Toys of past and present

A cropping, a bondage session and three orgasms later I was feeling quite content. Add in a caging and I would have been in seventh heaven. Such simple things keep a huge, girlie grin on my face (^v^)

I’ve met quite a few different toys in my short time as a slave, some have made cameo appearances and some have stuck around, so I thought I’d put together a bit of a guest book just to see who has come to the party on my ass (and various other parts of my body!)

1. The cat o’ nine tails- this was my first ever meeting with one of these agreeable toy folk oh-so-long-ago. Slightly stingy, not really ouchie. 
2. The cane- various thicknesses and varying levels of ouchie-ness. I still think the cane is one of the ouchiest people I’ve ever had the fortune/misfortune to meet.
3. The birch- a collection of 5 or 6 canes all bundled together in one big-mother of a cane. 
4. The plastic curtain rod- looks a bit like a perspex cane. Who would have thought that something so banal could be so nasty.
5. The butter paddles- image buxom swiss girls making butter by rolling the curds between ridged wooden paddles then take out the buxom swiss girl and the butter. The only thing getting churned was my ass.
6. The bull whip- draws blood very easily. Watch that wrap around and the crack on the nipples!
7. Mr. Strap- my favourite tawse.
8. Mr. Crop-he now comes in 3 varieties with different types of tongues!
9. Mr. Riding Crop- the croppy bit has been lost so he’s now a braided leather cane. Yeow!
10. Mr. Flogger- makes me all warm and tingly. I like him on my back.
11. Mr. Paddle- he has a front and a back. The back really isn’t supposed to be used but guess which part Master likes…

So it looks like I’m ending on a legs eleven for the pain toy department. Now onto the miscellaneous toy department.

1. Enema kit- I used to be an enema a day girl. 3 litres for 15 minutes. That is a very different kind of pain.
2. Butt plugs galore- big ones, small ones, Mr. Purple ( who is actually a strap-on) and now the glass ridged one.
3. Clamps- clover, butterfly, screw-down, you name it, it’s clamped me.
4. Gags-only of the ball variety, soft and hard. You don’t get as much drool with the soft ones.
5. Cuffs- hand cuffs, wrist and ankle shackles (American prison movies give me a hard on…) leather cuffs.
6. Rope- hessian, cotton, polyester….mmmm…rope marks.
7. Blindfolds-indispensable.
8. Arm binders- these suckers will cut your circulation off in about 10 minutes. Very effective.
9. Wax- I once found wax in my belly button 10 days after a wax session.
10. Wasabi- this sucker will burn your clit off.
11. Ginger- figging never really did anything for me.
12. Dildos- Master has lots (did I confess that I once used an eggplant…a desperate girl in Japan will use anything…oh, and Japanese eggplants are much smaller than your regular variety…lol)
13. Vibrators- a couple of little pocket rockets and Mr. Rabbit, the big, pink, beaded, undulating mother of a vibrator.

And that’s thirteen, unlucky for some. Let’s see, what other memorable moments I have…

1. Piercings- Constant reminder of slavery and lack of cunt ownership.
2. Tattoo- Permanent slave marking on butt.
3. Inspections- waiting blindfolded, naked in the cage while a stranger looks you over like an animal at the market.
4. Piss drinking- fairly self-explanatory. Cock in mouth, piss, drinking.
5. Eating everything out of a dog bowl-I think this lasted for a couple of months.
6. Sleeping on the floor chained to the bottom of the bed- too chilly for winter.
7. Cage time- guaranteed to make me juicy.
8. Face fucking- it’s amazing how thick and gooey spit can become .
9. Breath play- having to breathe in little raspy spurts when the pressure is eased off just enough to stop you passing out.
10. Hog-ties, breast bondage, anything tight you can’t really move in.
11. Knives-not cutting, but scratching and dragging. Just the threat of a knife to the throat is hot.
12. Outdoor floggings- being chained to the post outside naked and flogged. 
13. Water sports- pissed on and marked as property.
14.Sleeping in bondage- rope on occasion, chains on occasion. A leash to the bed from the collar or an ankle or a wrist.
15. Last, but not least, collars- metal collars that don’t come off. Handy leash points and outward visible marks of slavery.

Looking back, that is quite an extensive list. No wonder they call me a sensation junkie.

Digging the depths

I wanted something evil done to me.

Rough, biting, ravaging with sweat, drool and my cream smeared all over.

I could barely breathe through the gag and that excited me.
The chains biting into my flesh and pulling me down excited me.
The spreader bar forcing my legs wide apart excited me.

I was at the mercy of my Master and Owner and I was nearly cumming over myself in excitement

He played a little game with me, “Guess the instrument of torture.”

“Is this the purple crop?”
I shook my head.
“Correct!” Crack, smack, thwack.
“How about this one? Is it the new crop?”
I nodded.
“Incorrect!” Crack, smack, thwack.

It didn’t matter if I guessed correctly or not,  Mr. Crop, Mr. Flogger, Mr. Strap, each of his toys, one by one, came down on my exposed ass. It was his little game and he made the rules.

Grabbing my head and pulling me close, “Let’s put that lovely glass beauty where it belongs,” he breathed. Then he was screwing that cold, hard butt plug into my ass. The ridges dug in, probing and widening. Master pulled and pushed and each time it went a little deeper. It was making a passage into the darkness and Master made sure I took what he was giving me.

I felt the drool from the gag dripping down onto the sheets. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t control what came in, nor what came out of my body.
I just wanted to feel something, anything. The ache of nothingness is sometimes too much to bear.

“You want to release don’t you?”
Breathing hard through the gag I nodded.
“You want to feel release with your chains on, don’t you?”
I nodded.

He removed the spreader bar and the butt plug.
“Down on your side. Release”

He stood up and snapped pictures as I masturbated. I felt the flash searing me everytime it lit up the room. Then he put aside the camera and pulled me back as his animal. Grabbing my hair and winding it around his hand, he spanked me as I worked on edging myself up to where the waves would soon break and wash over me. Then I was there.
“May I cum please Master?” Struggling to make myself understood through the gag, I needed, absolutely needed his permission.
“Cum for me bitch.”

The waves rolled and washed and cleansed. They quench the raging fire for a little while, until it builds and burns again.


‘”Did you read my blog?”
“Yes. Did you read my comment?”

Master and I seem to have this exact conversation, without fail, every single day. I love the fact that he gets so involved in my blog and makes an effort to read and comment as soon as is humanly possible, but I have noticed one thing-he is constantly telling me one thing over and over again, “You’re a slave, you can be nothing but a slave, get used to it.”

So, in the interests of furthering slave science, I decided to find out why.

“I have a question.” (this is how I start all conversations about things of substance, i.e slavery and me)
“Yes?” (he knows that I always start juicy conversations with this question so he immediately perks up)
“Is there a reason why you are constantly telling me that I am a slave?” (because I don’t really have an attention span of a goldfish ala “Gee, another new side of the tank to investigate!” so there’s got to be another reason…)
“I think sometimes you forget.”

I could never forget, but on occasion I “forget” and he knows it too. I think in slave terms this is known as getting too big for your collar.

This morning he paddled my bum with both sides of that nasty paddle he recently purchased and then he pulled out one of his amazing, technocoloured crops and worked over my bum some more. Why? Just because he can. 

I liked it. He thought I didn’t, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him otherwise (he’ll find out later when he reads this anyway…lol) And as always, it hurt like crap during, but felt abso-fucking-lutely fantastic afterwards. The indignity and unfairness of not having done anything wrong but getting cropped anyway, was the icing on my morning cream cake.

Something interesting I’ve also found recently is that after I get played with I feel ‘full’ for a short time, but very quickly I get ‘hungry’ again. I’ve got the appetite of a small third-world country at the moment and nothing short of aSt. Andrews cross is going to feed me. He played with me for quite a substantial time this morning, but I so needed/wanted to be bound. I needed to feel my chains, feel my boundaries, needed to feel uncomfortable, needed to be where he wanted me to be nice and snug and tight. I was going to ask, but didn’t…couldn’t ask.

It’s a huge dilemma. How does a slave ask/beg/request for what she wants? In the scheme of things I should just be lucky to get whatever he metes out to me, so how can I possibly make demands? And if and when I do finally manage to voice the request, how can I turn around my thought processes and accept what is given after I have requested it? How can I avoid looking at the seed I planted that has set the wheels in motion? Maybe a blindfold will help…lol.

Prison unbreakable

Today will officially be known as the day my cunt was shut down…literally. Not just closed for maintenance, but locked tightly shut with Master padlocks.

A clithood barbell, six pussy rings and three padlocks. I had enough hardware dangling between my legs to make quite an impressive pimped up ride (all I need is to fit a play station down there somewhere…hmmm…)

It’s quite an interesting feeling to have weights down there. I’ve only ever had my labia clamped with no weights attached, so it was a new sensation. It was… beastial. I could feel the padlocks pulling down but binding me shut at the same time. I was wide open, but so tightly and securely closed. 


Food for thought

 How glorious it is — and also how painful — to be an exception.

Alfred De Musset

Two hours before my scheduled brazillian it came. The plague, the curse, the rag, trolling for vampires, a visit from Aunt Flo, whatever you want to call it, I’m riding the cotton pony and it ain’t pretty. So, my general pussy area is going to maintain its “something out of the Addam’s Family look” for a while longer.

One thing I hate more than the ever-so-fun associated symptoms of the monthly crimson tide is the fact that I get fifty zillion times more horny than I already am and because Master and I are not really into bloodsports, I stay incredibly horny for the entire time! Although I do get the odd release session during the week that my pussy is closed formaintenance, it’s not quite the same.

In an effort to satiate my need for some entertainment I did the worst possible thing I could do-surfed for porn!! Which, of course, made things even worse. I swear, I’m worse than a boy when it comes to porn.

While lamenting over the lack of free, non-malware-infested porn, I was thinking about my years in the magical world of Japan where porn used to be a phone call away. $60 would buy you 10 tapes delivered by a guy on a motorbike within an hour. Ahhh…the convenience and smuttiness of it all! I remember I used to get hot just looking at the wads of fliers shoved into my mailbox every other day with their obligatory mosaic-covered genital regions (because that area is just “too kinky”!). I never actually purchased any, but at the time it made me think about how I could get my hands on some.

My local video store had one shelf of “Western” movies and fifty shelves of porn. I just rented the safe “Western” movies for several weeks then one Saturday afternoon when I had plans of tying myself up outside on the balcony floating around my head, I decided that it was now or never. I chose the three closest videos and marched up to the desk. The middle-aged guy behind the counter had a very bemused look on his face as he put the tapes into the cases, but he didn’t say a word.

Two of the three tapes were utter crap and I was nearly ready to break out the ritual blade and put an end to it all, but the remaining tape was like an injection of adrenalin to the heart. Played out on that 36 minute film  was a story about a girl in debt who has her debt paid off in exchange for becoming a slave for two months. She doesn’t meet her “Owner”, he simply calls and gives her directions or has his henchmen drag her off, blindfold and tie her up somewhere so that he can come in and fuck her brains out. One scene has her squatting on the steps leading down to a busy subway station urinating by his command. Another scene is a very nice display of shibari in a warehouse where she is ceremoniously tied up and used in all her holes by several men. She never does end up finding out who her “Owner” was.

It’s strange that I remember that movie in so much detail. It was over 9 years ago now. I think in many ways that movie started leading my thought processes in a different direction. Until that point I had never seriously wanted to involve another in what I did, but from then on I wanted an “Owner”.  I wanted someone to take charge. I wanted to be ground down and objectified, humiliated and treated like an animal. But I ‘knew’ it was wrong so I did the ‘nilla thing and tried to sweep it all under the tatami mats.

I’m still fighting with the ideas of what is ‘wrong’ and ‘right’. I can’t just put my sexuality on a serving plate and wolf it down off the end of my fork. I slice and dice and bite and chew and try to digest who I am. It’s a tantalzing dish that is often so hard to swallow.

Pride and purpose

For the first time in quite a while there is another part of me that is wet and dripping-my nose. A red, running, swollen nose certainly doesn’t make a welcome addition to the wet, dripping, engorged cunt I always have, but at least it doesn’t make me want to spread my legs anymore than I already do.

I’ve mentioned before that masturbating is like my own little pot of tiger balm. So naturally, when I have a cold and feel totally and utterly like crap, one thing that really perks me up is a few orgasms just to send a few happy endorphins around the ol’ brain. Not being in possession of the autonomous ability to have orgasms anymore, a trip into Master’s bed at 12am was called for in the early hours of this morning.

I think Master was feeling in a particularly nasty mood. He knows that I only visit him in the middle of the night when I want something, and the only thing I ever want is something shoved up my twat or a couple of juicy orgasms. He just loves to ask. Eventhough he knows, he always asks me why I am there, why I am there in his bed in the middle of the night. He likes to hear me admit my need and last night he also made me beg:

“Tell me what you want.”
“Beg for it.”
“May I have release please, Master?”
“Where are you?”
“In your bed.”
“What do you wear in my bed?”
“Top off. Boots on. Now beg.”
“May I have release please Master?”
“I said beg for it. If you want to be sent back to your bed with nothing, you’re going the right way about it. Beg for it. Tell me why you need it. “Tell me why I should grant it to you.”
“Please Master…Please Master may I have release? I…..I need it because…I’m a slut and…you’re the only one who can give it to me.”

It is so hard for me to say those words. So hard for me to admit that I have needs, basic physical needs that I can no longer meet. It stings my pride like salt in an open wound.  All the while I was lying there, trying to form those infuriating words with my lips, he was finger fucking me. I could hear the rings that have trapped my pussy clash together and the soft, wet, lapping of my slick cunt as he plunged in and out. Then his hand moved and the edge of his palm was pushing up against my clit in even pulses. That turned on the ‘release-or-bust’ switch in my brain and I was bursting with need.

Boots are the first step in the release process. Grovelling for entry rights into my temple is the second. The boots and the grovelling impact me on a multitude of levels and Master knows this. He uses his knowledge to poke and prod and stretch and tease. He rolls the taste of his power around in his mouth until he has sampled its sweet juices and he is satisfied. He’d roasted me slowly over hot coals and now I was a succulent mass of juicy slavemeat waiting for consumption on the spit:


He held the ‘O’ ring of my collar as he observed me ‘seeing’ to my needs. I felt the weight of his hand on my collar as I took myself to the edge and meekly asked for permission,

“May I cum please Master?”

On the edge, shaking with need, I always ask that with a sense of trepidation. What if he says no? Sometimes there is a longer pause than usual and I wonder if the words are coming at all, but finally they come:

“Cum for me slut.”

And I do.

I’m wondering whether I could bring myself to cum without his words. Five months and I haven’t once dared to try it and find out. Master’s promise that I would “Rue the day I was born” if I came without permission are burned into the back of my mind somewhere. There have been some itchy-beyond-belief pussy and clit moments where I have scratched at regrowth or piercings until I became all juicy through no fault of my own and the temptation to just keep going has been a tantalizing carrot on a string, but I have resisted.

No orgasms, without permission.
No chocolate, for the foreseeable future.
No Mickey Dees, for six months.

Take away all that and a girl will start looking anywhere for a bit of pleasure. Hmmm…Mr. Crop and his associates may have a purpose afterall.

Credit where credit is due

After a comment from M at atlanta.bondage that perhaps I’ve lost my sense of direction after having attained a fairly significant goal in the slave scheme of things, I have to say that it’s probably very true. 

Like those Japanese high school kids who study their brains out to get into uni then become all disillusioned once they get in and end up jumping in front of a train on a drizzly, gray Saturday afternoon, I’ve reached the pedstal that I had set up for myself and now it’s time to look around and enjoy the view. I’m so used to looking up that it’s so hard to simply look around and just take in where I am. I should be happy beyond belief that I am where I always wanted to be. I’m just waiting for the happy drugs to kick in.

In an ironic twist of my quirky little mind, I’ve discovered that I’m upset about having my ‘greatest endurance’ taken away from me. Here I was getting off on enduring the fact that I wasn’t irrefutably a slave, until application of this big, fat black mark on my rump that screams ‘slave girlie here!! ‘ ripped that away from me. What am I supposed to endure now???

It’s interesting because I know that it is there and I know what it says, but the average Dom, Dick or Harry on the street doesn’t. Unlike my collar, it’s not in full view all the time and even if it was, there would only be a small percentage who could read it anyway. What it boils down to is that I guess, in some senses, I really want to be outed. Call me the Tokyo Shock Queen, I just love that ‘Oh, my god’ look on people’s faces. 

Look on people’s faces when they find out I’m tattooed as a slave on my ass…priceless.

Contorted and twisted, the pendulum swings out of equilibrium. 
What will catch her when she falls.
Head pulled back, joints encased, the seat in the back of her mind has her name on it.

Thick tendons of rigid iron wrap themselves around her wrists, her ankles. 
Taut links chart a map across her body. 
Destinations are places along the way to visit until the pull of the journey sets her back on course

Two sides to every coin

I have to say that I always feel sorry for the slightly more sensitive of the domly ones. They are always stuck between a fucking hard place and a really hard fucking place…(or is that the subbies who are stuck in hard fucking places??? lol….)

My domly one is one of those sensitive ones. Although he loathes the thought of being on the ‘good guy dom list’, he really could be the star member. He worries about me, he cares about me and he does a lot of things to please me. And interestingly enough, he gets a lot of pleasure from pleasing me.

After five months I’m still dealing with the demons of slavery past. I’m still trying to work out how the puzzle of life and slavery fits together and I’m still trying to overcome these images/ideals of slavery that are firmly lodged into my tightly-closed mind.

Master keeps reiterating to me that he is the one who chooses how he treats me. That’s fine and I understand it in principle. But when you get off on being ‘made’ to do things and you suck up intensity like a dry sponge on a hot summer’s day, there is only so much hugging and only so many ice-creams you can take. Lol. See, here is the damned if you do, damned if you don’t lot in life that doms have to deal with. Of course I LOVE ice-cream and of course I LOVE hugs and getting attention, but it sets off my slave immune system and my antibodies start attacking what they detect as foreigner invaders in my slavery with avengence.

I get pissed off when he beats me. I also get pissed off when he doesn’t beat me. When he kisses me, I don’t feel slavey, but if he doesn’t kiss me, I pout because I feel like I’m not loved. On reflection, it kind of seems like I’m still trying to remain in control.

I’m having issues with trust a bit too. I know he’s not god and I know he’s bound to make mistakes. (Shit, I make more than enough for the both of us, but I guess he still has the right to make some too.)  I feel an insatiable need to punish or get revenge when I feel fucked over, or even when someone within my sphere of influence gets fucked over. In my current position, I generally punish with a lack of obedience, which, more often than not, gets myself punished. But I know he doesn’t like punishing, so in effect, I am taking away his pleasure in giving me a beating. It’s not much of a weapon, but it works. Don’t punish me and I get surly, punish me and I still get surly. 

I’m glad I’m not a dom. I couldn’t hack it.

The usual

I’m in an unusual place at the moment-somewhere I didn’t imagine I could possibly be at this point in the relationship:

Collared, ringed and marked, yet feeling less of a slave than I ever have before.

It’s bizarre.

I can’t explain it.

Part of me thought that perhaps it was because I now really am what I had always been.

Another part of me thought that something was wrong.

And all the while the voices inside were wondering just when it was that I lost my fear.

I’m in a very comfortable place at the moment-somewhere where I am left to my own devices and very little is required of me.

There are no early morning wake up calls, nor a leash attached then a quick crawl across the cold slate.

There are no nights spent at Master’s feet, nor bondage sessions before bed.

There are no bruises, welts or marks left by visits from Mr. Crop or Mr. Strap.

I’m feeling like I’m free-somewhere that I absolutely don’t want to be. My place isn’t a place at all when comfort feels so very uncomfortable.

Fear. I kind of miss it.

Godzilla, Frankenstein and a Murderous Dildo

The wise and venerated holy man came from the east bearing gifts. His chariot was a two-stroke mechanical monster that was akin to the devil stuttering.  I took the gifts reverently in my hands and asked the Masterful one for permission to delve into the unknown depths of this ‘Overnight Express’.

The gifts were shrouded in a mysterious covering that seemed to require a special key to open. No amount of pulling or rending unfurled the gifts from this protective sheath. A sacrificial knife was finally required to break the seal and inside lay an assortment of riches protected by soft bubbles of an unworldly nature.

Removal of this final barrier resulted in the full beauty of the riches coming to light. They were varied and multicoloured. A packet of something called ‘batteries’ was even included.  

A devilish pink contraption with ball-bearings and a twitching rabbit, came to life with a flick of a switch. A glass rod ringed with deep ridges and an undulating jelly-feel monster completed the collection. The instruments were laid out on the kitchen bench; it truly was a scene from the depths of depravity.

“Naked. Boots. My bed now.”

The Masterful one was undoubtedly feeling an immediate need to remove the instruments from his sight and instead insert them somewhere fitting the nature of the fiendish assortment. A short time later he was screwing that glass instrument of torture into my ass with the ridges acting as a thread.

‘What do you want next? The rabbit or the pink dildo?’
“I don’t want anything.”
‘Well then,go and get the pink dildo, lube it up and bring it back.’

Flipped over onto my stomach, the bestial device then found it’s way into the deepest recesses of my cunt.

Tough devilish work is this, the work of a slave. 

An interesting chat

Sitting here on Sunday afternoon having a perv on collarme, an interesting message popped up on my screen:

He is a very kind master to let you write…… 

As soon as I saw that, I knew I needed to set him straight:

Why would you say that?
It’s always been of my belief that doms who restrict their subs’/slaves’ expression have something to hide  😉 

Your answer is not one that I would have expected.
I suppose I had a very un-PC view on slaves. What you have said actually makes sense. A true dom should have nothing to fear at his slave expressing herself.

Having their slave express their feelings/thoughts can actually help a dom know and therefore get the best possible service from their slave.
Just a thought from outside the PC box 🙂 

For sure
However this is not a “classic” slave. This is a common or garden variety relationship with a few accessories thrown in.
Sounds to me like a normal respectful relationship except that it has a particular theme……

I think that most happy bdsm relationships are of the ‘garden variety’. Life intruding all the time means that you cannot have your slave in a cage and feed them gruel 24/7.
The Master-slave dynamics give a slant to the relationship and there are definitely lots of accessories, but other than that we sit around and watch tv, go out for dinner etc… all those normal sorts of things other folk do.

 Absolutely – but how much of that master-slave dynamic is there in any relationship?
A lot of marriages I am aware of, have no master-slave terminology but are certainly slave-type marriages, usually for the woman.
She will have no real input as to where they will stay, she will not be really consulted on major decisions and she will cook, clean and iron and all of this to please her “master”
This control is is usually quite subtle but it is nevertheless there.

The tools and accessories are obviously a lot of fun.
However this is usually for sex play only and is not really relevant outside of the bedroom.
Thus I dont see a BDSM relationship as a way of life type relationship – but rather as a variant on a sexual theme ……….

I wasn’t quite sure how to respondto his last comment. If truth be known, I’m a little of the same opinion myself. I left my marriage to live the “life of a slave” because I didn’t think I could ever have it with my hubby. But perhaps I could have….Something to ponder there…

On a slightly different topic

I’ve decided that spider gags are hot. What could be more perfect, metal and a gag, two of my favourite things combined in one handy device?

In my perusals through assorted porn I can’t stop but drool (pun intended…lol) over spider gags and how hot they look. There is a certain je ne sais quoi about how a girl’s mouth looks when it’s forced open and her mouth is in that perfectly round “cum in here” shape. The drool gathers and in one long mass, drips onto her breasts and coats them in a sea of submission. 

The gag pulls down the skin around the eyes and creates that haunted ‘Why?” look that you can see in the eyes of every gag-wearer. She is no longer in control. She does not choose when to lick, when to suck. She is simply open. She cannot close her mouth, she cannot refuse. Such a simple action, yet one that alludes her.

Speech separates us from the animals. Gags take away the power of speech and take us back to our animal form. You can cry and moan and gasp and scream all you want, but nobody can hear you in subspace.

Now, without a doubt I’m sure that spider gags are pretty high up on the list of ‘look hot, but are a bugger to use’ things. so I’m not going to race out and put one on Master’s birthday shopping list,  There are many things that look so great in pics, but just god-damn hurt in practice. Never having an intimate acquaintance with a spider gag before, I can’t say what it would be like. But I do know they look damn hot.

The sound of silence

Along with my usual whining and moaning there is definitely a ‘rustle’ and a ‘jangle’ in the air. My bum rustles and my pussy jangles. I’m seriously contemplating changing the name of journal from ‘subtle slave’ to ‘In your face slave’. With all the noise around me as I move, I ain’t sneaking up on anyone.  

After spending the last two days with my bum wrapped up in saran wrap, I’m ready to come out of my cocoon. I’m worried about smudging so I’m trying not to sit or lay on it and my neck has got a bit of a crick in it from trying to peer around my ample bum to wash and cream it. I’m a bit tender, but otherwise fine.

For everyone who was wondering, it’s the Japanese characters for slave- dorei. I chose the font , size etc. and Master gave his nod of approval. Like every other time, my inability to quickly decide gave him the shits. I agonised over fonts and thicknesses and because I knew it was going to be indelible, wanted to be pretty damn sure about what I was getting stenciled onto my body. So when we were half-way through the outline and Master pertinently asked:

“Did you check that it was up the right way?” 

I nearly peed my pants (for the tenth time that day…) I hadn’t really had a good look, I was nervous and there were other things on my mind, “Was this going to hurt like all hell?”, “Was I doing the right thing?” I had more magnanimous things to wonder about than whether the tatt was up the right way. (In my defence, mirrors don’t help you check these things either…lol)

The whole experience was kind of unsettling. I was in a big room containing quite a few other people with my knickers around my thighs and my exposed bum on a bench under fluorescent lights. It’s not a good look for anyone. I had also unwisely chosen my wardrobe malfunction top to wear in the hopes that it would cover a bit of me up, but instead my boobs kept popping out of it everytime I moved.

He didn’t show me the final stencil before it all started and before I knew it, I was having my bum shaved. Then the stencil was on and I had to get up to have a look in the mirror. Cue boobs popping out of top. While I was trying to see if it was in the right place and all, Master was clicking away and being thoroughly snap-happy, 

“Will you stop fucking taking pictures and come and check this for me???”

I don’t really think he gave a shit about how I was being marked-just that I was being marked and he was the one instructing that it be done.

Back down on the bench I was waiting for the buzz to begin. You know how you’re kind of waiting to feel pain and it starts and it’s ok and then it revs up and you’re like, “Whoa!”? Well, I was waiting for the pain to rev up but it never did. It just kind of hovered around the edges of my comfort zone and it was only when the occasional nerve or ouchie tissue was hit that I had a bit of a grimace. I felt a bit cheated to tell you the truth. It was a bit of a pre-mature ejaculation pain- “It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming…It’s already come???” 

With my piercings there was first the pain of the clamp and then the sting as the needle first went into the flesh. After that is when the needle hits the red zone and you start invoking the name of any and every deity you can think of , “Holy motherfucker, buddha, son of a bitch”
I think it was a bit of a let down for Master too. I’m sure he would have enjoyed seeing me in pain for his benefit.

So, it’s about an hour or so until i reach the terribly depressing age of 30. I don’t think I’m ready. Given half a chance I’m sure I could still wring a bit of life out of my twenties.

Just a quickie about my tatt….

$220 and 1/12 hours later I was a marked slave. Pain-wise, it was a walk in the park…really. It was even what I would class as a ‘nice level of pain’ I was in fact getting quite juicy and yummy.

You can have a perv here


Just a few wowsers/yowsers from a week or so in the life of a subtle slave…

1. I missed out on a visit from Mystery Shopper number 2.

The forgotten lunch date and a subsequent rash of phone calls that resulted in last Sunday morning’s drinkie fest with my good ol’ “I-whacked-that-son-of-a-bitch-real-good-with-me-shoe-’cause-he-pissed-me-off” pal meant that the most recently scheduled visit from a shopper, whom I cunningly found out went by the name of “Peter” by peering at Master’s hotmail over his shoulder had to be cancelled. Oh…what a shame……*snicker*

The difference this time was that Master was going to spring the fact that I was going to be inspected on me a couple of hours before the event. His dastardly plan was shot to shit by my lack of brain cells-they really are a dying breed and thank the lord for that.

2. Master has been naughty boy.

I won’t go into great detail, suffice to say that he made a huge, massive mistake and he has apologized for it. I am a jealous soul and all ideas about obedience and slavery go out the window when I feel threatened by someone else. I suppose if I was different and more sure of myself, it wouldn’t be such a problem, but I’m not. I haven’t been quite that upset for some time and I’d forgotten what it was like to have a bordering-on-hyper-ventilating cry. Bathrooms are wonderful things. Sometimes I think I should move my bed in there.

3. My ass is pristine for my tattoo.

10:30am Saturday morning I go under the needle. The design is finalized (I finally found a font I was happy with) so it’s all stations go. After the naughty boy episode I was having such migivings. I really had thought about saying, ‘You can shove your fucking tattoo up your ass!” To my mind, the tattoo is not so much a marking of what I am, but more of a symbol of my commitment and trust in him. I’m not in a particularly slavey frame of mind at the moment and submitting to anything is a struggle. A good spanking/cropping would probably do wonders for me, but my ass is off-limits. 

4. It’s been ages since I was in my cage/had a bondage session/got into that real slavey state.

I’m stressed and out of sorts because I need chains and clamps in my life. End of story. (It will probably get to that stage where I’ll ask to tie myself up…lol…just so I can get a fix.)

5. I’m feeling very unstable.

I think Master is very interested in moving back to Melbourne and I’m not sure if I want to go or not. I’ve been offered a place at university here, but I’m not sure if I want to go. I don’t cope well when things aren’t decided because I like to know exactly where I’m headed. I don’t know what to do…keep working, find another job, study, study something different.

Too many choices, for someone who apparently has no choices.


I’ve always wanted to be insatiable, irresistible and just down-right addictive. Now it may sound like I have pretty high cards on myself, but the fact of the matter is that knowing I’m so completely and utterly precious that I drive men wild is, to me, as intoxicating as over-proof Bundy rum.

 left a lovely comment the other day outlining how she enjoys the effects her submission incites in the one she submits to:

“…it’s what it does to body and mind that is the crux of it for me, a bigger part of that pain and the turn on for it is, knowing what it’s doing to the sadist, that every ounce of pain he is giving me is feeding a fire within that’s kept alight from the delights my body brings, that is such a rush for me.”

A couple of things clicked in my mind when I read this. I think I’ve mentioned before how bringing Master to climax gives me a rush- I suppose it’s my version of having sexual power over someone. I don’t have the right to deny or grant sexual pleasure, but I do hold the key to the pleasure. I enjoy the fact that what I do brings so much pleasure and the delight I experience in turn is my immediate reward for a job well done (no pun intended…honestly!)

Offering my bum up for a cropping or having needles poked through private parts are things I also submit to to keep the attraction there. I think my limits, or should I say ‘aversions’ since I technically have no limits, are steadily ground down in an effort to keep the domly one amused and interested. I suppose there is and always will be a feeling within me that I’m not ever going to be 100% good enough, being my own harshest critic and all, so I attempt to make myself utterly insatiable and hope that I’m always interesting and pleasurable enough to play with.

I enjoy the look of a fire that needs stoking in a man’s eye. I like to see him struggle with an itch in his crotch that he just can’t scratch. I revel in the fact that I’m there to fill that need, simply because just anyone won’t do. It’s my job, my purpose. If he needs to go elsewhere to have his needs met, I have failed.

I exist for his pleasure. I am his pet project. He is training me to be the ultimate and definitive source of pleasure for him. He should need no other.
Pleasure is my life. If I can no longer give pleasure, I no longer have life to live. 

It’s not a game, it’s as real as a cunt full of metal and indelible marks on a rump. It’s as real as you and me.

Walking the fine line

A question….can man live on smut alone?

I probably could…but then again we all know that I am a shameless whore and hussy, so I’m not sure whether my answer is an authoritative answer to the question. I see many a blog with the day-to-day life of the blogger written succinctly on the web templates and I wonder if I should put more of that kind of thing in mine. But then again, I wonder who would be interested in me rattling on about a near-miss wardrobe malfunction or my latest broken fingernail? My life outside my slavery does not a nail-biting,edge-of-your seat kinda novel make. And now I’m starting to talk like Yoda again. Heaven help us all…

I’ve come to yet another conclusion- I’m an experience junkie. I was thinking some more about my last post and why I do what I do, and I had a blinding moment of clarity in which I realized that I do a lot of things just for the experience, just so I’m able to say, “Yep, been there….done that!” I remember reading or hearing about someone being described as a ‘pleasure slave’ in the sense that they are a slave to pleasure and sensual experiences i.e things that stimulate the senses, give them pleasure. I can really identify with that. 

A while ago I described my need to be filled and to feel my use. There are some occasions where I get turned on by the thoughts and the situations surrounding my use, but generally it’s the physical sensations that I crave. A nipple tweak here, a stroke of the crop against bare buttocks there, fingers rubbing, hands caressing, stretching, sliding, ramming, filling. Give me more! Lol…

Pain can be pleasurable sometimes on exceptionally rare occasions (fuck, did I actually say that?) Different types of pain, different intensities, just to know what it feels like is enough. I don’t want the pain to go on and on because, as we’ve seen, I don’t cope well with never-ending stories of pain, but just enough that I can wet my tongue with is like the kiss of angels onto the recesses of my mind.

A time for all things

Thanks so very much to everyone who sent messages of concern and tips for dealing with pussy healing. After some extensive trawling on the good ol’ net for something I could get to settle down the girls, I purchased some cortisone cream and with a few applications since yesterday, they are definitely feeling more agreeable. It’s the granuloma growths on the piercing sites that seem to be causing the most problems and the cream is supposed to deal with them. We’ll see how things go over the next few days.

Do you ever get that way when you just don’t think you can cope anymore? Most of last week was like that for me. I was so caught up in not being able to cope that I completely and utterly forgot my absolutely fabulous friend from Alice Springs was coming here and we had arranged to meet. A comment from Master along the lines of, “Weren’t you supposed to meet her last week?” promptly had me scrambling for the phone and luckily I managed to see her for coffee before she flew out. I’m surprised that I don’t forget to breathe sometimes.

I have been exceptionally depressed about my pussy. I had thought it was going to be difficult, but I didn’t think it was going to be this difficult. As the beautiful kaya-s pointed out, some of us just have different physiology. So, I must remain patient- patience was never one of my strong points, but perhaps you’ve guessed that? I think I might also add another resolution to my resolutions for 2007- No more fucking pussy talk! I’m over it, everyone else must be too.

Now, just to set a few other things straight, Master takes very good care of me. He is extremely sensitive to my vanilla needs and as far as my slave needs are concerned, promptly gave me a memorable re-education yesterday that I will be feeling for a while to come (I ain’t never buying him anything resembling a punishment implement ever again!) I really was getting entirely too sassy and disobedient for my own good caught up in my own woes and it was disturbing me thatMaster was letting me ‘get away’ with so much because I was in such a bad head-space. My education yesterday was, in a nutshell, along the lines of, “I’m the Master and you’re the slave so I will fucking treat you in whatever way I want to.” I have such a hard time accepting it when he is kind to me (which really is such a lot of the time) and for some reason I can’t wrap my head around the concept that he is being kind to me because He wants to. I still seem to have delusions that I’m the one in charge and I’m the one that he is pampering. I don’t understand why I can’t get it through my stubborn head that He is doing what he wants, when he wants.

Master knows very clearly that a happy and healthy slave will serve him much better than an unhappy and sick one ever could. Other than an exceptionally funny and unfortunate frozen Mars bar up the twat incident a couple of months ago, which I will never let him live down, he is a practical man who cares for me and isn’t interested in doing anything that would endanger me in any way.

And in reply to whoever left this comment:

“…it’s not obvious to me that you are the ultra-rare type cut out to be a slave, or that you really believe your SO is the ultra-rare type cut out to be a master.”

I’ve never professed to being the “ultra-rare-cut-out-to-be-a-slave” type and it may indeed turn out that I am not 100% suited to a life of submission. It’s only been two years since I discovered this whole lifestyle and for that time, it’s been quite a roller-coaster ride. I’m still very wet behind the ears and I still have a lot to learn. I often question myself about whether I really am a slave and whether I have made the right decisions. I have trouble choosing a seat on the bus, let alone the mammoth life-altering choices that I have made and will continue to make. But you never know unless you try it. You never know if you’ll be alive or dead tomorrow, so I’m trying it now. I don’t want to die saying, “I wish I had of….”


It’s negative biorhythm week- just thought I’d prepare you for the onslaught of morose prose…

My funky mood of late has been triggered by the fact that I am sick and tired and so utterly over pussy pain. My rings really are nothing but grief for me. I don’t find them particularly attractive and it is just pain, discomfort, pain, pain and a little more pain, day in, day out. They cause me so much pain in fact that no-one can go near my pussy with a barge pole, not Master, not even me. They completely defeat the whole purpose-my whole purpose both as slave and as my alter ego in the real world. I don’t think anyone quite understands what a devastating effect this is having on me.

It’s nearly been four months to the day since I was able to live normally. So much of my enjoyment of life has gone. I feel like my youth was suddenly snatched away from me one afternoon in a piercing booth. Where I once would have skipped around the house, I’m now making excuses not to move an inch. Moving is a chore. Sitting is a chore. Bending down is a chore. I feel disabled and much less than what I was.

One thing that Master said to me when I first arrived was that he would never take my gym privileges away from me because he knew how incredibly important gym and the whole exercise culture is to me. It really was my only outlet. Having the control over my body and the resulting power to feel good about myself was really helping me get through the day. I have body issues enough without the ability to change how I look taken away from me. But he effectually has taken all that away.

Now, I have nothing but food to turn to, which makes me feel even worse about myself.

I am so unhappy with me at the moment. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so unattractive or so unfit. Weight-wise, I’m the heaviest I’ve probably been in ten years. All the while Master is talking of tattoos and displays. I don’t want to look at me, let alone have anyone else look at me. I don’t want to be marked as I am. It’s a taunt and a mockery- the brand on the big, fat piece of cow meat. Let’s put you in your red outfit and take you to a party, he said. I don’t think I’d even get an arm or a leg into that thing.

Stuck in this body that I can’t move because of the pain, I’m a prisoner to my pussy. Four months…..

What fucking good am I if I have a dysfunctional pussy? My pussy defines who I am and what I stand for. Imagine this, a whore without a hole. What the fuck is she worth? It just makes me want to bang my head against the desk in frustration. This is not how it’s supposed to be. Why can’t I be like everyone else? Why aren’t dangling weights swinging around my legs? It’s been four fucking months for Christ’s sake!!Why can’t I do it? Why the fuck can’t I do it? Why don’t I heal like everyone else? Why do I have to get infection after excruciating infection even though I spend hours and hours soaking and cleaning and disinfecting?Why does everything I do have to be so fucking unbelievably hard? Nothing is ever simple. Nothing is never neat- everything I do, for some reason or another, has to involve mind-twisting, chaotic mess.

Over and over again I’ve been told that I am nothing but a hole and now I’m not even that. I’m just a fucking waste of space. I am fucking worthless. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. So fucking worthless it’s funny.

(And yes, I do know that it’s not supposed to be about what I think or feel and that it’s not my cunt, but Master’s cunt. I may only be the keeper, but it doesn’t really change the fact that I am the one living with it and I am the one who has to put up with it. That’s the reality.)

Age before beauty

I had a chat with my best friend when I was home about getting old. I think it started when we were discussing Master ‘loaning’ me out and then it progressed onto him selling or giving me away when it was time to move on. She asked a very pertinent question:

“Do you think you’re going to be doing this stuff when you’re sixty?”

I personally don’t think I will be-at least not in this form.

I’ve also had a few discussions with Master about how relationships change over time. He is adamant that if you really want M/s dynamics, then you can sustain them at high levels. I feel that the level of activity peaks at the beginning of the relationship and then begins a slow slide until it reaches a state of equilibrium. I’ve seen and read it countless times before. It’s not so much that people turn vanilla, it’s just that they don’t feel such a strong need for it once they get comfortable.

My belief is that people who get involved in this lifestyle are people with parental/commitment/emotional etc. issues of some form. I’m not saying that everyone is a sick puppy, but when you think about it, every single one of us on this planet has issues of some sort. We are all fucked up by our parents or friends or past lovers. We’re not alone on this planet, we can’t exist without having contact with others. These interactions inevitable affect us in some way, and the detrimental effects are those that stay with us long after those people have disappeared from our lives.

These issues manifest themselves in different ways and for those involved in the lifestyle the need for love/attention/interaction draws us to people who can give us the ‘intensity’ we require. We’re not happy with someone saying ‘I love you’ and giving us flowers, we want to see that you really care in ways that only the fulfillment of your role can create.

‘Stuff the roses, give me the thorns’ seems to sum up M/s relationships very nicely. We want more than flowers, we want the whole kit and caboodle. Our need is so deep, it drives us to submit, to crave subjugation and humiliation, but once that need is filled with what we really want and funnily enough, what are the by-products of truly great bdsm relationships-love, attention and commitment-we are happy just being together.

I don’t really think people ‘go vanilla’, we’re not one or the other. We are all just out there looking for a bit of meaning and the love that we need in this crazy, crazy world.

Honing the blade

‘You are obviously in a mood. Go and do what you have to do or I’ll severely crop you.’

So here I am, doing what I have to do. The threat of a cropping drove me to blog.

I get in a mood every now and then. I’m not really sure why…perhaps sometimes it’s because it’s all just too hard. Last night I was also in one of those off moods, not really sure what I wanted to eat or do or even think. So I looked at some porn, as I usually do when I’m a bit ‘off’ . There were some nice little tidbits on there-spider gags, anal hooks, inner thigh canings. All things that I drool over when I’m in the spectator’s seat, but simply cringe at the thought of having to submit to.

I look at porn with a different eye now as in, “Ouch, that’s gotta hurt!” or, ‘She’s making that much noise over that girlie whipping???’ I’m not saying that I’m a professional by any standards, or that I’m any sort of masochist (I am sooooo not) it’s just that I have a general idea about what hurts and what doesn’t.

I used to love watching porn and then having a great little session of masturbation. I’ve always loved the sounds, the moans, the snapped commands of the one in charge,  “You’ll take my cock down your throat, you whore!” It’s all so corny, but it’s only a quick lick, suck and a slide from corny to horny. Of course, I no longer can masturbate when I want to and all the metal in my cunt makes things challenging even when I am given permission to release. I sometimes feel that I can’t even serve the purpose that I’m here for because my whole pussy region is a pain-filled ng zone. My little ‘area 51’, which makes me what I am, is serving so little purpose that it hurts.

I go through periods where I’m just insatiably horny and can’t leave Master’s side, to times when I feel that I just really want to be left alone-I don’t want to be hurt, I don’t want to be sucking cock, I don’t want to grilled about what I am. Those are the times when I just wish that everything would go away. I generally hide out somewhere, in the bath or in my room, hoping, praying that Master will leave me alone too. I pull away for a little while, back into my shell and enjoy the freedom of just being-not being a slave or being the henny-penny teacher chick-but simply just being.

Sometimes I also think that I want to be left alone, but I don’t really. It’s those times that I wish Master would really put his foot down. I think that giving me an even slacker leash in those situations puts me in a worse state of mind. I start getting testy because he’s given me exactly what I wanted and it seems a little too much like I’m the one in charge. I especially don’t want to be asked if I ‘want’ to have cage time, or if I ‘want’ to have bondage time. I don’t want to decide play schedules or when enough is enough. It’s not about me, it’s about him and if I grumble and moan about something he decides, so be it. That’s what I do, I submit, no-matter what. Of course, this is all based on the belief that he will want to use me more than I want to be used. God help me if it’s the other way around! I think sometimes you get into periods where there is little or no heavy play. It’s always hard to start up once again after an intermission and generally I won’t want to. If it’s something that happens everyday and I know it’s going to happen consistently and regularly I can probably get into some sort of routine and cope. If it is weeks between hard play then I don’t want to go there. It’s like going wearing in a new pair of shoes-uncomfortable and it just pisses you off.

Last night I started out in a ‘leave me the fuck alone’ mood and then I started feeling even worse because I hadn’t been used for a while. So tail between my legs, I crept into Master’s bedroom and encouraged some slave girlie usage. Yes, us slave girlie’s can be sly and wily, after all, they are the only weapons we have.

The ‘freedom’ of slavery is a two-edged blade-it comes with a price. You can’t be free on your terms and the freedom that you do experience is not usually when you really need it.

Giving voice to the voiceless

Never let it be said that Master is a man of few words…

“Do you remember when you were free? When you could do what you like? Do you remember now that you’re a slave and you have to do what you’re told? And what is it that you prefer now? You prefer being in your collar, you prefer having your cunt owned and shortly I’m going to have you permanently marked as my animal. I’ll look at you with your head down sucking on my cock and I’ll be feeling your animal markings, my ownership markings. I’ll be touching them, tracing my finger over them as you suck on my cock everyday for the rest of your life, because you are now a slave you’re being marked permanently. That’s what you are now, you’re a slave and you’re always going to be owned. You are a slave, my slave.

You only have one purpose-it’s to please me. Your body is mine and I’m going to take my pleasure from it.  You’re an animal, you’re my animal to please me. I’m going to have your cunt drilled by large cocks. I’m going to have your bum rammed. You’re going to be made to please, please, please, please and please. You’re going to be used for what you really are, you little whore, you little slut, a little slut with a sloppy little tight cunt. A tight cunt that needs to be drilled and drilled and used. Your purpose to serve and please me.  I’m going to keep you all the time that you serve and please me and you know I’m going to get good use out of you, don’t you?

And as you’ve been listening to my voice your cunt has been getting juicier and wetter because it knows it’s coming home to it’s Master, to its owner, to its user,  because that’s what you are now. You’re mine to own, to use. You keep your cunt wet for your Master, you keep it moist because that’s what you need, that’s what you require- daily use, training you how to please me. You bend that lovely croppable arse for me so I can take my pleasure from it with my crop and my whip. You’re a slave, you know you are a slave. You’re only going to kept as a slave.”

Seven messages on my cell phone and these are just the three that I can remember. Looks like my life for 2007 is pretty much already decided…lol.

New Beginnings

I’m back. My little soiree into freedom has ended and I’m back where I belong, with the cage, the crop and the leash. Master was waiting for me at the airport terminal and his promise to clip my leash on as soon as I came within arms reach looked like it was going to be fulfilled. I spied him as I was coming down the ramp and the glint of metal in his hand spoke volumes:

(whispering) ‘You’re not really going to clip that on me here are you?’
“Why not?”

Looking around at the couple of hundred people who just got off the 747 with me, I was ready to die. I think Master saw that look of horror on my face and thought he’d take pity on me or maybe he was just lulling me into a false sense of security so he could crop it out of me later. Whatever the reason, he walked around jangling that leash in his hand instead and didn’t actually put it on until we got into the car. There is a god! 

I always feel terrible when I fly and I hate airports. They’re always such sad places for me. I got rather melancholy on the plane thinking about my family that I was leaving behind. We’re all pretty damn close and it doesn’t seem that going away gets any easier no matter how many times you’ve done it. I’ve had a couple of cries and I miss all of them, especially my sister awfully, but the show must go on…

So it’s a fresh new year. The slate is clean. Time for a few of those lovely resolutions that are usually ‘three-day-wonders’, but, what the hell, I’ll give it a go anyway:

1. I will eat less chocolate.
It truly is habit-forming evil stuff.

2. I will exercise more.
Walking, swimming, it’s all on the menu. I want to lose the weight I’ve put on since the pussy rings took me out of action. They still hurt like hell, but I’m just going to have to get over it and get on with it.

3. I will start a hobby.
I’m thinking that singing lessons/voice training would definitely be good. It’s all part of my plan to get a skill.

4. I will try to clean more.
I have a pretty high tolerance for uncleanliness and that usually gets me into trouble. 

5. I will not buy anything for Master without trying it out beforehand.
Silly me thought he might like a new crop for Christmas, so off to the saddlery in my hometown I went. Last night that fateful present was unwrapped and ceremoniously tried out. I’d forgotten how much more new, stiff leather hurts.

Happy New Year…it should be an interesting year