The end is nigh

Wow…that’s all I can say….wow. 

I’m touched by the responses of everyone who gave me a ‘chin up’ after the comments of a particularly critical reader on my last post. Thanks so much. I sometimes wonder if anyone gives a shit about what I write, but now I know people do. It makes a girl want to post more often…lol.

My stay at home is drawing to a near. Tomorrow I’ll be heading back over west, to the bosom of my owner.  He rang me up this morning:

“Hello?”
“Morning slave….Relax!”

‘Relax’?  Wtf??? I was already pretty relaxed, I was still half-asleep in bed afterall.  I was thinking that he had actually meant to say something else, but one of the covenants of a good slave is that you never point out your Master’s slips of the tongue.So I waited for some elucidation.

(making small talk) “I got home at 2am this morning.”
(in his most non-committal tone of voice) “Did you?….release.”

Ah, there is was, a command that I did know. Lol…I suppose ‘relax’ and ‘release’ do have a bit in common-they both start with ‘rel’.

I’d had a definite need for release a couple of days earlier and I had been tossing up the idea of releasing and then ‘fessing up to take the consequences. Sometimes a good cropping is easier to take than a desperate need for release. If Master had had cell phone reception I would have rang him up and prayed for his acquiescence, as it was, he was in the middle of no-man’s land, where the only entertainment is watching bugs disintegrate on the car’s windscreen at high speed.

It will be interesting to see whether Master does front up to the airport to pick me up with my leash. Fingers crossed, he is just messing with me mind.

A deadly sin

Disclaimer: What you are about to read may be totally incomprehensible to some readers.

I’ve been doing some thinking. Thinking about life, about me, about why I have been put onto this earth. I have an idea that everyone is here for a reason. Life is not created out of the void simply to return to the void-there is something that each and everyone of us must do along the way.

I remember very vividly a time that I went hiking up a mountain with my ex-hubby. It scared the crap out of me the whole time (I HATE heights!) and to top it all off, it started getting dark and we almost couldn’t make it back down. When we finally did reach the bottom, I was exhausted, but deliriously happy to be back safely. And you know what I did? I gave him a blow-job right there in the car. To me, it was the only way I could say thank you. It was the only thing I could do to convey my gratitude and the one piece of ‘tender’ I had and could use to pay him back for getting me home.

I see myself as having very little worth because I have no skills, no abilities. Sure, I can work and scrape together a living and I can also say some words in a funny sounding language, but in the scheme of things, I can’t do anything really well. There is nothing I can do or make that is good enough to be seen as valuable.

An ability. That’s something that I’ve always wanted. I’ve wanted to be able to do something better than anyone else. I’ve wanted to have the confidence to do something because I know that I can do it well. The ‘nilla side of me wants to be able to sing, dance or even draw. The slave side of me knows that I’ll never be anything more than a toy. I’m there to be used. I don’t do things, I’m there to have things done to me.

My mum asked me today, ‘So, what you do, is it a sexual thing?’  I told her that in my case it was. I also told her that for some people it had nothing to do with sexat all, that some people liked providing services such as cleaning or gardening. You should have seen her eyes light up! I think she was imagining her own little Desperate Housewives scenario…lol.

I feel very strongly a need for function, a need to be used. The more I think about it, the more I realise that my fantasies are all of a specific kind-I’m a passive participant in all of them. I’m little more than an accoutrement, something that serves a function. In my fantasies, I don’t talk, I don’t interact, I’m just there being used as a hole or for whatever. 

To some, that might make me high maintenance and I suppose that doesn’t really fit in with a lot of boys fantasies of having a lusty wench impale themself on their cock, then having the wench hastily change position to suck up the flood of seed, all while the boy is rubbing sleep from his eyes, scratching his butt  and getting ready to roll out of bed. My fantasies require a lot of action on their part, so does that make me a slothful slave?

Pump it real good

Well, it’s all over for another year-the over-eating, the lazing around doing nothing, the pumping for information that I receive from distant family members.

It was all pretty painless actually. There were a few questions along the lines of,  ‘So, who is this guy you are living with?’ and a couple of classic questions along the lines of, ” Is that a bondage thing? ” from Master’s father and ” That necklace is lovely! Who gave it to you? And are those earrings matching?” from my 83 year old grandmother. My mother stayed true to form in that she took one look at me and just burst out laughing (I’ve decided that laughter is how she deals with difficult and unusual situations.) 

I’m resigned to the fact that I won’t be having any Mickey Dee’s for the next six months because there wasn’t a peep out of any of the damn metal detectors at the airport and it looks like I’ve lost the bet with Master (although I’m still living in hope of alarm bells on my return trip!! One must always live in hope…lol)

For a summer Christmas though, it’s freezing. We had to light the fire and hot cocoa and marshmallows were looking more inviting than beers and a bbq. There is definitely something to be said for the effects of global warming.

It’s very, very strange to be back home in a collar and with pussy rings. I was having a soak in my mum’s bath this morning and thinking how bizarre it was. My two worlds which until now have been so separate and insolvable, are melding together like hot butter on toast. My mum asked me how my rings were and I said they were pretty ouchie. She then said that it must be a really hard place to have ‘stuff’ because you’re always going to the toilet etc. I was surprised that she was giving me an sympathetic ear and not taking the piss out of me…lol.

I’m not sure if everyone is curious and just can’t work up the courage to ask or if they don’t really notice anything. Perhaps they think that now I’m two weeks away from my thirtieth birthday, I’m finally old enough to take care of myself. Once the baby of the family, always the baby of the family.

Coming back home is always like a side-step into an alternative universe. For most of the past 12 years, I’ve lived and worked and done everything away from home. My life is filled with things and people my family has never seen or met, just heard about from me. For all they know, everything I say could be a figment of my imagination and I’m living a life spun from my fantasies. (Well, in some respects I guess I am doing just that now…living my fantasies that is…lol..) But when I come home, there is nothing of my ‘other life’. There are just the places I grew up in, the schools I went to and people who knew me only as I was. I’d flitted between my two lives for so long that it had become second nature and that’s why it’s so bizarre for the two sides of me to be existing…here…now.

Two lives, two sides, one person who can now stop being torn between the two.

The Doomed Roadtrip

When Master came and picked me up on Tuesday afternoon from work and there were two dents in the car, I should have known things were not looking good:

“I smacked into the concrete pole as I was going around the corner in the carpark. I can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe it….I just can’t believe it.”

“I can’t believe it” became the catchphrase of our doomed trip. I got in the car and immediately got a free blow job-of the hot-air kind-the air conditioner wasn’t working, eventhough it had supposed to have been serviced and new parts had been fitted. Here were were about to embark on a trip across t desert plains in summer without air-con.

Then on the way home, Master decided to try the cruise control, a necessity when travelling along the miles and miles of nothingness. He accelerated up to the appropriate speed, flipped the switch, took his foot off the accelerator and we both watched intently as the needle on the speedometer started falling. He tried again. The needle was going down quicker than a playboy bunny’s tits with an air leak.

“I can’t believe it! No air-con, no cruise control, dents in the car. This fucking trip is doomed. Maybe we should just stay at home.” Master was not a happy camper and there was nothing we could about it. 5:30pm on Tuesday afternoon and we should already have been on the road.

It started raining a couple of hours outside of Perth and for the next three days, buckets and buckets of rain fell. Some of the places we travelled through would not have seen a drop of rain for months and months but the circles of doom surrounding our doomed road trip were affecting everything in our path. That lovely storm stayed with us like a gold fish poo, no matter how fast or slow you went, it still hung on for dear might.

On trips like this you usually need to worrying about water and if you have enough. We were instead worrying about flooding. What the fuck was going on? Oh, how could I forget? It was the circles of doom!

Another catchphrase of the doomed trip was, “Visibility? What the hell do you need that for?” Rain, lightning, dust storms, fog, mist, low cloud, you name it, we were driving through it. I don’t know how Master did it. For more than twelve hours a day he was driving with little more than the force to help him find the road (as Yoda would say, ‘Strong the force in him is…’)

So the rain and the cold curtailed the appearance of the Nullarbor Nymph, although she did make a brief appearance when the sun came out for a couple of hours. Zooming across Australia naked as a baby’s bottom was fairly amusing. I’m not sure if the any of the people we passed noticed. No-one tossed any money in my general direction, either to get me to put my clothes back on or keep them off, so I can’t really say.

The piece de resistance of the trip was on day three after driving through the storm from hell, we were ready for a hot shower and bed for the night. Cue power failure. I haven’t showered by the light of lightning before and I’d like to say that it’s ambient but it’s not. Granted, the power was only out for about 3 hours, but at that stage we were thinking that it would be off all night.

So it was quite the little adventure. One thing I can say though is that Master has stayed very true to form. He still managed to fit in some relaxation along the way and there was lots of enforcement about what I am and what I am going home as.

I’m off on the plane tomorrow. It will be interesting to see what my family makes of what I am.

Hit the road Jack

Packing tonight for our road-trip from hell, I was wandering in and out of the lounge room, shuffling between the Master bedroom, which literally is Master’s bedroom, and my bedroom, which Master likes to call my ‘cell’ at the back of the house.

“What are you doing?” (He’ll ask me that even if I’m wearing pink rubber gloves, have a toilet brush in my hand and am scrubbing the toilet…)
“Packing.”
“………..”
“So…is there anything you’d like to say about my packing?”
“Yes. Slutwear only. You shouldn’t have much to take.”
“So…if I am your slut, then technically….everything I wear is slutwear…”
(with a glistening twinkle in his eye) “Yes, well done! You’ve finally figured it out. It’s only taken you four months.”

I thought back to every occasion over the past four months when he’s told me to dress like a slut. I’ve agonised over skirts and tops, wondering if they are ‘slutty’ enough and I realised that no matter what I had worn, it still would have fit the criteria of slutwear. Talk about a mindfuck. Master is so harsh.

We are driving (actually Master is driving, I am sitting) from the most western coast of Australia across to Melbourne. It’s a 3,500km journey through deserts and nothingness with a few one-horse towns in between. I’ve never been anywhere so isolated, nor travelled so far in such a short time period-Master is planning to leave Tuesday evening and arrive late on Friday.

Looking at the route on the map, I noticed that we’ll be travelling through Kalgoorie, a mining town in the middle of no-where, famous for its brothel. Master has mentioned ‘whoring me off’ to Kalgoorie a few times, usually whenever the topic of money comes up. I think he’s comforted by the fact that if ever we needed a couple of thousand bucks in a hurry, he’s got the perfect little cash cow to make it happen,

“You won’t be dropping me off in Kalgoorie, will you?”
” Dollar, love you long time. Two dollar, love you all night? Nah..they pay for women with six-packs and cigarettes up there.”

I’m not a camping or a ‘roughing it’ type of girl. I need internet connections and cappuccinos, not pit toilets and bugs/snakes/spiders/anything that is not cute and fluffy. I’m not looking forward to crapping in the open or playing ‘spot the road-kill’, but it will be nice to spend some quality time with Master. Master has booked us a night in a ‘motel’ for the first night, so it won’t be such a shock to the system. Yes, he is indulging me by not chaining me naked to the tray of the ute overnight…what can I say? He’s just a nice guy…lol.

To amuse himself on the trip, he is planning some top-notch beaver viewing and a re-creation of the Nullabor Nymph-a mysterious naked woman who has apparently been seen on the desolate Nullabor Plain. I’m spending a day naked in the car on my leash as we drive and there will also be some photo opportunities for naked slavegirlie along the way…naked slavegirlie in desert….naked slavegirlie in desert…naked slavegirlie hiding behind bush as truck goes past.

I’m not going to be able to blog for a while, so don’t worry about me disappearing and being sold into white slavery…I already have been…lol.

It’s all in the mind

After our little visit from the mystery shopper yesterday, today was a subdued Sunday. Some ravishing in the morning, a trip to a lovely little Vietnamese place for lunch, a drive along the beach afterward (Master asked if I wanted a ‘scenic route’, to which I asked, ‘Is that like me in boots on a beach getting used? and to which he responded with, ‘That can be arranged’….gulp) and then we spent the rest of the afternoon/evening laying low like broccoli on the lounge. It was a lovely day and it would have ended on a lovely note if my copious amounts of eye-fluttering had gotten me out of the 70 crops that had my name on them. Alas, ’twas not to be and promptly I was on the bed in position having my bum attended to.

Master has asked me a couple of times how I felt during  the secret shopper’s sojourn. I don’t really think I felt anything other than nervous. Actually no, I felt somewhat amused. Just the absurdity of the whole thing stemming from the complete shock/shame/objectification of it all, made me want to giggle. Standing there in my cuffs with my arms raised above my head to afford the potential user with a better view of the merchandise, as Master discussed His cunt and its attributes, all I could do was concentrate on what I was being told to do and listen for something, anything that would give me a hint about who this person was. With no visual clues, I was scrutinizing every syllable that came out of his mouth, trying to gauge his thoughts, and I suppose search for even the smallest hint of rejection.

Other than being mortified every time I phased out of my role for a couple of seconds, though, I did find it all very sobering. In that kind of a situation when your mind is screaming at you to think about what you are doing, it is very difficult to shut the voices up and do what needs to be done. It’s not like Master was standing there with my leash in hand, whipping me to perform. I was doing it of my own ‘free will’ and Master ‘beats’ that fact into me at every opportunity he can. He loves to remind me that everything that happens, happens because I chose it, because I chose this life, because I chose to wear this collar and take on everything that it entails. He likes to remind me that he is providing nothing but an environment for my own fantasies to haunt me and my own chains to bind me to him.

The strongest prison is the human mind, the most terrifying tortures are those we create for ourselves. Once you have control of my mind, then you control me.

Open slave day

Step right up! Step right up! Come and see the mysteries of the captive slavegirl. You can see her, but she can’t see you. Our blindfold ensures complete privacy. Marvel at her collar, her leash, the boots that encase her legs. See how obediently she follows commands. Watch as she kneels, crawls, turns around and spreads her legs for your enjoyment. See her embarassment at her nakedness. See her blush as her Master describes what he likes doing to her. Free admission. Come one, come all !!!!

I did feel a bit like one of those animals in a freak show. I was half expecting another head to grow or the bruise on my bum to turn into a picture of the Virgin Mary. At least that way, I would have had more of a reason to feel like I should be on display. As it was, it was just another occasion for Master to get the up-most enjoyment out of my forced exit through the boundaries of my comfort zone.

My brazillian this morning was…..in a word….painful. The girl came into the room and said with the upmost seriousness,

“Just before I lift your towel, I want to know. You went and did it, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”

(peeling back the towel) “Oh my god! I’ve seen a lot in my time, but I ain’t never seen that!”

The last time I had graced her table of torture was just before I was got my remaining 4 rings done. I’d told her what was happening and said that I’d be completed the next time she saw me. I came, she lifted, then laughed. This time, the poor girl waxed what she could, then had to settle for tweasing out the hairs between my rings. I’m not sure what hurt more. When she was done, I peeled myself off the plastic sheet covering the table and there was a veritable pool of sweat there. I hadn’t sweat that much from pain since the last time I was educated….lol. You want to give an unruly slave an education? Just threaten to get her waxed.

Sans pussy hair I came home,

“Naked, boots, blindfold, cage. Now.”

It was time for inspection. I’d been worrying about it all week but I came to the conclusion somewhere around Friday afternoon that it was going to happen no matter what I thought about it and that there was nothing I could do to make myself look better. He was going to see me warts and all and there was shit all I could do to change that fact.

I didn’t really get nervous until I got into the cage. It was like waiting in the wings just before you go on stage-there’s an immense fear, but also a feeling that you have to go on. Through the blindfold I could see light and dark and faint outlines. Naked and leashed in my cage, when the doorbell rang and Master answered it,  I had no idea who it was that stepped into my world.

“So, this is the bad girl.”
“Yes, good, bad, indifferent. That’s her.”

I wasn’t allowed to speak, but I couldn’t hide my smirk at Master’s comment. It almost felt like he was goading me into talking, just to see if I would disobey him or not. They sat down on the lounge with drinks and talked about me. Master went through the rules of my use and talked a bit about what my alter ego, the henny-penny teacher chick, did and what her plans were for next year. I was then brought out of the cage, hands cuffed and some turning, walking, bending and spreading ensued.

“She’s quite obedient.”
“Yes and when she’s not, she has a visit from my tawse. She’s not a painslut, but I like cropping her. She has a fantasy of being kept and used. So, anal, oral, vaginal, when her rings heal, it’s up to you.”

15 minutes or 15 years later, he left with the comment, ‘That was as good as a cold beer’ and we were alone again.

“That was hot.”
“You’re telling me, I was dripping with sweat!….or do you mean ‘hot’ in the ‘exciting’ sense?”
“Get in my bed, now!”

Tattoo…and Mr. Roarke

Just a drop, that’s all I need. Too much and it will be ruined, too little and it won’t be the right consistency. It’s a careful balance of chemistry and know-how and the precious white powder is too valuable to waste. Hunched over the spoon in the bathroom, it’s a dark and dirty addiction. At peak times, it’s a twice a day habit….

Now that you all think I’m a drug addict, I’d better let you in on a little secret. It’s all quite innocent. Just a crushed up aspirin mixed with water and applied to my rings. It’s my latest weapon in the war against funky manky cunt. Over the past couple of days I’ve watched the aspirin eat away at the built-up tissue around the piercing sites and I’ve been wondering what it does to the inside of my stomach. Remind me not to pop a pill the next time I have a headache.

After listening to the umpteenth badly sung rendition of White Christmas by my ESL charges at work today (there is, after all, only so much Bing that a girl can take)  it was nice to come home and be told what I am…for the umpteenth time…lol.
 
“I think I will blindfold and gag you too, just so you can’t see who is inspecting you or make any sort of verbal response. You’re just an animal and all you’ll need to do is listen to what you’re told to do and do it.” 

Master is quite enjoying watching me squirm about the whole inspection thing. He’s got this nasty little glint in his eye everytime the topic of conversation turns to Saturday and I think he’s looking forward to it so much more than I am. I’m still trying to decide whether its worse to want to be used by others or to not want to be. It’s a very grey area as far as I am concerned.

Yes, I’ve had fantasies about being raped or being a prostitute, but I’ve also fantasized about being the next Australian Idol too. Anyone who has been with me to karaoke can attest to the fact that just because I fantasize about something doesn’t necessarily mean that the reality will be good.

I don’t really know what I want. Do I want to be used or not be used? All that I do know for sure is that it’s usually the case that I don’t want what I can have and want what I can’t have. Take for example my little sojourn in the cage the other night. Master had said earlier that he thought I should stay in the cage all night so I had a drink, had a pee, got my pillow and psyched myself up for a night in the confines of the cage. After about 2 hours I was getting bored and started moving around and trying different positions to get comfortable and that was about the time Master decided to go to bed. He came up to the cage and loomed over me:

“Do you want to get out?”

I’m sure I would have enjoyed my overnight stay in the cage, having to endure the cramps etc. But if given a choice any girlie in her right mind is going to say “Yes, I want out”.  There’s no point in doing it if he’s not interested in me doing it. Giving me the choice shows me that it’s something he’s a bit ambivalent about i.e. couldn’t give a shit. I want to be in the cage when I’m not in it, but when I’m in there, I’m happy to get out. The fantasy is much more exciting than the reality.

So like a trip to Fantasy Island, a person’s fantasy does not always turn out as they expected….”De plane!… De plane!”

Sightings

I was told today that I am going to be inspected on the weekend. My first thought was Thank god, I’m having my pussy brazillianed on Saturday and then my next immediate thought was Oh fuck, someone else is going to see me naked.

After we came home from the movies (Casino Royale…mmm…Daniel Craig…mmm..choctop) Master went into great detail about what is going to happen to me during that up-coming ‘slave meat inspection,’

‘Well, we’ll have you in your boots-the red slut boots will be best. And you’re an animal, so you’ll be naked, of course. You’ll have your leash on and I’ll cuff your hands out of the way, just in case you get any ideas about interfering while he inspects your mouth, your cunt, your breasts. He’ll probably want to feel how wet and tight your little cunt is and we’ll lube up your bum so he can inspect the passage that will get lots and lots of use.’

I’m just cringing at the thought of it. I went through a month or so of angst and stress over Master seeing me and now I’ve pretty much come to terms with it, but having someone else come and judge whether I’m ‘suitable enough to be used’ just sends dread racing through my veins I thought perhaps he’d at least give me some scrap of something to wear, just so I can bear the whole process, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. I’m just going to be au naturel, with everything hanging in the breeze. There’ll be more than enough flaws for all the family.

What I can’t handle is being rejected. I like to be liked, by anyone and everyone. I suck up, I bribe, I get everyone on my side and keep away all those nasty feelings of rejection. Rejection=I’m a failure. Master knows how acutely tuned in to rejection I am.

“That first day when I met you at the airport, you were just searching my face for even the faintest hint of rejection, weren’t you ?”

I am never in my fantasies. In those make-believe worlds, I am perfect- skinny, long-legged, great hair and teeth, soft silky skin. My reality is just so far removed that I find it difficult to exist in both.

Reconciliation

“How did you reconcile your sexual fantasies with the fact that you didn’t let your ex-husband fuck you?”

This was the question posed to me by Master this evening in his daily use session, right after the intense mind-fuck/grilling and squeezing of my throat, but prior to his relaxation time. I suppose the simple answer is that I didn’t, or more accurately, didn’t need to.

Before I left my hubby to travel down this road, I had had fantasies, but they were nothing that I couldn’t control. They were abstract stories with me as the helpless captive, kidnapped and destined for a life of confinement. They centered around me in bondage with my senses deprived-blindfolds, gags, ear plugs, etc., and there wasn’t any hint of fucking involved. I managed to meet my needs with various forms of self-bondage, but there was something I could never do-I could never tie myself up in a way that I couldn’t get out of. I still kept control in my little ‘imaginary sessions’- I undid myself when I got bored or something got too ouchie and I did it when I wanted to and when I could be alone. What I really longed for though, was someone who could take the control away and could tie me up so I couldn’t undo it. Someone who really could let me be the helpless captive I dreamed of being.

I’m not quite sure where the fucking fantasies came from and they’ve really only been a recent thing. Porn involving people simply being fucked has never held any interest for me. What I look at and drool over is bondage involving ropes and chains (I’ve never been particularly turned on by latex, rubber or saran wrap-they’re for condoms,  tyres and sandwiches!) and if there is some fucking going on while the person is in bondage…yummo! Male or female, I like both, but I obviously have more of an affinity with the members of the female species.

Master also said something else that perked my interest this evening. While I was fitting my hated butt plug, Master was playing with the poodle pup, telling him to ‘sit and ‘drop’ and the poodle pup was being exceptionally obedient. I commented that he was better trained and more obedient than I was, to which Master responded, “He’s a bit like you, he submits to the things that he likes to do and doesn’t do anything else.”  (or words to that effect. I’m not the one who has a photographic memory for conversations, Master is.) So it’s now official. I am officially a fair-weather slave and I have to admit that it’s true. I love doing anything that involves me being played with, but I shirk from the more mundane functions of a slave. Although I’d like to be an ‘all-round’ slave, I’m not, I’m a sexual slave-if I don’t get played with, all is not well in Slaveville. So there. I’ve come out and said it. I’m a trollop who has fantasized about being kidnapped and raped, but who can’t stand to iron. Oh, well…we all have to have some vices, don’t we?

Snipets

A collection of a few of the moments that have stood out in my life over the past couple of weeks…

1. I’ve had to admit that the Apollo moon landing wasn’t fake.

After proclaiming that the moon landings were staged by NASA, I was given a task by Master to research the evidence for and against my claim and make a definitive decision. Master assured me that I had the right to my own opinion, but that I would be ‘treated in accordance’ if I insisted that the moon landing was fake. I never got to find out how being treated as a ‘dumb-ass mother fucker’ would be though, because I had to concede that there wasn’t evidence to support my conspiracy theory.

2. I asked for chocolate and got cropped.

After getting permission to buy chocolate at the supermarket, I then asked for permission to actually eat it and was promptly told that I should be naked, wearing boots and in position on his bed. A rather harsh cropping followed.
I’ve eaten things before without getting permission to eat them and I’ve always assumed that getting permission to buy it also included permission to consume it. Apparently I was wrong.

3. I’ve relearned just how uncomfortable butt plugs are for the first 15 minutes.

Since having my recent piercings done, I’d been let off butt plug duty but now that the initial healing time is over, that little sucker is being put back up where the sun don’t shine.

4. Master has made me cry more times from touching my rings than cropping me.

They hurt like hell when I gently ease the rings through to clean them after soaking them for a good 15-20 minutes, so you can imagine how they hurt when they are dry and crusty and there is a BIG hand down there being none too gentle checking on the sloppiness of His hole. One night I was sobbing my eyes out and getting very vocal (it’s always a sign that something hurts waaaay too much when I get vocal) and he just wouldn’t let up, saying that a finger up my cunt was going to be the least of my worries and that I should be imagining how someone else’s cock up there would feel. I wanted to remind him that it wasn’t my cunt that hurt, it was my rings and if he would just move them a little out of the way, the whole experience would be enjoyable for the both of us. But being the good little slave that I am, I bit my tongue and endured.

Later when I was cleaning off the blood, I was angry. He has said to me on numerous occasions that I am more slavey now that I’ve had the extra piercings and that it has affected me so much more than wearing my collar etc, has. That is because I can’t walk, can’t bend, can’t do so many things because it hurts so much. The rings have fettered me so much more effectively than a collar ever could.

5. I nearly orgasmed in my sleep.

I have decided that my cage is entirely evil. It gets me way too worked up. Just being in there for 30 mins or so is enough to drive me to distraction. I went to bed after being caged and from what I remember, I was having a dream about being pounded by two cocks. One guy was thrusting in my ass and pushing me down onto the cock of the guy that I was on top off. I woke up when I came this close to cumming and all I could think of was how that was an incredibly close call. An orgasm without permission is a croppable offense….or so I thought. When I told Master about what happened the next morning, he said that he wouldn’t punish me for something that happened in my sleep. Bugger, bugger, bugger!

6. Master and I made another bet.

With the addition of 4 new pieces of silver in my cunt, I suggested that the metal-detector at the airport is going to have to go off the next time I fly. Master has bet me six months of no McDonalds if I lose and six months of being able to go whenever I want to if I win. I’m flying back home for Xmas on December 24, so we shall see!!

Horizons

Something that doesn’t happen very often has occurred today…wait for it….I have nothing to say! Very rarely am I stuck for words and it’s often the case that I have verbal diarrhea, which is usually ascerbated by the imbibing of alcoholic beverages. This really is a rare occurrence. But I’ll see what thoughts I can scrape off the bottom of the barrel to add to the cultural learnings of slavish ones for benefit of Glorious Nation of Masterdom.

I was reading through my journal and thinking that there is very little in here but smut. But I guess that when I started this journal I decided that it was going to be a record of my slavery and not what I did in the vanilla world as my alter ego-the henny penny teacher chick.

My life in general is very peaceful. I was thinking the other day about how ‘wound down’ I’ve become. I don’t feel an incredible need to go to the gym anymore or pound my body (Master seems to be carrying out his role as master body beater with aplomb!) I just do. I just am.

I have lots of things looming on the horizon-slave tattoos, use by others, my further descent into beastiality (and no, that’s me becoming an animal, not me being fucked by animals…just in case you were wondering…lol) and piss drinking resuming in September ’07 (although I swear Master decides to have his relaxation time just after he’s gone to the toilet, just so I can reminisce about what I’m ‘missing’ out on.)

We had another bit of a chat about UBO (use by others) in the car on the way to work this morning. I cannot stress enough how self-conscious and embarrassed I get discussing slavey stuff when I’m in ‘normal’ clothes and situations. Like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman all dressed up in rich girl’s clothes and unable to take a ‘business proposition’ because she was out of her comfort zone, for some reason or another, I can handle these things so much better when I’m naked and tied up…lol. He’d asked me last night how I felt about it and whether it still worried me. I’m getting over my ‘scary because I might get hurt’ way of thinking, but now I’m moving into a kind of ‘guilt about being satisfied by others’ region. For wont of a better word, it feels like cheating from my point of view. Even though it will be arranged by him and with him watching etc., I can’t help but feel that it’s like I would be betraying the commitment I have to him in being his slave and in only having one master:

“I don’t have any problem with it because you wouldn’t be getting any gratification out of this other ‘relationship’, you’d be getting it out of the fulfillment of your fantasy and by pleasing me through it.” 

I thought it was an interesting response from him. I had a domly friend who was talking to me once about having his slave service others and how it had taken ages to get her into the mind set that she wasn’t doing anything wrong. I hadn’t really understood at the time what the ‘wrong’ she felt she was doing was, but now I think I do.

Addicted to use

“Were you a bit angry about what I wrote in my journal yesterday?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“About how I came in to wake you up because I was horny as hell and needed release…” 

“I was glad you came in. I’ve been telling you since August to wake me up anytime in the night when there’s something wrong and you’ve never done it before. Everytime you couldn’t sleep or were in pain or something you wouldn’t do anything about it and then the next morning you’d whine and moan about it and say, ‘Well, you were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you.'” 

“I lay in bed for half an hour thinking,’Should I or shouldn’t I?’ but I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.” 

“Well, you’re a girlie and I don’t know exactly how much girlies need release and that sort of thing.” 

“How about all day, every day??!?”

I’d never really been a ‘sexual person’. In fact, there was a time in my married life that I swore off sex completely. I’d never really looked at great length at my cunt and I couldn’t think about using tampons because I just couldn’t do the sticking-that-dry-ouchie-thing-up-there act and I didn’t really understand where I was meant to stick it anyway. I finally conquered that fear in an attempt to make myself more of a visually appealing slave and  after several months of twice or thrice daily pussy cleaning, I am now intimately knowlegable about every single nook and cranny and every single crease and flap that makes up what used to be my cunt.

I look at pictures of other cunts every now and then. Without little glimmering pieces of metal in them they look foreign to me. I was looking at one the other day and at first I couldn’t quite recognise what it was. The perfect little crease with no rings or barbells seemed different and wrong-I can’t remember what mine used to look like anymore.

I’m not used to having my mind permanently in my cunt. It’s actually a good thing that I now have a job because if I didn’t have something to fill up my days and take my mind off my burning need to be used 24/7, I’d probably go stir-fucking crazy. Any moment I have a minute to myself I just want to be used. I want to feel fingers down there. I want to feel my holes filled. This need is like a spark just millimetres away from dry tinder-I’m ready to go up in flame any second.

I’m sure that it’s a very healthy state for a slave, but when Master is painting a kaleidoscope of pictures in my mind and digging his fingers deep in my cunt, it’s my body that responds and makes my hips rise to meet his thrusts driving them deeper and deeper. Just writing these things in my blog ignites the fire in my belly. I’m on a slow simmer at the most innocent of times and that rapid boil which kicks in when my mind returns and dwells on what it likes the most, is almost too much.

Alright, I’ll admit it! I’m addicted to being used. I just can’t get enough…no wonder I’m horny and sleepy and hungry all the time. I need to be fed and sustained. Master knows this so well and that’s why he is my Master.

Confession

Reverend mother, I must confess. It’s been two weeks since I last held my legs together.

What’s even scarier is that it’s true! I can’t cross my legs, I can’t lay in the foetal position and I can’t wear anything resembling underwear or jeans/pants/shorts etc. For two weeks now I’ve been a free agent-in the cunt area that is. My cunt has been blowin’ in the wind, swing low sweet chariot. I’ve had to be careful not to flash my beaver everytime I plug in a cassette player at work and Master’s new favourite car-trip-to-work pastime is to say ‘Show me some beaver’ and have me sit in the car with skirt raised, flashing every sucker who has the unfortunate luck to pull up beside us.

I’ve been insanely itchy from the hair regrowth and the healing piercings. It hurts to scratch, but I have to. When it’s exceptionally bad, every nerve is on fire and I bring myself to tears dragging my nails over my swollen pussy lips, but it’s much worse not to. Feeling my rings as I fumble around trying to locate the itch, I am reminded what I am and that awakens other feelings in me.

The weight of the rings pulls my labia apart. It keeps me open, exposed… and exceptionally wet and horny. Which would be great for a girl not on orgasm restrictions. But alas! ‘Tis not to be. My cunt, which is no longer technically mine, is off-limits to myself. 

I was very worried there for a while, What if I couldn’t have release anymore? I need to be in a foetal position in order to get the muscles just so or I can’t cum. But I couldn’t lay in a foetal position! In that position, the pressure of my thighs made the rings twist and it hurt like hell so I’d been putting another pillow between my legs and having one leg straight so the rings wouldn’t interlace. But how would I masturbate? Fortunately, a finger in my cunt and my palm cupping the rings solved that little problem. I did a bit of experimental positioning late one night in my bedroom and that was the worst possible thing I could have done-I was horny as hell and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

I lay there in bed tossing and turning and trying to think of anything but being used. But delicious images of being fucked like a whore, being bound kneeling and being used like an animal were playing across my mind. There was only one thing I could do-go see the man who controlled my orgasms, the only one who could give me release.

He’d said to me many times that if I needed anything in the night to wake him up. I’m not quite sure he had the idea of me needing release in mind when he’d said that to me, but one thing was for sure, I was definitely a slave in need.

After being given permission to release twice (Yippee!!) I even managed to ask for permission just before I came without putting myself off. He introduced that little rule just recently and I’d been finding it hard to hold myself just on the edge and ask at the same time. A couple of times I’d just lost the moment entirely and couldn’t end up coming as soon as I thought about having to ask.

There’s hope for me yet (^v^)