets ready and heads off to work
9. Wake up, eat breakfast (gruel-like, do domestic slave duties
10. Write in journal (if motivated)
11. Go for swim/ walk/ gym session
12. Domestic slave duties part two
13. Take a bath and get slutted up ready for Master’s return
14. Check front door is unlocked (very important!!)
15. Hang around in lounge room waiting for car to pull into driveway
16. Kneel by front door with head down, ass up
17. Afternoon bondage/ravishing session (see above, but can also involve an hour or so in bondage while bantering)
18. Dinner (nothing gruel-like)
19. Tv/movie watching, or net surfing/e-mail writing etc.
20. Be put to bed – generally in some form of bondage and can also involve another ravishing/beating session

You’ll notice that ‘toilet slave’ has been added to my list of names. I am at the moment slave/slut/animal/cunt/bitch/pee-drinker (whore is to come…) 
So many roles, so little time….

Number one drinking is not something that is new to me, but it’s always hard. It’s another one of those ‘don’t think about it or I won’t be able to do it’ things. Fortunately I’m generally too focused on breathing and not spilling to be thinking about anything else. A really bad moment is when you’ve got a blocked nose. I know that I can pee foran eternity sometimes and I usually take the opportunity to practice my pelvic floor muscle exercises so I wouldn’t want to be holding my breath while drinking my pee…lol.

I also had an interesting moment the other day. I suppose it was one of those moments that you would call an ’empowerment’. I’ve always liked the power rush I get from turning a guy on. It’s more than an ego boost, it’s a feeling of knowing that you are directly responsible for his pleasure. Being able to give a guy a hard on or making him cum makes me a bit giddy sometimes. I can feel the look I have on my face in those moments as clearly as if I was seeing myself in a mirror- it’s that self-satisfied grin of a cat that’s just gotten into the cream.

It puts an interesting twist on the power exchange. Yes, subbies do empower the domly ones by submitting, giving them the power to control them, but I’ve never really been conscious of the pendulum swinging back the other way and of being empowered myself. I believe in a balance in all things, in the equilibrium of the universe so I suppose it is only logical that the power can not endlessly go one way.

The captain has the bridge but number one gets all the girls. Ironic, isn’t it?