Greetings

This is what was waiting to greet Master when he arrived home from work yesterday. It was slavegirl with ‘all the acoutrements’

We have a rule that if I am home before Master, I am to greet him at the door in a proper slave-like fashion. Since I had been working full-time for the last few months, it had been quite a while since I had greeted him in the ‘proper fashion’.

Default slavegirl outfit, boots, cuffs, butt plug and heavy makeup. I really was slavegirl with a side of slut.

The butt plug of choice was Mr. Purple. It had been quite a while since Mr. Purple had seen anything but the light of day, so I thought he might like an outing into the great dark unknown. I lubed him up and braced myself for entry, trying to relax but also ready to wince at the same time. He slid in like he’d never been gone and did he feel good! OMG, it’s been waaay too long since a butt plug has felt good. I’d almost forgotten they can.

By this stage it was 5:15pm and Master should have been pulling up in the driveway any minute. I knelt there on the floor, feeling Mr. Purple stretching and filling me. He was lulling me into a lovely warm place with rainbows and talking rabbits. In my boots and leather, I felt so alive. Before I knew it, my hand moving down to my clit felt like the most natural thing in the world. I’d never realised just how my rings would feel with me kneeling in that position. I was ready to spread my lips and seek my clit, but there it was sitting plump and exposed with my lips peeled back by the weight of the rings.

There was only one thing wrong with this situation. I am not allowed to touch myself without express permission from Master. The barbell in my clit reminded me that it’s not my cunt to play with and I knew I was in trouble.

It was several hours later when I finally fessed up:

“I have something to confess.”

He immediately got that strained look on his face and started breathing quickly.

“Yes. ”

“Well, it’s nothing major…but…well…when I was getting ready for you this afternoon, I put Mr. Purple in and he felt so good….so…”

“So, you played with yourself.”

“Yes, I was feeling so horny and….”

“What have I told you?”

“That I’m not to play with myself without your permission.”

“Exactly. And why?”

“Because it’s not my cunt to play with.”

“Well, I think the punishment should fit the crime. Put your boots on, Mr. Purple in and give me three orgasms.”

Master had spent an hour or so earlier pummelling me with Mr. Purple. Shoving him in deeper, plunging him in and out and my asshole was red raw. I wanted it to just be left alone, but I’d done the deed and now I had to live with the consequences.

He snapped pictures the whole time just to make me feel more humiliated. I am a slave to Master, but also a slave to my own animal instincts.

Student times

As of Monday I officially became a student again, for the fourth time in my life. First was the twelve or so years of regular school, then my year and a half of Japanese language school, followed by my four years of undergraduate study and now I’m back at uni doing a graduate diploma.

I have a lot of love/hate relationships with things and learning is one of them. When I study, I generally get burned out so much that I vow never to study again. Then a few years down the track, the bad memories disappear and I feel ready to study some more.

We were learning today about classroom management and discussing how children’s behaviour only becomes a problem when their needs aren’t being met. I was sitting there in the lecture hall thinking that that is so true about slave/subs as well. We have a strong need for love and attention (both shown in a variety of ways) and when they aren’t forthcoming, that’s when we feel the need to remind our owners of our presence, ala “You want me to make you a cup of coffee? Hell no!”

I’m not conscious of ‘acting up’ nor am I blatantly disobedient on purpose. Generally it’s the case that one thing leads to another and before I know it, I’m looking down the barrel of a thousand crops. I’m not sure how effective ‘education’ with a crop is in getting me to change my ways(although Master swears blind that I am much more obedient and prompt after a good ‘education’!) but I know that my education session is often the dose of attention I was needing, whether it be good or bad attention.

The word ‘training’ is often used in D/s contexts and the dominant takes on the role of the teacher, while the sub is the student. The dominant trains the sub to be pleasing to them, educating the sub in the “way of the submissive”. Although this “‘wax on, wax off” approach to zen submission is slightly idealised in a lot of cases, the relationship between the dom and sub is often one that can be compared to that of parent and child. The sub needs boundaries and rules, discipline and structure. The dom shapes and controls, leads and manages. Now if you substitute the words sub and dom with child and parent in those sentences, you’ll get a pretty clear picture of what I mean.

What seems like a lifetime ago, Master said he didn’t want to be my ‘father figure’ and at the time I assured him that he wouldn’t be. Now it’s dawning on me that we have many aspects of a parent/child relationship in what we label a D/s relationship. But although I do sit on his knee sometimes and I have been known to cry like a baby, we do try to avoid pacifiers and diapers (actually I do have a special type of pacifier, but that’s another whole journal entry..lol.)

This type of power exchange puts you in that child headspace. I can’t make choices for myself, I have no rights, I have to ask permission for most things. It’s as though after becoming an adult, I’ve suddenly reverted to childhood and lost all of the adult perks and privileges.

Master and I have both discussed and agreed on not wanting to have children. There is already a parent and child in this relationship, and I don’t think we need any more.

Places

One thing I always love reading about is how domly ones think. If you do a search for blogs by subs/slaves, you’ll literally get hundreds of thousands of hits. If you search for blogs by domly ones, there are so few and if you broaden your search to ones that are actually written in and updated regularly, the number shrinks even more.

I’ve always felt  that us subby ones tend to be more ‘in-your-face’ emotional. We like to drag our bleeding and festering emotional wounds out into the open and air them out in the hope that they’ll heal.  Sometimes scabs form and the wounds get superficial ‘closure’, then something will happen to raze the wounds again. Bleeding, healing, bleeding,healing…it’s a never ending cycle of emotional drama.

I like to know why domly ones do the things they do, think the things they think. But more than those things, the burning question that keeps me up at nights is why would anyone think that breathing holes in a ballgag would be good. The only thing those holes do is fill up with drool! I HATE, HATE, HATE drool!!!

While I knelt there on Saturday morning in my gag, boots, nipple clamps, spreader bar and cuffs, feeling the chain looped around the spreader bar slowly pulling my arms out of their sockets,  I wondered why he enjoyed kissing me in the gag (there have got to be a zillion things sexier than a gag….and especially one that is full of spit…lol).Then as he mashed my nipples up against him and the clamps dug in deeper, I wondered if he liked to see me wince and struggle, or if he preferred to see me suck it all up stoically.

“You like it when I put your leash on you, don’t you? You like to feel the steel, the coolness of the links. You like feeling like the animal that you really are.”

I nodded.

“You’re going to be used by others, soon….very soon. You’re going to be tied, gagged and blindfolded. They are going to fuck your holes again and again, spank you, beat you and I’ll be here listening to your muffled cries through your gag. You’ll be chained in position, so you can’t move, you won’t be able to get away. All the time you won’t see who it is that is using you.

They’ll take out your gag and fuck your throat. You’ll be so well used in all your holes. You’ll give them pleasure, you’ll give me pleasure and
after they have used you in any way that they want and have gone, I’m going to take you and beat you some more. Beat you for being a slut. Beat you for being the animal that you are.”

He removed the gag and wiped my face. He asked me questions and I wondered if he really cared about the answers:

“What are you?”
“Your slave.”
“What are you for?”
“Your use and pleasure”
“Good girl.”

Then he undid me.

“Did you like that?”
“Well, ‘like’ is a relative term.”

I wondered if he wanted me to go into all the details of the hate/love relationship I have with bdsm stuff.

I have so many things that I wonder about and question and mull over. I’d like one day to get to that place where there are no questions and there is just acceptance. One day, I’ll get there, one day soon.

Open

I’ve never been so moody, so emotional or so ‘difficult’ with anyone as I have been with Master.  I cry, pout, scream, seethe, lash out, stew, mull, dwell and criticize, all while I swing wildly from one mood to the next.

Eight months ago when things began to get serious with us and there was talk of moving and collars and everything associated with a new journey of slavery, I made a decision to be open with him. I told him everything from my body issues, to my complete and utter lack of ever having an orgasm with a partner. 

Never in my life have I admitted these things to anyone else. I’ve never wanted anyone to see those dark parts of me. I wanted to be the fun toy, the one that is always happy, the one that is always ready to be used. 

He touched nerves, I moved into unchartered territory. I would pull back and nurse my wounds, and he would keep nipping at my heels. He didn’t ‘let me go’ for a minute. There were (are) times that I just can’t face anyone. I can’t do or say or act. I can do nothing but ‘be’. And I need to just let be. He lets me ‘be’ for a while, but then bursts into my space and claims back what is his.

I stand back sometimes and think about what I say to him. I hear myself saying things that would slice me to the bone. I regret my behaviour deeply and I like nothing on earth, I want to be able to go back in time and splice out those moments. I just can’t help what I say and do. He really does bring out the worst in me.

“I don’t know why I’m so moody and such a bitch. I never was with anyone elseI have been with.”

“I think it’s because you love me.”

Perhaps it is. It could be an overflow of emotions that I can’t control and which flood out when they reach a certain depth.

Perhaps it is the manifestation of me wanting to ‘hurt’ him after he has ‘hurt’ me. He hurts me physically and I hurt him back mentally.

Perhaps it is me exploring the new found ‘freedom’ that my slavery brings.

It could be any one of these things or a mixture of all three. I suppose it’s also a manifestation of my trust in him that I can be as I really am. I know I can bring the ugliness inside myself outside and he’ll accept it. He won’t see it and put me up on a shelf as an undesirable toy. 

He keeps me close and strokes my hair, dresses me up and takes me everywhere. 

His toy, his bitch, his slut.

Flogging the blog

Something interesting has happened… Master started his own blog 

!

I took a look at it tonight and it made me a bit teary. Not sure why…I guess it was more the fact that he cares enough about us/me to want to do something like that. 

It’s really quite fascinating reading his takeon events and it’s even more fascinating what he chooses to gloss over. He’d said that about my blog before, but I never quite understood what he meant.

I’m feeling really tired and just so over everything at the moment. I feel like I need holiday from life. I’m supposed to be getting excited about going back to university next Monday, but I just want to roll up in my doona and sleep it all away.

I had potato chips, ice-cream and chocolate for dinner last night. Talk about needing a fix of comfort food! Then when I got in the car after work today I just couldn’t stop crying. I’m not sad-just I’m feeling so overwhelmed and inadequate. I think I’ve mentioned before that my alter ego is a teacher (and a henny-penny teacher chick at that..just in case you thought I spent my days in leather and latex…lol.) I find that teaching drains me so much. I work so hard at trying to please all of the people all of the time, and it’s just an uphill, losing battle. I get so emotionally involved with the people I teach and when they don’t succeed, I really see it as a personal failure.

One of my New Year’s resolutions, along with giving up chocolate…lol,ain’t going to happen…was to stop being so hard on myself. I don’t even know where to begin doing that. It’s hard to love yourself when all you do is hate.

The night of a thousand croppings

We never stop learning, or so they say. We gain information from everything we come in contact with and everyday we become a little wiser, a little more knowledgeable….or so they say.

I’ve learned a lot of things recently, well actually, I’ve re-learned things that I already ‘knew’.  You would think that if they are things that I’ve already learned once, then they should be easy to pick up again-just a filling in of the outline that is already there-but I find that it gets harder every time. It’s not like colouring in, it’s like giving birth to a pineapple. I must be getting old. My grey matter is getting greyer and I can’t seem to retain things like I used to.

We’ve been having so many ‘education sessions’ of late. Just ask my ass…it can tell you exactly how many sessions its had. I went to the toilet about 2 minutes ago and just sitting on the seat brought tearsto my eyes. He was relentless. My left butt cheek is feeling so sorry for itself (*makes mental note to find an ambidextrous dom next time for all-over ass coverage…lol)

Master calls me ‘willful’. I call myself ‘stupid’. I try to get what I want, and every single time end up making things fifty zillion times harder for myself.

“Do you really know what you are?” he asked me.
“…..I have doubts.”

And the reason I have these doubts is that I don’t think it should be this god-damn hard. If I am a slave, and if being a slave is what I truly want, why do I fight? Why do I not enjoy it? Why is every day such a struggle? It doesn’t make a bit of sense.

I’m in a very nasty head-space at the moment.  One of those times where I just want to get an angle grinder and cut this collar off from around my neck. I think I’m having an allergic reaction to submission. Being a slave is just making my skin crawl and my stomach nauseous.

I’d marked up 1000 punishment crops against my name for ‘nearly’ sitting on the couch that morning. Sixty one more were then added after a valiant ute and a bug spotting on the way home. The extra one I think was just for fun ( I can’t actually remember..see? Grey matter….)

The education croppings were extra and I was sentenced to them after getting a little too involved in WoW that evening and not presenting Master with his dessert at the allotted time. I was being disobedient and choosing to be so.

After cropping my ass into oblivion he offered to absolve the 1000 crops if I would give him a kiss. Honestly, it took all my will-power to kiss him at that point. I just wanted to smack the shit out of him. I’m not a violent person usually, but I was just so violently angry. I knew though,  that my ass wouldn’t survive any more ‘attention’.

With him pinning me to the bed and a hand around my throat and another wrenching my hair, I was claustrophobic.
I just wanted to cry. I just couldn’t stand to be there. My body was utterly and absolutely rejecting my slavery. So that’s what I did. I cried.

I cried because it stopped me screaming.
Even now I just want to scream.
Scream so no-one can hear me.

Through the looking bars

Blinded by the light at 3am, the crop showered down on my side, my ass, my legs. 

“Don’t give me that evil eye! What are you?” he boomed between thwacks.

“……”

It wasn’t the ‘evil eye’ I was giving him, it was actually just my myopic squint as my fuzzy brain tried to figure out who this guy was and what the hell he was doing. A few micro-seconds later, in a dizzying moment of clarity, it all came rushing back and reality slammed full force into me. I felt the steel collar locked around my throat. I felt the ink injected beneath my skin. And as I slid my top off, my hand brushed the hairless mound and the rings pulling my cunt lips open. There was no mistake about what I was or what was going to happen.

“Top off. Down on the floor.”

An hour later after some extended Masterly relaxation sucking and a thorough examination of his property and whether it was wet enough, an announcement was made.

“I think it’s time for you to spend the night in your cage. You’re an animal and that’s where you should be kept.”
“But….!”
“What are you?”
“…..an animal.”
“Where do you belong?”
“…in a cage.”
“Very good. I should make you wear your boots in there, but I’m feeling generous tonight.”

As he closed the cage door, I could almost see him grinning in the darkness, “Good night, slave.”

I so knew it wasn’t going to be. 

Thirty minutes later I was still trying to get comfortable and the tick-tick-tick of the clock in room was driving me barmy. Another ten centimeters are all I’d need to get comfortable. I’m always so amazed by how absolutely everything in bdsm has to be just slightly too short, or small, or tight to be comfortable. I swear the gods of the measurements scheme and plot and fiddle wih things just to make subbie’s lives hell.

For the next six hours I dozed in and out of sleep, waking up with a dead leg or arm or a crick in my neck. For a time there I was thinking about yelling out to ask to be let the hell out, but I was fucked if I was going to give in. At about 6am, my endurance kink kicked in and beat my simmering anger into submission.

A night at the mercy of the cage. I need a holiday…lol.

Like a virgin

That time in a young girl’s life has finally arrived. I’ve gone down that path and taken steps that can never be re-traced. Barriers have been broken, experiences had. The deed is done…

Yes, that’s right. I have lost my virginity….

….my concert virginity, that is  (^v^)

Yes, this poor slave who has lived a meager and often sheltered existence in her thirty years on this star, had never been to a concert before….

…until tonight.

Poor Master got dragged along to the head-banging, gothic, so-loud-it-will-make-your-ear-drums-bleed concert of one of my favourite bands in the whole, wide world, Evanescence.

It was great.  I loved it. Unfortunately, Master has now revoked all of my entertainment choosing privileges. I picked a movie and chose “Babel”. I picked a concert and chose “Evanescence”. Looks like I won’t be choosing anything to see or anywhere to go until the next millennium….lol.

But, that’s ok. I’ve seen Amy Lee live. I’m just such a spoiled slave sometimes.

It must be hard to be a dom…part deux

“I think you’re being lenient. I think if you say you’re going to do something, then you should do it. I think that if a rule is made, it should be enforced. If you start to let me get away with things, if you’re too ‘kind’, I just feel like, “Well, what the fuck am I submitting for? What did I do all those other things for if I could have gotten away without doing them?”

“If I ‘let’ you get away with things, it’s because I want to let you get away with them. If I indulge you, it’s because I want to indulge you. You are the one wearing the collar. You are the one crawling around naked on a leash barking when I tell you to bark. You are the one that gets cropped and caged. You have rings in your cunt and my tattoo on your rump. Do you still think that you are calling the shots?”

This is a conversation that was played out a couple of weeks ago. It was also played a month before that, and a month before that. It’s actually quite a common topic of conversation and this piece of engaging diatribe gets pulled out of my proverbial sleeve more often than I would like (and more often than a ‘good’ slave really should, I would imagine) I get testy at certain times and there is generally a pattern.

Everytime I feel that I am less than the total centre of Master’s universe, my little world gets sucked into an ever-widening black-hole that forms in the centre.  If ever something comes on the scene that I think appears to be slightly more interesting or slightly more appealing than me, it’s every man for himself as the big black-hole gobbles up everything in sight.  I need his focus, his time, his care and concern. I need to know that if he is not using me, he is thinking about  using me, or planning on using me, or thinking about something to do with me! Me, me, me!! If I know there is something else catching his attention,  and I perceive it as a ‘slackening’ of the leash, it is devastating. I know though, that if the tables were reversed, I would get so incredibly stressed and drained having to concentrate so much on one particular person.

“I think you’re too kind to me. You should be harsher, more cruel.”

“Pffft! You’d never survive for one moment in a sterile environment. You need rules and boundaries and someone to oversee them, but you wouldn’t survive for one micro-second in that type of environment. If you didn’t have someone to care about you and give you the attention you need, you’d die”

The more I thought about it, the more I thought it was true. Eventhough I might fantasize about being locked up in a cage and being taken out and whipped and used and shoved back in again, that is a scene I would like to enjoy and not a lifestyle that could sustain me. I might wear a collar all the time and be treated like an animal now and then, but I need more than an animal-like existence. I need the ‘off’ button to be turned on occasionally so I can enjoy the times when he engages the ‘on’ button. Holding hands and sharing a peck on the lips, counter-balances the beatings, the hair pulling, the rings in the cunt etc.

It is a balancing act that takes skill. Lean too far to one side and you will fall…let’s hope there is a net to catch you down below…if ever you do fall.

The greener grass

Master and I have different bedrooms-well to be completely TC about it, he has the Master bedroom and I have a ‘cell’. We even have Master and slave bathrooms and Master and slave closets. There are a couple of reasons, but mostly it is so that there isn’t a blurring between our roles. He is Master, I am slave. We don’t share a bed in a lovie-dovie fashion or fight over the covers. He sleeps and wakes when he wants to, he also lets me sleep and wakes me when he wants me. So if he has an urge to drag me out of bed and crop me at 3am, that is what happens. If he wants to ‘rush attack’ me by dragging me out of bed by the hair at some other ungodly hour, that’s what he does.

Master also thinks that it is important that I have my own space. This house and everything in it is his. I came here with a suitcase of clothes and a make up case. He understands that girls need places to put things. He also concedes that it may be necessary to have 30 different eyeshadows and 10 hair products. I think he realises that sluts are not born, they’re made…lol.

A while ago I had an anonymous comment along the lines of that I had a ‘mega’ lifestyle. There may be mega moments of use or intense mindfucks, but day-to-day life is just that, you just try to get by day-to-day juggling work, money and study. Being a slave doesn’t magically transport me out of the real world-I still have to deal with all of the banal trivialities-but slavery adds a few extra delectable goodies onto my plate.

Last weekend Master took me for a drive up north and I frolicked around in the ocean, ate ice-cream and visited some touristy spots. Other than having to listen to Frank Sinatra in the car, it was a glorious weekend. There wasn’t a crop or a nipple clamp in sight, but it was still a lovely weekend. Because Master and I live together and see each other every day, I don’t have a lot of ‘down time’ so he mixes in a fair amount of ‘normal’ things in our routine- we go shopping, we re-string clothes lines together, we go to the movies almost every week, we watch tv, eat pizza…all the fairly standard stuff. I know when a lot of people think of bdsm and Master/slave relationships, they conjure up a lot of leather and dark atmospheric settings, but most of our ‘non-usage’ time is spent sprawled on the sofa or bantering with each other.

We are friends and companions as well as Master and slave, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Herded

I haven’t been here much this week…not really sure why. I suppose needs, like anything, intensify and weaken. My need to leave my mark hasn’t been so great, my need to share has been even less.

I am a slave.
I am a slave to needs. Not only Master’s, but my own too.

Watching the wooden pegs on my nipples last night, as they rose and fell with each breath, I thought about the rope binding my arms. I thought too about the handcuffs resting heavily on my wrists and the chain looped through my collar and ankle cuffs.

Master had pinched and squeezed and rolled my nipples between his fingers. Tracing his fingernail around the edges as though he was breaking the perforations to pull them off, he watched as I squirmed and twisted and blinked back big fat tears. Then he attached the pegs.
I watched them rise and fall and thought about my newly waxed pussy.

Smooth and slick now, ten hours ago it had been on fire. I lay on the bench laughing as the girl plucked hair after hair from between my rings and I lay laughing as one of my rings bled and screamed from a sudden rip of a cloth strip that came a little too close. I lay laughing on the bench because I knew if I stopped, I would cry.

The night before I had had needs. I had been bound, I had been used.  I knew I would be in pain the next morning and I wanted my last supper.  I wanted the blood and body. I wanted my own little sacrament. 

“Master, please?”
“What are you?”
“A slave.”
‘Very good…..Turn the light off on your way out.”

Request denied….

until 3am the next morning when he burst into my room….

“Top off,  pants off. Crawl.”

He was following me with his crop in hand. Thwacking me across the rump, herding me into his bedroom.

“Hurry up or your ass will be as red raw as your pussy.”

Once on the bed, he instructed me to release. I would get so close, just about to open my mouth for permission to come and the pain would shoot through. I shifted, I adjusted, but my rings weren’t comfortable in any position. It was a chance to cum though, and I wasn’t going to let it slip through my fingers.

Shaking and with a sheen of sweat on my back, I finally made it.

“Come for me bitch.”

It was release. It was good.

“Now panties in your mouth. Crawl back to your bedroom. Don’t forget to turn off the light on your way out.”

Filling in the cake

Many a night I lay in bed, waiting for sleep to come and wrap me in its cocoon.

Many a night I lay in bed, listening to the quiet of the darkness around me.

Many a night I lay in bed, throbbing, burning, consumed with thoughts of being taken, beaten, chained, filled, used. At times like that, when sleep is the last thing on my mind, I wonder how I’m going to make it through the night.

There are two needs within me, the need to be used and the need to cum. I experience them as two very different sensations. My need to be used fuels my need to cum and my need to cum fuels my need to be used. It’s a never-ending cycle that ensures I have a wet cunt, all of the god-damn time.

There are times when I just don’t feel right without something in me. Fingers, dildos, cocks, anything will do. But having something in me won’t get me anywhere close to coming. Being filled makes me feel right as it gives me something that I feel I am lacking. It’s my daily dose of vitamins, my air, my water. It doesn’t turn me on per se, but it is something that I need and a part of what makes me who I am. My need to be used (beaten/chained/ etc.) is an extension of that, there always needs to be a decent serving of pussy ‘filling’ along with the pain.

My need to cum is pretty much the same as everyone else I would imagine. It’s a need that makes tens of millions of adolescent boys reach for their sock drawer, and a need that has girls experimenting with muscles and fingers and funny-looking flaps of skin between their legs. 

Sometimes I manage to control my needs. Sometimes I distract myself with other things. Sometimes I just have to go to Master and hope that he will fill me and use me. 

Sometimes I just have to beg to cum.

Retail therapy

It’s been a while since Master has been really pissed with me and this time it was for such an interesting reason.

Delivered into our quaint little mailbox two or three times a week are gorgeous, glossy tickets to heaven. Bearing the judicious words of the retail gods, “65% off”, “stocktake sale” or “buy one, get one free” , they are little booklets of happiness. I pour over the pages reading the gospel of target, k-mart and big w planning my next wardrobe redemption.

Master is generally very good during these religious experiences, he waits outside the shops patiently killing time while I flit from shop to shop, trying on a little something here, buying a little something there. My mission last Thursday was a pair of 3/4 jeans and some new panties.

Ten minutes into shop number two he suddenly appeared as I was wading through rack upon rack of panties with a selection of jeans to try on in hand. Has anyone looked at how many different types of panties there are??? High-cut, bikini cut, g-string, boy-leg, full, support, lace, no lace, lycra, cotton, etc. the list is fucking endless. Go over to the boys section and all you’ll find is briefs and boxers. Apparently pussy needs more wrapping than cock and balls.

“Two minutes!!”
“But I haven’t tried on my jeans yet!”
“Two minutes!”

An hour later after trying on 6 more pairs of jeans, 4 tops and 5 different styles of underwear, I emerged with jeans and panties in hand.

“Sorry I took so long.”
“Oh, you will be…you will be.”

The whole excursion had taken roughly 2 hours. Not too bad I say, considering I actually bought what I wanted.

“Two hours! Two hours! All you’ve fucking got is a pair of jeans and some underwear?? What the fuck have you been doing?”

I go through lots of angst shopping. Making decisions is hard for me and Master knows it. In fact, I’d like to say that he has a lot to answer for in compounding the problem. He’s the one that always says that I have no rights and no choice. Apparently I’m not allowed to breathe unless he says it is ok, yet if I ask him which colour is good or which one I should buy, his standard answer is,

“I don’t know! They’re your fucking clothes!”

It makes me laugh.

He was super frosty in the car on the way home and I was sitting there wondering just how low he was going to set the blade when he mowed my grassy ass.

“I’m sorry. You’re not really mad are you?”
“You will be and you’ll know how mad I am when I sell your sorry slave ass to Jakarta”

Fortunately, I’m still here in sunny Australia and it looks like I’m going to be here for a while longer yet.

P.S. slave is save without the l, it’s also sale without the v… it’s all in my jeans genes (^v^)