The time: 6:30am this morning.

The place: My bedroom.

The players: Master, myself and the pirate Jacque (otherwise known as the big poodle pup)

Master was there to check that his slave was wet, open and ready for use. I was there because I was still half asleep and I don’t run very far, very fast with hunks of metal in my unhealed pussy. While the pirate Jacque was there to oversee matters and run a cold, wet tongue up my bum everytime I got too close to the edge of the bed.

Ten minutes later, after a thorough inspection of my quote, unquote “wet, sloppy cunt” I was on the bed having an early morning briefing session with Mr. Strap. I’m so not a morning person that even that didn’t completely clear away the fog in my brain. I think the definitive moment in my wake up this morning was Master, all caught up in his horny enthusiasm, when he managed to attach my leash to one of my new rings. Apparently there’s so much silverware down there that even he gets lost! Lol…

Holy mother of mercy it hurt though. Two micro seconds after he’d put it on the wrong ring I was transported back in time to that black bench with the sharp tang of disinfectant and rubber gloves in the air. Thinking about it now still makes my pussy ache. But I have to say, if you want to get a girl to move quickly, just snap a leash onto one of her pussy rings! Faster than a speeding bullet, I was Superslave, scooting here there and everywhere just so I wouldn’t feel a tug in that most sensitive of spots.

I lay there sobbing and sniffling as he put his hand down to his cunt. A jerk of the leash had jarred my other rings and sent stars of pain flashing before my eyes:

“Concentrate on me! You don’t think crying is going to get any sympathy whatsoever from me do you? Your tears just make me want to hurt you more. You have nothing. Nothing at all. You’re a slave with nothing. You don’t even have pain until I give it to you.”

Will someone remind me to order slavery with a side of bondage but to hold the pain next time?  Please?

Pussy check. Boots and butt plug. Pussy leash. Cropping. Relaxation time. A mouth full of cum. A hot towelling. Then finally, into the cage I went. And it wasn’t even 8am!!! 
I was a busy little vegemite who was definitely earning her gruel.

Don’t worry be happy

Waiting naked on the bed in boots for my forty volkswagon bug points (how the hell did he manage to spot four in about ten minutes??!) Master was going over his response to my last post. Punctuating my responses with a sharp smack of Mr. Crop, I was beginning to get reluctant to say anything, but I knew that not answering would be much worse:

“What did you think of my response?”
“I thought it was…umm…well…serious.”

“Did you?”

“What are you?’
“Your slave.”
“What do the rings in your cunt tell you?”
“That I’m your property.”
‘That’s right. You chose it. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”
“So accept it. It’s your reality now. Be happy.”

It was really quite funny. All I could think at that point was, ‘Great, now he’s telling me what to think!’  Lol…as if he has the right to do that! Shesh! Who exactly does he think I am? His slave or something??!

He made the observation that my rings were making me more slavey and how interesting it was. I’d like to make the observation that he’s gone from asking me if I am happy or not, to telling me that I should ‘be happy’. It doesn’t take these domly ones too long to wrap their animals around their little fingers now, does it?

It’s quite easy to act submissive, but being submissive is another completely different ballgame. I have acted submissively on a lot more occasions than I have been submissive-I grumble and moan about why I have to do things mostly under my breath, but every now and then a juicy morsel, too delicious to consume has escaped my lips:

“Sorry, I didn’t notice your wooden leg propped up against the wall, which, of course, would be the only reason you are asking me to get up and make you a coffee, even though I’ve just spent ten minutes getting my pussy rings in a comfortable enough position to sit down after spending 6 hours today standing.”

But it’s true, I’ve been good! I’m proud to say that I’m making a much more conscious effort recently to be slavey and make coffee and clean and strip naked as soon as he tells me. I’ve stopped looking at him to search his face to see if he is being serious before carrying out his demands. I’ve been taking them on face value-putting trust back where it should be-and it’s good. It’s simple. It’s me.


As a kid, I used to watch a cartoon where trucks and things used to transforrm into this gigantic fighting machine. I loved the fact that things in the everyday, such banal things, could be morphed into something so cool and exciting. At the movies last night I saw a preview for a new movie they’ve made of that series, ‘Transformers,’ and it made me think a bit of my own transformation because my banal and everyday is now something a lot more exciting.

In my comments from yesterday Master wrote:

“Since your labia piercings were finalised, I have noticed you’re slightly more submissive and slavey than before. I think the realisation that you’re a slave deep inside you is surfacing now within you more and more, and once your slave markings are tattooed onto your fine rump, your transformation physically will be finalised and we will continue to work on your mental transformation.” 

Master talks to me a lot. Sometimes he whispers. Sometimes he booms. But all the while he instills in me what I am and what I am not, “I am a slave and I am not free.” It’s my mental training and it happens so often that I sometimes find myself chanting my mantra in my sleep. Into my ear he whispers all the nasty things he knows I would like to have done to me. He voices my fantasies and shows just how deeply he knows me and the way I think.

I should find it disturbing and invasive-if I was a free woman, that is, but as he reveals more about the slave within me to myself I want him to know more. I want him to take those secrets from me. With nothing to hide and no privacy, the fact that I am a slave cannot be denied.

I know it. He knows it. I can’t deny the fact that I’m no longer free, yet I still seek some irrefutable proof of the change within me. I look in the mirror wondering if that is truly me. Is what I see a reflection of something that is still locked away somewhere deep inside? If it is, only Master has the key.

Where there’s smoke…

Master and I went through my alt profile and updated my fetish list. I was quite upset that they don’t have an gunky gobs of goo fetish in there somewhere-I suggest that it be called gooliphilia. I’ve recently progressed from ear wax to manky cunt goo. It really is quite rewarding to get those rings sparkling.

Master is a boots man. I discovered on the list that there is a proper term for it- retifism. He loves leather boots, the longer and the higher the heel the better. Boots in bed, boots in the street…I think I have something like 15 pairs at the moment for his viewing pleasure. I used to like boots from afar-mostly due to the fact that I couldn’t buy a pair to fit me and because they’re not the most practical things in the world. For the first time in my life I am being driven here, there and everywhere so it’s finally given me a chance to wear them. I suppose they also represented a side of me that I wasn’t quite ready to deal with.

I’ve never practiced self-hurt (except at the gym…lol) and I’ve never had a burning desire to be beaten, to be tottering around in boots or have rings dangling from my pussy, but they are things that I do to please Master. I enjoy turning him on, and giving him some eye-candy to brighten his day. 

‘O had never understood, but had finally come to recognise as an undeniable and very meaningful truth, the contradictory but constant entanglement of her feelings and attitudes: she liked the idea of torture, when she underwent it she would have seen the earth go up in fire and smoke to escape it, when it was over with she was happy to have undergone it, and all the happier the crueller and more prolonged it had been.’  The Story of O

O didn’t understand it and I don’t either. Perhaps it’s something that us of the non-masochistic variety struggle with in vain.

I often feel grateful for the opportunity to be something that I wasn’t and even though I don’t show it as much as I should or want to, I am thankful for Master for giving me an environment that is and will continue to do me so good. It’s been fertilizer for my barren soul and I couldn’t be much luckier.

Contented containment

I’ve had a couple of ‘Oh, the pussy pain! Woe be me!’ posts so it must be time for the pendulum to swing the other way for some light entertainment. A cheerful topic..hmmm…bondage is always something that cheers me up immensely, but I’m not sure if it has the same effect on everyone, so something else…hmmm.

I actually feel just like curling up in my cage and letting the world go by. It’s very tempting to put myself in there, but it kind of defeats the purpose of being caged somehow. I’m not supposed to like it and it’s supposed to be by force-at least that’s how it is in my fantasies.

I felt like a really hard session on the weekend, something to just snap me out of this un-slavey, snivelling mood I’ve been in. As Master so correctly pointed out:

“The point to focus on is you’re not free, won’t be allowed to be free and you need to work on your mental adjustments a little more. For example, your expectations to say can I have a McDonalds ice cream as we are driving past and expect me to actually turn into the drive way for your fix. It’s a reward not a right, it’s a treat not an everyday occurence. Slaves have no rights to treats only their Master has the right to treat their slave for their own delight.” 

In my defence, I had had two glasses of wine in after-work Friday drinks and was way too tipsy for my own good. It was quite funny actually. I was in the car and talking non-stop babble then we pulled around the corner into the home straight and suddenly a Mickey Dee’s fifty cent cone seemed like the best thing to have in the world. I knew he’d say no or more accurately ‘Fuck off, slave bitch slut,’ but I didn’t think it would hurt to try. I then got in trouble when we got home for having alcohol without permission, because apparently it’s not something that is on the slave-permissible list of liquids, which, at the moment, contains tea, coffee, water and gruel juice.

Saturday also saw me having  an educational meeting with Mr. Crop. When Master says, “Get naked. Boots. Position on my bed,” it apparenlty means right at that instant, regardless of the fact that he’s just started cleaning up his roll-top desk. Mr. Crop was making accoustic artistry on my ass with the kind of strokes that just reverberate through the air after the crop has hit flesh. In another place and time with someone else being on the receiving end, it would have been melodious.

All up, I’ve been pretty slack in the slave mentality side of things and I’m not sure what I can do to improve it. I thought I was going pretty well there for a while because I really had been holding back a lot of smart-ass comments and biting my tongue on occasions too numerous to mention. Master said it would take me a long time to be reprogrammed and I have no doubts about that whatsoever, but I’m just wondering if my ass can take it.

I’m gonna tell you a secret

Just a question- is it a good or a bad sign when your domly one starts snoring during relaxation time?

I’m not sure if the suckling motion lulls him to sleep or just that he is bored shitless! Lol….I’m hoping it’s the former.

Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, on the way home on Thursday we turned onto a road that we’d never taken before:
“Keep an eye out for 219”
“What are we looking for?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just look for 219.”

Now when the domly one is secretive it usually means one of two things-either he’s planning something good or he’s planning something very bad.

“175….196….219 there it is! The ‘Asbestos Diseases Center for Western Australia’????”

By this stage I was very confused.

“That can’t be right. Hang on….Ah there it is. The tattoo parlor.”

Gulp… It had been four days since the piercing from hell part two and I was thinking, ‘He’s gotta be kidding.’ Fortunately we were there just to make an appointment for a future pain session.

“For that design it’ll take about an hour and a half and cost somewhere between $150-$200. We can fit you in at the end of December.”

Whoa! Wasn’t it only half-way through November? I didn’t realise that there was such a back-log of people waiting to get painful things done to them. So since I won’t be here at the end of December because I’ll be playing the part of the Nullabour Nymph on our four day road trip across Australia, my next date with destiny was set for the 13th of January. I really am beginning to have a hang up about the number thirteen and it’s only two days before my birthday. My thirtieth birthday at that! Lol…I knew my 30th was going to be painful, but I wasn’t expecting it to be painful in the sticking-needles-into-your-skin kind of way.

I was hoping to get all the pain out of the way in 2006. All up this has been a really shitty year for me and my family. Of course, things have been looking waaaaay up since August when I moved here and fell into the clutches of this madman I call Master and Owner, but in every other way this year has been one that I really and truly would like to forget.

In Japan they have a belief that certain ages are ‘dangerous’ and it’s generally when unfortunate things happen. The ‘dangerous’ ages for this year are 19,32,33,34,37 and 61 for women and 25,41,42,43 and 61 for men. They don’t mention anything about 29 being bad for this year….hmmm…does this mean that things can get much worse than this?

You’e just too manky for me

I’ve got a manky, crusty cunt.

Just in case you are one of my readers from a non-British English-speaking country (50% of you raise your hands!) manky might be a new word for you so I’ll give you a few examples of its usage:

“What did you buy that manky piece of shit for?”
-you might hear this being said to a new owner of a second-hand dutch wife. Ewwww….talk about manky!

“My cunt is so manky even I don’t want to touch it.”
-said by me every morning.

Now for a biology lesson. When you get a piercing, your body secretes all the dead cells from inside the piercing site as it heals. These cells come out like cream-coloured globs that harden around the jewellery and as you move get dragged through the raw un-healed flesh inside.

Crusty gobs of goo + raw, traumatised piercing sites x 4=yikes!

I soak these crusty gobs off morning and night with saline and do the John Wayne during the day when it’s just too ouchie to walk normally. I’m not sure what’s worse, the actual piercing itself or the aftermath. One thing is for sure, painsluts have a field day with the whole experience.

At the OK Corral

‘So why are you doing that John Wayne walk?’
‘Did you have a hard work-out at the gym or something?’
‘Yeah..you know…it was kinda tough. Right down the center of my inner thighs. Shesh! They really know how to work your abductor muscles!’

Day two of Madame Robocop and I was John Wayne-ing it around at work praying that none of my students would ask me a question that would involve me having to swing around and write something on the whiteboard. I’m jingling and jangling as I move bow-legged from here to there. It’s going to be a long two weeks for initial healing. 

I was kind of tempted to say to the colleague who pointed out my funky moves that I’d just had a few piercings. I’d kind of like to see the reaction as it rippled throughout  the staffroom. It used to really worry me what people thought, but now I’m a bit of a shock reaction junkie. Lol.

Master is planning to have me used by others as soon as I have my tattoo and am healed enough. It’s part of his ‘animalize-the-slave-girl plan’ and somewhat of a fulfillment of a fantasy of mine.He told me months ago to write down my fantasies so that he could see what was going on up in that mind of mine, and I’ve tried to on a couple of occasions but they are difficult to put it into words. I have reactions to things, flashes of scenes, but not stories that play out in my mind. In my fantasies I’m always the victim, the helpless struggling captive forced to do things against her will. I don’t plan what will happen to me, I don’t control where things go. To me, it kind of defeats the purpose to be a struggling captive calling the shots…lol.

I really can’t imagine what it will be like to be used in front of Master. Part of me is mortified, but part of me thinks it is hot. I suppose it all depends on the suspension of reality and how seamless you can make the line between reality and your little theatre of bdsm. I used to love acting. It scared the crap out of me but also gave me that push to do things in front of others. I’m a bit of a performance anxiety sufferer. I played the piano, but never in front of others. I sing, but only when I’m the only one that can hear. Although I seem to have gotten over my little, ‘No way, Jose, can I masturbate in front of someone’ thing, I wonder how I’ll go being used by others. Not that it really matters of course, because if Master wants it, Master gets it. 

Oh, and Master has a new UMR (ultimate masterly response.) It’s gone from “It doesn’t matter because I’m just so going to crop your ass”  to ‘Well, you’ve just got a ringed cunt.’ What’s a girl supposed to say to that?!?

More machine than human

I have emergedthrough the conundrum of pussy fire. I’m seared. Cleansed. Something more than what I used to be.

I woke up on Sunday morning as a slave with a half-completed cunt and I went to bed done, finished and whole…or perhaps holey…lol.

Master pointed out that I was a lot calmer this time and there was a lot less crying. I’d have to say that I’d agree with him. After all, my clithood and first two rings were put in two days after I had met him in the flesh. This was two days after flying to the opposite side of the country, two days after meeting the man I was now owned by for the first time at the airport and two days after taking my first teetering steps down the new path I’d chosen. A mere two days and he had taken me down to that piercing torture chamber and half-tampered with my pussy. You’ve gotta expect a girl to be a bit tense!

This time I knew what to expect, I knew the routine and more importantly, I knew it had to be done. There may have been some doubts before, but this time my eyes were wide open.

It was much quicker and much more slavey this time. There wasn’t even time to say, ‘Are we starting?’ before the first needle went through. It was business-like and matter-of-fact. There wasn’t any of the, “Are you ok?” or the “Take a deep breath and then let it out.” I was nothing more than a piece of property being tagged and marked. Our piercer this time was also a dom and he knew exactly what I didn’t need-I didn’t need questions and I didn’t need emotional involvement. He and Master lined up the rings and chatted about his cunt. Left completely out of it, I felt like a piece of meat in a showcase.

(grabbing the top of my pussy just above the clit) ‘You know this is the perfect shape for a christina piercing. It would give you another anchor point to leash her with.’
It was the ultimate moment when you really wish it wasn’t illegal to kick the crap out of someone. I frantically looked over at Master and I could see the glimmer in his eyes. I saw the wheels turning in his head, “leash point…mmmm….anchor…” I just wanted to groan. I’ve got a collar with a huge, fucking ‘O’ ring! How many more leash points do you need?

Up on the bench awaiting my date with destiny, Master tucked the ends of my top into my bra to keep them out of the way while the piercer marked me out:

Me: “Is that to stop me flashing?”
Master: “I don’t care whether you flash or pop out. It’s just to keep your top out of the way.”
The needle wielder who should be kicked in the balls: “Now, I’m not in a position where I can say anything about how a master treats his girl, but if you wanted to be aesthetically correct for your photos she should be naked.”

I looked at my snap-happy Owner and groaned. Not only was I going to be impaled, but I was going to freeze my ass off while it happened. Fortunately, he took pity on me and the order never came- he was too busy drooling over the thought of padlockable-pussy.

It hurt as much as I remembered: 

“What the hell are your labia made out of? They’re the toughest ones I’ve seen.”

This was from a man in the piercing business for 22 years. He had to open another needle because the first one had blunted. I felt every millimetre of that needle going in and popping out through the flesh on the other side. Another one of my theories on why I handled it better was because I’ve had to deal with quite a bit of pain over the last three months-the crop, Mr. Strap etc. I’ve built up a bit of a tolerance and there hasn’t been a day when I haven’t felt pain in my nether regions from my first piercings. In fact I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be pain-free. I’m not sure whether that’s good or not…lol.

All done, photos were the first topic of agenda:

“Mind if I take a photo for our website?”

The evil needle wielder spent the next couple of minutes decoratively arranging the rings for his shot.I was wimpering by this stage and screaming across my mind was,”If you fiddle with those rings anymore I’m going to kick your domly ass into the next millenium!” As the domly ones vied for the best angle I was feeling more objectified by the moment. Does anyone want to give me a hug or say I did good? I hopped off the bench and the discussion turned to other topics:

Evil needle-wielder: ‘So, you’re not a pain-slut?’
Innocent slave moi: “Nooooooo. ‘
Evil domly-one: “Her bum is usually covered with bruises but I’m keeping it clean. I’m going to place a tattoo on her bum in the next week or so. I need something to look at while she relaxes me. Turn around and show him your bum.”

Bent over the piercing bench with my dress up around my ears, Master kneaded and stroked my bum discussing positioning and size. I had a cunt full of metal and two men looking at my exposed ass in a cubicle of a piercing salon. Something was very wrong…lol. I was more object than person, more machine than human.

I’m sore. But it’s done. Thank god it’s done.

Have a look at my cunt , if ya really can’t resist.
*I had to move these pics because the fuddy duddies at photobucket banned me…lol. Oooooh…does that now make me a rebel??

….as good as I can be

I’m a little miss goody-two shoes in real life. I pay my bills well before the due date, I return library books when I’m supposed to, I don’t litter, I don’t put my feet up on train seats…lol. I’m a real (*insert image of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction here) s..q..u..a..r..e. So this whole ‘fall’ into bdsm and kink shocked the hell out of my sister. She finds the idea of me being dark and dirty rather bizarre. My mother knows a bare skeleton outline of what sort of relationship I am in and she finds it amusing.

I like being funny, but being ‘amusing’ is a cut to the ego sometimes…lol.

So in some ways, the idea that people find this ‘new’ me titilating makes me want to prove myself. I want them to take me seriously so I find that I have a penchant for the extreme. Now, don’t get me wrong, I would be having four more large rings inserted into my pussy in two hours time regardless of whether I wanted it done or not. It’s Master’s choice. It’s his cunt. I could no more protest to having it done than I could cut off my own arm.

I don’t want to go through the pain, but I want to be able to make people cringe.

There is a certain pride involved in being a slave. The more beatings, the more bruises, the more pube-ripping brazillians you can proclaim to have had the better. I like it when people say, ‘Oh my god, how could you do that?’ I like being stronger, kinkier, more submissive than anyone else. 

A lot of people say that they are happier with nothing more than being owned.  To me, that is utter crap. I think they like to be able to say that, but the reality is that they are in it for themselves. Those people have to be owned in a way in which feeds their needs. They need to be used in ways that speak to their soul. You can’t be happy when there is absolutely nothing in it for you.

This is true for me also. I do these things for Master, but I do them for myself too. I get stronger, tougher and more resilient and last but not least, it gives me great material for shocking the hell out of my mother.

Word for the day

In class today with my kiddies (I call them that eventhough a couple of them are older than me and no-one is under 20) we were learning words that started with ‘p’. I was quite amazed with some of the offerings they brought forward- pancreas, pond and pantechnicon were just some of the quirkier vocab tidbits. I had to go and google pantechnicon, and just in case you’re wondering, it’s the technical term for a removalist’s van. A day in which you learn something is nevera day wasted.

I learned something else on the way home. My date for going under the needle is set for 11am this Sunday. My final two pairs of outer labia rings are finally going to be done and I’m not quite sure whether I’m excited or terrified. At least the pain will be followed with some pleasure. In my book of ‘Rules for Submissives’ there is the following clause:

1:1 Pain must always be followed by chocolate and the amount of chocolate consumption should be relative to the pain endured.
a) ‘Big pain’ including, but not limited to piercings, tattoos and brandings, shall immediately be followed with a trip to the chocolate factory.
b) ‘Medium to small pain’ including harsh croppings and tugging of unhealed labia rings shall be followed with chocolate in some form, preferably of the dark variety and anything from the Lindt brand is particularly encouraged.

I’ve been exceptionally horny for the past 4 or 5 days. Maybe it’s because I’ve been reading the story of o for the umpteenth million time or maybe it’s just my lovely girlie hormones. Anyway, it’s not been pleasant. Kneeling on the bed in my teddy, boots and butt plug tonight I felt Master pulling aside the g-string and then there was a weight on my cunt. He’d padlocked me shut and the thought flashing across my brain was not outrage or excitement or anything else just, ‘Oh, fuck! Now, there’s not going to be any release.’ Lol.

This whole ‘only-being-allowed-release-when-he-orders-me-to-and-having-to-do-it-right-then-and-there-in-front-of-him’ thing has bred this intense feeling of dependence in me. I need him to give that order. I need him to give me release. He’s turned me into a junkie and he metes out my fix in doses enough to deal with the most immediate needs, but not enough to satiate. I know I can’t do anything as the keeper of His cunt without his permission, but with release so close and yet so far out of reach the self-restraint required drives me a bit barmy at times.

Pussy, paddle, position, prostration, punishment…so many delicious things beginning with ‘p’ and all yummy candidates for slave word of the day.

Teasing the tawse

“You know Mr Strap?”


(wondering how to phrase the question because it could only be me in the whole entire world that doesn’t know)”You know a thing called a tawse?”


“Well, is he a tawse?”

(with eyes rolling to the heavens) “Yes, he is.”


I’m actually quite surprised that Master didn’t offer to demonstrate just how much of a tawse Mr. Strap is. So with my curiousity perked by this funny sounding word, I did what any other self-respecting net surfer would do- I wikipaedia-ed it. And the god of all internet knowledge Mr. Wikipaedia informed me that tawse was actually a Scottish word and that it used to be a popular instrument for corporal punishment in schools. How interesting…people have been receiving educations from Mr. Strap for quite some period of time.


Sitting here having completed my butt plug and boots etc. for the night (lordy, it’s going to be a long month!) I’m actually relaxed. I was looking back through my journal and quite a while back I wrote an entry called ‘things that make me go hmmm’ and pretty high up in my list were butt plugs. In retrospect, I only liked butt plugs then because I was basically choosing when one went in and how long it stayed in for…lol.


Rituals accompany butt plug usage and it is a very delicate and fine art:


  1. Butt plug is lubed and mind is boggling at how said butt plug is going to fit up something that things generally only come out of.
  2. After some slipping and sliding, entry point is located. Butt plug nudges entry point for a slackening of grippers.
  3. With some pressure, grippers slacken and entry procedures begin.
  4. Grippers strain at widest point of entry before swallowing up another entry.
  5. Burning feeling ensues and passage way tries to expel foreign body.
  6. If butt plug is played with, a feeling of semi-comfort may be reached. No movement results in dire need for that lump to be taken out of one’s ass immediately.


Hmmm..no butt plug sounds like more fun to me. But, as we all know, it’s not about me, is it?

Staying alive

“You have to empty yourself. You have to give me all of you.”

It’s something I’ve thought and pondered over for quite a while-how to be a good slave. Something that I couldn’t for the life of me express, Master summed up quite succintly in two eloquent sentences.

There is something so divine in the idea of that intensity. A domination so intrinsic and a submission so complete that nothing else can exist in that fiery inferno of dynamics. In fact, the simplicity of that intensity is something that I crave- just Him and my submission. 

‘You should be happy. If you’re not, you will be cropped anyway.
No twisting or squirming or moaning or whining will stop what l will do to you, or intend to do to you.
Your fate is determined, your mind will be trained.
Your submission is taken as fact.
You will give me what l want, or l will take it from you anyway.’

Now that was definitely a juicy comment. I just love it when he goes all ‘domly’ and makes statements about what he’s going to do with me and how I’m going to be his slave, willingly or otherwise.’The lucky captive’ of Pauline Reage’s “O” upon whom ‘everything was inflicted, of whom nothing was asked’ always has an easier time.It is that glimmer of freedom, that idea that you can escape which makes things so hard. It is so hard to put yourself up on that platform to be pummelled, so hard to stay in a collar that is not locked. 

I like to be reminded that there is no escape and that I’m now a slave forever. I like padlocks that I don’t have the keys to. I like bondage that I cannot undo. It’s the suspension of reality. I love my cage, but I like to be put in there and I like to be let out (there is something wrong about me crawling in there of my own accord…lol.)  I’d also probably find the whole experience more juicy if I was actually locked in there. To give you an analogy, it’s very hard to leave your reality behind when your behind is on the line and you’re the one keeping it there.

I find that a lot of my confusion and sassiness comes when other things intrude. Those are the times when I’m not half-empty, but half-full…full of myself that is. Whenever my focus shifts from him to me, that’s when my mouth takes on a life of its own. It’s ALIVE..it’s ALIVE…! (*manical Frankenstein-ish laughter)

Asses, advice and things starting with ‘a’

Master said something very profound to me just a while ago:

‘Your blogs are kinda dark…’

No shit sherlock. Even the most amusing of us has our off days. And as much as I’d like to say that I write to keep my reading audience entertained, I don’t. I write what I want to write because I have something to say, something that I want to remember. It’s so much often the case these days that if I don’t write it in here, it’s lost forever. I was thinking too the other day what if lj had some serious techno troubles and my blog was lost? I really need to back this thing up somewhere. This blog is not much, but it’s mine.

So I’ve been in what I like to term, ‘a bad poetry mood.’ Memories of painful childhoods and angst-filled teenage years come flooding back when I think of bad poetry moods, so I’ll try to snap out of it and be my usual amusing self. (*makes mental note to pop some more of those white ‘happy’ pills)

I’m full of dreams and ideals. I dreamt of becoming a slave and now I am one. I dreamt of being caged like an animal and now I am. Things I thought would never come true have…and I have the ass four days later to prove it. 

I find it hard to express a lot of what I feel inside. Because I can’t and because it stays inside, it doesn’t become real. It only becomes ‘real’ once it’s spoken, written down or expressed in some way. The expression gives it reality. Perhaps that’s why there are a lot of emotional young people out there. After so many years of not being able to release their inner most feelings they come of an age where they suddenly have the tools and skills to express themselves.

Master’s other piece of profound advice for the evening in response to my emotional flux:

“Shesh! Just get over it.”

I’m starting to think that that is a fucking fine piece of advice.

Wars and battles

God, I feel like hell tonight
Tears of rage I cannot fight
I’d be the last to help you understand
Are you strong enough to be my man? 

It’s a question I’ve asked myself time and time again about the men I’ve had in my life. No-one has ever really lived up to my standards-they’re wishy-washy, they’re too nice, they’re not nice enough, they haven’t got their shit together. An endless list of standards of strength not met…until now.

Nothing’s true and nothing’s right
So let me be alone tonight
Cause you can’t change the way I am
Are you strong enough to be my man? 

I’d gotten so used to getting my own way that it had become more than second nature, it was first nature. It was what I expected. ‘Submit to something I don’t like?’ Pfffttt! You’ve got to be kidding.

Lie to me
I promise I’ll believe
Lie to me
But please don’t leave 

Lies, empty promises, expectations not met, standards never reached. I’d been disappointed so often that that’s what I anticipated. I expected all to fail.

I have a face I cannot show
I make the rules up as I go
It’s try and love me if you can
Are you strong enough to be my man? 

I’ve never revealed all to anybody before. I’ve never told as much as I have. I’ve never had nothing to hide. Every little ugly piece of me has been laid out on the table. He has sifted through it like a bargain bin, taken each into his hands and one by one folded and replaced them.

When I’ve shown you that I just don’t care
When I’m throwing punches in the air
When I’m broken down and I can’t stand
Will you be strong enough to be my man? 

Sometimes it’s all too much. The most momentous wars are fought and decided on the battlegrounds of my soul.
My emotions lash out at the one who has been unwavering. I test the strength of his foundations. I try to hurt him to see if he will crumble. He has been much stronger than I could have hoped.

Lie to me
I promise I’ll believe
Lie to me
But please don’t leave* 

It’s not a fear of being physically left alone. It’s a fear of being emotionally alone. I’m afraid of the dark within me.

Pat said that love is a battlefield. I don’t think she was far wrong. 
The battle to love another is painful.
The battle to love oneself is excruciating.

*Lyrics by the wonderful Sheryl Crow. I fell in love with this song last year when I was going through a rough spot with a man who was not strong enough to be my man. I heard it on the radio again today and I thought it had to be fate.

Woe, my fateful friend

I spent a lot of time feeling inadequate today-just a feeling that no matter what I did, it wasn’t good enough.

Things got off to a bad start when we had unexpected house guests on the night before my big exam. I cannot stress enough how my coping mechanisms have failed and it turned out to be the first spark in my pyre of self destruction. I could feel my blood pressure rising the second I looked at the sms from Master telling me we had company for the evening. Now, I shouldn’t be upset-it’s not my house, nor my decision about who stays and when, but I felt it was so unjustifiable. Of all the nights! 

I didn’t have any other outlet for my anger but silence, so Master got the silent treatment. I knew if I opened my mouth, I’d say too many things that I would regret later. He said that it wouldn’t have any sort of impact on me, that I could stay in my room all night and study, but all I could think about was the uncleaned house and how I’d explain to them that I needed the bed so I could sleep and they’d have to sleep on the floor.

I really don’t think boys understand. I know we are no longer living in an age where a woman’s worth is proven by how well her silver is polished, but I feel embarassed and so ashamed when people come and see my mess. Even if it’s not my house, or my mess, I’m still the one responsible for it and I know that people judge and talk-I know because I’m guilty of it too. I just feel so inadequate.

I don’t cope well with noise, any kind of noise. Someone breathing too heavily across the other side of the room drives me insane. It might be another one of my OCD things, I don’t really know, but I just can’t deal with it. The door to my room may as well have been paper for all its noise blocking capacity and my blood pressure just kept going up and up.

The absolute icing on the cake was the mysterious bus that didn’t stop. Here I was sitting at the bus stop two hours before my test watching the bus that I should have been on, driving off into the distance. A hurried phone call to Master followed and like a knight in shining armour he came to pick me up and take me into town.

Master was marvellous during the whole debarcle. I wouldn’t have had patience with me. I bitched and moaned, ranted and raved and gave him a stoney silence that was worthy of Marcel Marceau and he took it all in his stride. I just don’t know why things get to me so much these days. Any other time I’d be sorting out my shit and just getting on with whatever crap the universe poured into my lap. Perhaps this whole giving up of independence thing has taken away my strength to stand on my own two feet. They say that submission takes strength and guts, but I haven’t got enough of either to overpower a gnat.

So this comment was waiting for me when I logged on this afternoon (thank you Rarius!):

Have you considered the possiblity you are testing your personal limits within your relationship. You seem intellegent thus I will venture those limits are well understood and crossing the bounds is a slaves way of gaining a “reward” be that punishment and discipline or simply filliing the basic human need for attention.

There might be some aspect wherein you enjoy causing discord, even to the point of recieving the “reward” you seek on multiple levels.

That reward might just be the time spent bent over the divan and the asscociative time spent with your master, and doing…

I think a lot of the time when I’m passing smart-ass comments, I’m trying to re-discover my strength, re-empower myself, so to speak. I feel ‘equal’ and quite a bit like my old self when I’m sassy. I use it in some ways as a weapon to remind Master that I am submitting-that I’m doing this of my own volition and he’s not ‘forcing’ me to do anything. I peelback a corner and give him a glimpse of what I keep under control (most of the time!) just so he knows the extent of what I do for him. In that way I suppose it feeds the martyr fetish I have too-I need to know that other people know of my suffering.

I spend an awful lot of time ‘bent over the divan’. I don’t write about everything that happens in this journal, but suffice to say that very rarely a day goes by when there isn’t some sort of ravishing,beating or caging going on. My feeling is often that there is ‘too much’ and I’d like a day where I can just veg (but in the true slavish way, I’d bitch and moan about being ‘ignored’ or not being used ‘enough’ if that really did happen! Those poor domly ones never can win!)

There are times that I rub Master up the wrong way for different reasons-sometimes I’m re-empowering, sometimes I’m just being stubborn and sometimes I just really do want to see what he will do. I don’t crave beatings. I don’t need pain. Sometimes the ‘simplicity’ of pain is good, but I’m not a masochist and I don’t get off on it. Mostly I just want to make sure that he cares. 

I tug to remind him that I’m there.

He pulls me to heel.

Then reminds me that I sealed my fate the day I asked for his collar.

Just a quickie…

..before I have to go and study. I’d forgotten how painful studying for tests was and I don’t seem to remember having so much trouble memorizing things before. Does this mean that I’m getting old? Or has too much breath-play killed off too many brain cells? The mind boggles.

Being Melbourne Cup day yesterday, we’d had a chicken and champagne lunch at work. For some unknown reason bubbles and me don’t mix. All it took was two styrofoam cups of the stuff and I was swaying slightly as I stood in front of my class. It would be alright if I was one of those people who drinks and gets high-I just drink and fall asleep.

So late last night I was in Master’s bedroom awaiting 50 strokes for a miraculous valiant spotting that didn’t end up coming. There was no connection of bum and crop. Was he taking pity on my already bruised ass or was he just not in the mood? I’m not really sure, so we had some ravishing time instead. In an attempt to make some banter,  I made a bit of a cadbury girl’s comment:

“It was so funny I had too much to drink today- a glass and a half of sparkling wine and I’m anybody’s”
“Don’t you ever say that again. You’re not ‘anybody’s’, you’re mine.”

You know that uncomfortable pause just after you say something that you shouldn’t? The pause then was as pregnant as a sperm whale in her third trimester. It was so tangible it was smacking me around the head and saying, ‘You stupid bitch, can’t you think before you speak?’

There wasn’t any immediate punishment for that comment. But this morning he suggested that as a ‘treat’ when my exam is finished, I can wear my black thigh boots and a butt plug every night when I come home. I asked him if it was his treat or my treat, to which he responded to with a lengthening of my boot and butt plug sentence:

“As your treat you can wear them for a week. Then as my treat you can wear them for a month. You can thank your smart-ass mouth for that.”

And lordy how thankful I am for my sweet smart-ass mouth  (*makes mental note to move ‘buttplugs’ up a notch on her hate list)

The MP3 player

A gag, two wrist cuffs, a spreader bar, a length of chain, three d-clips, a black teddy and a pair of black thigh boots later I was trussed up on the bed awaiting my punishent.

Somewhere between my comment in the car on the way home from the supermarket of,”I think I’ll buy myself a MP3 player for xmas” and his, “You’re not getting one they damage your hearing,” or was it after my, “You show me some medical proof that they do and I won’t buy one,” and before his, “I’ve said no and I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” or perhaps it was after my, “I wouldn’t buy an expensive one, just $129 and I nearly bought one before I came here anyway,” and after his, “I’ve told you I don’t want to hear about it anymore,”  but then again, it might have been because of my, “I’m going to be the only kid at uni without one next year and they’re going to call me a fogey with no technology”…no hang on, it was definitely  after his,”I told you I don’t want to talk about it and now you’ve directly disobeyed me. When we get home you’re to get dressed in your black teddy and boots and present yourself on my bed, “  that I realised I’d done wrong…ooops.

Call me thick-headed (*listens to echoes of  “You’re a thick-headed twat”) if you want, but I like to think of myself as a try-hard, who doesn’t like to give in so easily.

I wasn’t deliberately trying to goad him into changing his mind. I just thought he was being unreasonable. And I really had almost bought one. Even my mother who is still mastering the double-click on her puter has an MP3 player.

375 strokes of Mr. Strap later. I was thinking about my poor botty and how bruised it was going to be. I didn’t even have to wait until the next day because an hour later the bruises were starting to bloom. And here I was thinking that my bum had stopped bruising…lol.

Thwack x 141 then 5 minutes of recovery time. Thwack x 117 and then 5 minutes of relaxation time for him. Thwack x 117 then 5 more minutes of his relaxation time. My thought process had just dissolved into numbers and as I bobbed up and down on his cock more numbers were streaming through my head, “Up, one, down, two, up, three…”

A click of the fingers brought me back up north:

“Will you buy an MP3 player?”
“What will you do when I say I don’t want to talk about something again?”
“I won’t talk about it.”
“Good. Now you have a think about why I don’t want you to buy yourself an MP3 player.”
“….I think I already know why.”
“Because you’re going to buy me one for xmas.”
“And now you’ve spoiled it and you were beaten for nothing…Do you need to be educated anymore?”
“No, Master.”
“O.k. I was going to beat you again, but I’m bored.” 
“You’re bored?!?!”
“I find punishments boring.”

And that was that. Talk about a mind fuck.

I haven’t seen my bum this colourful for quite a while. But honestly, I kind of enjoyed it…lol.

It’s all in the look

Master gives me these very enigmatic looks sometimes. They are mixtures of sadness and worry. Tonight he said:

“I don’t know how you feel, but you’ve made me very happy over these three months.”

Three months. That’s all it’s been. It often seems like things are frozen in eternity and one hour becomes a day or day becomes a lifetime.

Just a little bit of a recap here…I’ve been a slave for a year and half now. The first year was with a “dom”…who shall remain nameless!! Lol…I was writing in this journal for his eyes only during that time and it’s only been about 4 months since I made it public. I had such a huge hang-up about making it public. Mostly because I feared being judged-not so much on what I was doing, but more on how I expressed it and wrote about it. I’m my own harshest critic and I’m incredibly conscious about how I write, and specifically how well I put these funny little things called words together.

That year was a good experience. It helped me learn what I wanted-what I could live with and what I could live without. The relationship fell into a bit of a defacto thing, with very little play, very little slavish-ness on my part and very little domly-ness on his. I put it down to our expectations not matching-I was expecting what we had talked about and he was expecting to play computer games all day long and for me to be content with ice-cream and thrice-daily episodes of  “Sex and the City” (which really did nothing but remind me that I wasn’t in a city and I wasn’t getting any sex…lol)

So when my nanna had her second heart-attack, I took the opportunity to leave him and go and be with her while she recouped.  I remember coming home from work one day after getting a call from my sister to say that they weren’t sure whether nanna was going to make it through the night or not. I was crying and so upset. He glanced away from the computer long enough to ask me what was the matter and when I told him, his response? 

” Oh.”

And that was the end of his interest in the matter. His complete indifference to someone I loved dearly hurt me incredibly and that was kind of the straw that broke this slave’s back.

Master and I had chatted for quite a while-most of that year actually. Off and on, mostly in the alt. chatroom and then on msn. He was someone I talked to when the behaviour of the man I was collared to just confounded me and I didn’t know up from down. Master talked to me about his experiences with his other slave and I thought that it all sounded so perfect. I’d sit there watching his words on the screen, jealous that he was giving his slave what she needed but I could barely have a conversation with the man who was supposed to be controlling my life. I wished he was my Master. He really understood just how important the mental aspect of slavery was and how much I needed to feel my slavery and have it as something tangible in my life.

It’s funny when you look at things in retrospect. Things weren’t really that bad with my first ownerI guess, but at the time I was so desperately unhappy. I just didn’t understand why he was as he was or more specifically, why he wasn’t as he should’ve been and I didn’t have the sense of self to ask. 

“Slaves don’t ask, they do.” 
“A good slave wouldn’t complain.” 
“Slaves don’t have needs, their needs are their Master’s needs.”

These were my mantra’s that I brainwashed myself into believing. But now I know that even slavery can’t fit into these rigid, black and white ideals that I emulated. 

Consensual doesn’t just refer to the choice to submit, it’s a co-agreement, a dual contract of happiness that must fulfill the needs of both sides. You wouldn’t enter a shop, pay for something and leave without it, would you? Similarly, you wouldn’t give your all to someone without getting something back in return. Even us slaves, who own nothing, have a lot invested in these M/s relationship thingies.

Only so much ass can be given without getting something high-calorie and definitely not low-carb in return  (^V^)

Insuring the ensured

After several particularly low days (and I’ve got the biorhythm map to prove why!!!) I’m back to myself-or as close as I can get these days, being the piece of animal meat that I am…

I was sitting here looking at my puter screen the other night and thinking, Shit, I haven’t been in my cage for ages.” In reality it was something like four days, but in the animal meat world, being uncaged for four days is a pretty serious issue…lol. The last time I was in my cage was on Sunday- a very “ahh-so-this-is-what-people-who-want-to-slit-their-wrists-feel-like” kind of day. Maybe I need to go back onto the pill to sort out my hormones, ’cause I ain’t been this mentally funky for quite a while.

It’s always tough when I’m feeling low. Part of me wants a really intense, ‘snap out of it bitch’ beating/ravishing session and the other part of me just want to be left alone. I think I got something somewhere in the middle. There was ravishing and relaxation and then he tied me up with his lovely new bunnings rope. After a bit of quite contemplation time tied up on the bed where I had a bit of sob that didn’t really make me feel any better, he moved me into my cage and tied my bound wrists to the cage itself.

It did actually make me feel a bit better. I was a bit more centered and a bit more willing to hold my tongue and save my ass from destruction.

Last night was a release, release, release night. I really think he must of read my mind because it was flashing like a neon light, ‘GOTTA CUM!!!’ I can’t even remember off the top of my head when I was last allowed to release, but it had definitely been too long.

Now, it’s hard to explain, but there is this bit after the ‘moment’ of climax where I suck the marrow out of the experience. It’s actually those last few squeezes, after the bed stops shaking and things go quiet that give me the sensation of release, otherwise it’s just a  terribly big build up that leaves me with an itch that needs to be scratched.

Master wants me back, focused on him the second after I’ve exploded so there’s no time for those last drops of sweet release. Lingering too long to do ‘the squeeze’ last night cost me several strokes with his cane-like newest addition to the toy family.

He said that it’s not about my pleasure, that I shouldn’t be enjoying His cunt. It’s His cunt and he’s marked it to prove it. I’m just housing it for the periods that he can’t use it. Hmmm…I wonder if he’s going to take out house and contents insurance, just in case I spontaneously combust one of these days…