Dangerous men

Sitting at home watching a documentary entitled ‘My Lover’s on Death Row’, I thought two things: (1) even though we have something like 40 channels to choose from on pay tv there is still nothing to watch and (2) I think I understand these women.

Most of these women ‘met’ their lovers by writing to them. They exchanged letters and pictures back and forth and made a few visits. Some of them then promptly got married. They say that they are in love and who and what their criminal partners did or didn’t do is irrelevant.

I think that there are two attractions at work here. Firstly, the attraction of the dangerous man who is safely locked away and secondly the idea of being different. I’m sure they enjoy the aura of power and control they feel about these men and they similarly enjoy the looks and stares and ‘how could she’s of people who find out about their new relationships.

There is something intoxicating about ‘scary’ men. The bad boy dom is usually the one that gets all the subbies fawning at his/her feet and how many stories have you heard about subbies falling for these people only to be harmed? ‘Scary’ does not equate with good, but I suppose it’s like a pair of silicon breasts-they seem great on the surface, but there’s no substance inside.

It’s not really unlike a D/s relationship. We fall in love with the power and control (and then often fall in the love with the person) and we get off on shocking people with our bruises, welts and scars of battle. ‘How can you?’ is one of my favourite questions to be asked. It sets me apart from everyone else and I feel a strange sense of pride in being able to do something that not a lot of people want to or can.

Master moans everytime I write something nice about him:

‘But, you’ll make me lose my place on the bad boy dom list!’

And I moan everytime he makes me sound wussy:

‘But you’ll make me lose my place on the bad ass subbie list!’

We all want to look cool in the pages of cyberspace, but unfortunately my wussiness and his nicety glare through the seams. Have I mentioned that Master is a really, nice guy???? Lol..

Slut shopping

I’ve got sore balls!

Yes, for those who read me regularly, this may come as a bit of a shock, but I have balls, and they are sore…..

….balls of my feet that is (^v^).

True to his word, Master took me out on the weekly shopping trip this weekend dressed as his slut in a leather skirt, boots and make-up.

(I personally think he’s doing it just so I won’t spend so much time perusing the goods due to the boots killing me as I walk around the shops!)

We wander around checking out the other sluts (boot wearing people)and gaze at the boots in the shop windows drooling. If only I had 4 pairs of legs instead of two. Then the 18 pairs of boots I have would be taken out on the town more often.

This is the four-tiered boot rack that I assembled after Master made the comment that the area where the boots were looked like a ‘footy player’s changing room after a match’.

And these are a few of Master’s favourites. All stiletto heels and all suitably slutty.

Boots and I have a similar relationship to me and snow flakes- I’d rather be looking at them than in them. Some are not too bad for short periods of time, but they’re not the sort of footwear you want to be in for marathon retail therapy sessions. But I’m happy to keep Master happy and I know he loves hearing the clip-clop of me in boots so I smile through the pain.

Life’s needs

In my ponderings about life, love and bdsm I’m constantly trying to understand what drives me and others involved in D/s. In a sense I’m probably trying to figure out what makes us different.

Recent psychoeducational research has shown that everything we do is motivated by our wish to have our universal needs satisfied.
These needs are:
1) attachment- motivation to affiliate and form social bonds
2) achievement- motivation to work hard and achieve excellence
3) autonomy- motivation to manage self and exert influence
4) altruism- motivation to help and be of service to others

In my case:
I’m a solitary person, happy with my own company, yet I want to make friends and talk, chat and interact with others. 

I have always tried to excel and attain perfection. Now I’m struggling with the fact that I can do no single thing ‘really well’, but I feel a drive to ‘master’ something.

I love nothing better than being able to do things and go places by myself. I’m much happier walking to where I want to go. 

I love to give advice and feel a need to lend an ear to others.

I look at my life and see myself striving for some of these things. But what makes me different to others? Why do I identify as a submissive and crave certain things where others do not? Of course fetishes and penchants for certain non-mainstream things will always separate the kinksters from the mainstream, but I think there has to be something else in the psyche that differs.

I’m beginning to believe that the first need of attachment is the most important one and in D/s you are taking the connection one level deeper than any other type of relationship. It’s such a massive commitment on both sides. Perhaps people into D/s have a greater need for attachment-something that a ‘normal’ egalitarian type of relationship won’t fulfill.

I’ve discussed before my belief that some Doms are just as much pleasers as their subbie counterparts. I’d find it quite amusing to be a fly on the wall during a conversation between Master and I:

‘Do you want to go?’
‘Well, do you want to go?’
‘Well, I’ll go if you want to go.’
‘But do you want to go?’

It’s hard to tell who is who sometimes. Lol.

Master has very strong altruistic and autonomous streaks. I have very strong attachment and achievement needs. Based on what I’ve said about the universal needs, I think we are a pretty good match.

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s UBO!

I’ve had a couple of questions regarding UBO (use by others) recently, so I thought, ‘Why not make a blog out it?’ (Can you tell that I’m a bit hard up for topics?? Lol.)

Master has always decreed that UBO would be part of our relationship. He made it fairly clear from the beginning that he wanted me to be used and abused by others, and although he would be there to supervise, for that time period I would be at the mercy of whomever he chose.

Last year I had an inspection by a mystery shopper. I was handcuffed, blindfolded and placed naked (but booted of course!) in my cage to await our visitor. Once he arrived I was taken out and asked to bend this way, spread that cheek, part my cunt lips, twirl etc. all while they discussed me. I was almost waiting for my mouth to be forced open and a teeth inspection to ensue, ‘Yep, this filly’s got all her teeth.’

Since then we’ve had two play dates scheduled but I’ve either been sick or plague-ridden. To be honest, I’m not sure if lady luck is on my side or not. The next play date is coming soon and this time I’m sure it will come to pass.

And how do I feel about all this? Well, to be honest, I was not happy when it was first suggested. Not only was I worried about being placed in the hands of someone I did not directly know or trust, but I wondered how Master felt about it all. He had said that one of the major reasons he was exploring the whole UBO thing was because it was a fantasy of mine. (Of course I read this to mean that he was doing it for me regardless of how he felt about it.) I mulled over the implications of that for a while and then I finally asked him about it.

“Won’t you feel jealous or angry if someone else uses me?”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll enjoy seeing you fucked and abused by someone else. Yes, I am doing it because it is a fantasy of yours, but more importantly I am doing it because I want to. Don’t you worry, I am so going to enjoy seeing you used like an animal.”

So after dealing with feelings of guilt and betrayal in terms of I was actively seeking use by others and perhaps a bit excited and turned on by the idea of being used by someone else, I realised that it wasn’t about Master fulfilling my fantasies as much as it was about Master ensuring that I got a wide variety of uses and him enjoying the variety of it and the power of sharing me.

Master wants to see his slut perform and I want to show him that I can. He repeatedly pounds into me the idea that I exist only for his ‘use and pleasure’ whether that be direct use or not, it is still for his pleasure.

I think it’s important to come to that state of peace within yourself about it. You have to be comfortable and secure in your relationship and UBO is not something that I would have felt comfortable with last year. It is really only recently that my awareness of my slavery has really sunk into a deeper level of my epidermis, enough to let me accept it.

Of course I would submit whether I accepted it or not. My labia piercings and tattoo were not things that I actively wanted. I didn’t beg for them to be done. The tattoo was not too bad but I still fretted and worried and as far as the piercings go, I am entirely fed up with the pain involved. I knew I would have issues with the piercings because I had had so much trouble with my ears when they were done, but I still submitted and even went back for the second round.

Why? It’s what I do. 

It’s the same as UBO. I would submit regardless of how I felt about it and Master knows that, but he does prefer it when I ‘go under the needle’ willingly rather than with gritted teeth. 

It’s an expression of my acceptance and acknowledgment of his control over me that I submit. I am his and he will do with me what he wants. I don’t have a choice. I don’t have a right to decide. But I do it willingly.  That’s what’s important.

Hair

Not the musical, but the furry fluff that coats our bodies.  It’s been a few millennia since we started wearing clothes so you’d think that we’d evolve into hairless, slick beings. But no. In fact, I think I have more than the average quota of the stuff. I’ve got more hair than Mrs. Neanderthal herself.

My first owner announced that slaves should be hairless. He liked that pre-pubescent girl with no hair look. So being the good little slave girl that I was, I decided to wax myself. Big mistake. Huge mistake. Dont ever do that !!!!!! I can’t stress it enough. After getting the wax strips entwined and having to wash them out, I vowed to shave. 

So shave I did. And took a pic to show him what I’d done. The five-o-clock-shadow I got was not the best, but I figured that was better than explaining to Japanese chicks in a waxing salon why I needed every little bit of my hair removed.

Since then I’ve been having brazillians. It’s much better to pay someone to rip out your pubes than DIY, but I’ve been having a few issues with reactions to the wax and the pain involved with pulling my piercings this way and that, so I’ve been exploring other options. I Naired today and it turned out quite well. Much less pain and although I’ll probably get some regrowth quite fast, it’s much more pleasant than the burn of the post-waxing cunt lips.

It’s quite interesting to see and read about just how many people are opting for hairlessness these days. It’s a bit of a phenomenon and I’m wondering if it’s spurned on by just how much harder it is to navigate down there when you can’t see the cave for the forest. Or is it a bit more sinister and men are turned on by the ‘little girl lost’ look? 

I personally feel so much sexier and so much more slavey when I’m hairless. Something in my head tells me that I’m no longer allowed the privilege of hair. That all of me has to be open and on display. Nowhere to hide. Nothing to cover up with.

As my rings gleam like landing lights along the runway, somewhere I can hear them say,
‘Flight 69 you’re cleared for landing on Route Clitoris’.

IBC for UBO

After spending my morning being the good little garden bitch, weeding, hoeing and general de-crapping in the slave compound (aka Master’s backyard) I came inside to find that I still had thirty minutes until my much-awaited episode of Kelly Osbourne’s Turning Japanese.

‘Hold these for me while I drill some holes.’

In his hot little hands, Master had the three pieces of dowel for his ‘immobilization contraption’ (IBC). Master has been talking about his ‘master plan’ for a device to encase me while I’m being fucked and abused by mystery shoppers (aka people Master selects to come and use me) for many months. The other weekend he measured out the lengths of the dowel and today he was screwing in the eyehooks.

I was sweaty and tired and dressed in my uni-student-meets-ugly-betty garden wear.

‘Go and put your wrist and ankle cuffs on.’

‘Do you want me naked?’

‘No, I’m just going to check if it works.’

Ok, I thought. This is just going to be a quick bit of bondage to please the handyman and then he’ll let me out.

All trussed up, Master sat down on the bed to explain the intricacies of his masterly device.

‘See, I can hook your collar here, or here and that eyehook there is for your pussy rings….You can’t move can you?….What are you?’

‘Your slave.’

‘And what’s this for?’

‘To keep me in position while I’m being used.’

‘Yes, and what will you be used for?’

‘Your pleasure.’

‘I’m going to cane you now. I want to hear you cry. Then I’m going to go and get my glass butt-plug and rape your ass with it. Then I might cane you some more’

So much for the ‘bondage for the handyman’. Down came my pants and as I was kneeling there cringing in horror at the thought of my menstrually-active nether region being exposed, out came the camera. Humiliation seemed to be the order of the day and he was revelling in it.

30 sharp, stinging strokes and I could barely move an inch. The fact that I was so securely tied there seemed to be stoking the fire in his belly. In went the glass butt-plug and he screwed it in firmly. It’s one of those ones with a thread like a screw on it, that goes in deeper as you twist.

He decided that it was then time for some relaxation therapy. Obviously the caning and butt-plug drilling had worn him out and he needed a breather….lol. He undid my hands so I could maneuver into position and with my ass facing his direction, he just couldn’ t resist screwing that damn glass rod in a bit more as I tried my hardest to breathe with post-crying snot-filled nostrils and a cock in my mouth.

The icing on the cake, or should I say the coating on the butt-plug was when he took that glass rod out. He then snapped away a few pictures of the evidence as I attempted to sink into the bed and disappear. OMFG that was embarrassing. As I’m not and I’m sure 99.9999% of my readers are not into scat, I will spare you those pics.

He’s a sick puppy. 


Puss in boots

Waiting to greet Master when he came home yesterday was not puss in boots, but Asian slut in boots.

Now, for your enjoyment ladies and gentlemen, I present, ‘The Cage’!

My pink dress and boots pleased him so much that instead of being able to get changed once he’d had his fill of me, I got to stay in it all night long. Into the cage I went, in dress, boots and leash and then he decided that it might be fun to tie my hands with rope inserted through the bars. That hour or so in the cage was pure torture! Not only had he nodded off and was snoring loud enough to create seismic tremors, but he’d left the tv on some drivel that made me want to beat my head against the bars. With the remote control far out of my reach, things were looking exceptionally grim.

Normally I can manage to snooze in my cage. All that metal is comforting for some reason. It’s also nice because the poodle pup can’t get to me to stick his head in my crotch or stand or my toe, like he usually does when I’m on the floor with him. However, last night the boots were slowly cutting off the circulation in my legs and the rope wasn’t quite long enough to let me drift off into slumber.

I think the fact that I knew Master had gone to sleep psychologically had some impact on me too. If he’d been awake and I had ‘felt the connection’, I’d probably have been ok. There are times when I’m kind of ‘hanging on by a thread’ and a touch or a sense that he is watching/thinking about me helps me carry on. A good example of this is when lock-jaw is about to set in and my jaw is seizing up, a gentle rub of my ass will keep me soldiering on.

I think this demonstrates the fairly important point that subbies don’t submit for submission’s sake. We don’t get anything out of performing the act of submission itself, what we require is a reaction. Now the idea that we have pleased our domly ones is the ideal reaction, but in my case I have been known to crave any reaction, including annoying him or pissing him off.

After he let me out of the cage, he pulled me close by the leash and in that terribly low voice asked:

“What are you?”

“Your slave.” I breathed.

“What should I do with you?”

“Whatever pleases you.”

He had that look and I knew my ass was going to pay. On his bed, naked, 30 strokes that broke the skin and formed angry red welts. I saw the bruises this morning.

“You can blame your demon ass” was his response.

The lot

“Did you like my dirty talk?”

Master always surprises me with interesting questions and this is just one example. Now, the question itself is not so out-of-the-ordinary, it’s more the fact that he likes feedback that I find startling.

To me feedback is uber-important (and yes, uber is my favourite word this week!). I like to know that I’m doing good. Things like  little pats on the head, ‘good girls’ etc., are all things that make me feel that what I am doing is right. 

Master pointed out the other day that I probably don’t have nearly as much confidence in myself as I should have and I’d say that’s a pretty good summation. It’s not exactly through any fault of my own. I don’t consciously put myself down or feel like I’m on par with single-celled organisms, but I do hesitate when decisions need to be made and I’m the one calling the shots.

Yesterday’s boot shopping exercise is a good example. I had decided to buy them, but I needed the extra ‘nod’ from Master to say that yes they were good and he did like them. He laughs (grumbles) about me shopping and taking F.O.R.E.V.E.R to make a decision, but it’s just the way I am.

Now, what I find interesting is that Master can make a decision left ,right and center. He can be choosing tonight’s dinner and choosing what slut wear I should have on, all while choosing which nipple to torture next. The man is a walking decision maker! But when it comes to what he is doing to me, he really likes hearing whether I like it or not. I equate feedback-loving with decision-challenged and so I find it difficult to think that he can be one without being the other.

Sometimes I’m not sure whether to pat him on the head and say, ‘Yes dear, the way you nipple-crippled me was great.’ or “I’d like it a bit better if you caned me more on the left cheek than the right.”

See, I’m just a mortal and I need assurance and feedback. But when the domly god-like creatures start suggesting the same thing, it’s bizarro. I know I’m bad for not looking at him like he’s a normal human being, but it’s hard to think that the person you’ve entrusted yourself with is anything less than omnipotent and above and beyond human foibles.

Ahhh…the lot of domly ones. They have to be humane and inhuman at the same time. Sounds too much like a lot of work to me.

Thinking blog awards

Ta dah…drum-roll please!

In accepting this thinking blog award courtesy of clare over at positive submission, I’d like to thank my family, my friends, dogs who don’t eat chocolate and of course, Master, who causes my brain to smoke and sparks to fly from overuse.

5 Blogs that Make Me Think

1. kittens_master  (for giving me views from the other side of the fence)
2. Married Man’s fucktoy (for giving Master nasty ideas and for sharing so much)
3. Confessions of an English Gentleman (for always making me think)
4. Atlanta Bondage (for delicious pics and prose)
5. The journey  for such interesting and thought-provoking posts)

I also have other daily reads, but some have already received awards and others are friends only. It’s also hard to whittle the list down to only 5…maybe they could start a list of 10 or 15??

The lucky five recipients listen above can chose to share the love and give their own thinking blog awards by:
1. Writing a post with links to five blogs that make you think.

2. Linking to this post – http://www.thethinkingblog.com/2007/02/thinking-blogger-awards_11.html so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.

3. Optional: Proudly display the ‘Thinking Blogger Award’ with a link to the post that you wrote (silver or gold, your choice)

Domme for a day

In some circles (the old guard is one of them, I believe) there is a tradition that before a person can become a dominant they must spend time as a submissive. It’s intended to let them walk a mile in the other’s shoes before wielding a whip or playing with knives.

I’ve only been a submissive and have never wanted to inflict pain on another nor have I ever been drunk on control. I’ve always thought that it’s too much responsibility and that pain is hard enough for me to get through without wanting to see anyone else go through it.

But what if I could Domme myself? Now that would be interesting.

Top Ten Things I’d Domme Myself With

1. Bondage– lots, the more the merrier. There is only one thing that each session of bondage would have to involve and that is the idea that I can’t undo myself. ‘Inescapability’ is a key facet in my bondage fetish. I can tie myself up effectively, but it always has to be escapable for safety reasons ( I never dallied with ice-cubes and the like.). Having someone else in on the bondage act means that it can be ‘real’.  I’d probably learn a thing or to about Japanese rope bondage so I could make some ‘pretty bondage’ , but really all you need to tie someone up is a couple of belts and some scarves…lol.

2.  Chaining up– Definite chaining to the bed at night and release in the morning. Some regular sitting at feet on a leash and some indescriminate chaining to various pieces of furniture through-out the house would be on the cards. Chains feel and sound great. Yes, theyare cold, but they warm up quickly!

3. UBO– (use by others) all part of the objectification process.

4. High protocol periods– Great for getting into the slavey head-space. Lots of rules and protocols that would be impossible to follow on a daily basis but when instituted for a day or two are very place-putting. This would involve speech, food, clothing and movement restrictions e.g. only being able to say “Yes”, “Please” ” and “More” or a combination of all three; only eating what I was given in the manner I was given it etc.

5. The ignore button– this actually means that I’d ignore all my whinings and bitches and moanings. I need to endure, so whining and bitching and moaning is part of how I create the role of the victim for myself. If I whinge about something like, ‘Why do I have to be caned?’ it’s not because I ‘really-hate-it-like-the-plague’ don’t want to, it’s because I’m spinning my fantasy. The key is to just keep doing what you want to, because on some levels I need to be beaten and suffer through things.

6. Swift punishment/confession– I’m slack and I know it. I need a threat hanging over me to stay on track. I need to be able to ‘fess up and then face the music often. Following through is uber important. If I think I can wheedle out of something I will. My self-preservation/slackness works overtime when I can smell a loophole or if I think I can get my way.

7. Authority– Mixed with an edge of fear it can be intoxicating. The ‘voice’, the ‘look’ etc. are all parts of the top down approach. I like my place, I like to feel secure. Without my place, I lose the freedom that it provides. Don’t try to be my friend or lover, you are my domly one first and foremost. I’ve got to believe that you can and will objectify me and use me indescriminately.

8. Rewards– for things that actually should be rewarded e.g keeping the house clean, being attentive and providing good service.

9. Pain– in short, sharp bursts. A visit from Mr. Crop or Mr. Paddle because I am in the mood. I’d make sure to tell me that, “I just want to crop your ass. On my bed now.” Also uncomfortable bondage styles and layering e.g shortening a chain to make it uncomfortable

10.  Humiliation– show me a subby who isn’t turned on by humiliation in one of it’s forms and I’ll show you a ‘nilla folk in bdsm clothing. From having to ask permission to come or go to the bathroom, or being pissed on, there’s lots of ways of making someone feel about 1 inch tall.

and just as a bonus…

11. Rules and rituals– I think it’s great to have little things that separate you as a slave from the masses. Not sitting on furniture, walking to the left of your domly one, wearing something particular in the house etc., are all good things that I would bitch and moan about and consciously ‘forget’ on a regular basis (see number six) but that should be there for some structure.

Down the garden path

All the world’s a stage…but are wemerely players?

Over the past eight months I’ve become much more a ‘player’ than an ‘am-er’. I feel a lot more strongly that bdsm is just something I do, once in a while, in the intermissions of my life.

I think I’m de-evolving. I’m realising my limits and thinking about myself so much more. I’m not in that blissful little “Yes, Sir”, “No, Sir” headspace that is simple and comforting. 

I’m becoming greedy. I know what I want and I don’t want anything else. I’m losing my ability to endure anything less. The pushes I need are becoming larger and more time-consuming.

Growth is a natural part of everything- if we stop growing we die. Losing your innocence is the first step. Losing your fear is the next. Unlike clothes, though, if you grow out of yourself, you can’t just slip on the next size and continue with what you were doing.

Challenge is the only thing that holds my interest. Once I figure everything out, once I get the drift, I get bored. Something new, something harder, something different needs to come along, but it needs to be something that is attainable. I need to experience success and feel good about myself.

What makes me different? Makes me special and raises me above the mediocre. What adds to me? Gives me more than I had? I don’t want to detract and internalize.

Something is wrong and I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Finis

Price check aisle nine!

I’ve decided that if I get reincarnated as a subby again I’m going to run a wanted ad like this:

WANTED
Thoroughly de-crapped dom for slave not really into domestic service.
Must have an expansive bondage collection and believe that early mornings are for coming home drunk- not waking up.
Apply with full resume indicating period of time since last butt-plugging and/or pain play.
(those with anything other that ‘never done it and never want to do it’ need not apply)

Ahhh..wouldn’t it be nice?

Seriously though, I’ve never had a man in my life who didn’t have issues with ‘stuff’-and it’s usually boxes and boxes of it.  I’ve always been the one embarking on a new ‘living together’ relationship sporting nothing but a suitcase or two. The ritual ‘merging of the stuff’ in the sense of adding my stuff to the mountains of crap already there, is not an issue. The straw that breaks the domestic girlie’s back is when it comes time to clean the rooms that the mountains of crap occupy.

The Easter long weekend was our official ‘going through of the crap’ time. This generally takes place after a few months of nagging when he finally gets sick of me asking “When are we going to de-crap your crap?” or when I reach the end of my cleanliness tether and take on the project myself. I think I’ve been here 8 months now and I’m not sure if my tether is getting longer or my nagging is becoming less effective.

Master is the first male figure in my life to participate in any shape or form of cleaning. He will run the dishwasher when I’ve been slack and quite often do a load of laundry. Master also does all the cooking which is truly wonderful! It’s a new experience for me and I appreciate it immensely (although I do feel exceptionally guilty deep down in my little slavegirlie interior). He also did very well in the de-crapping. I know it’s hard to get the ball rolling and he has been lugging most of his crap from new place to new place for many years. 

Unfortunately, I don’t have a cleaning kink or a cooking kink, in fact I don’t have anything other than a bondage and a ‘use me sexually as a slut’ kink. It kind of limits my fun in the 24/7 approach to D/s and this is why I believe that 24/7 actually refers to the amount of time you spend doing normal day-to-day life stuff (24) and anything even remotely resembling D/s stuff (7). On second thoughts, a 3.428:1 ratio could even be a bit generous, something like 10:1 might be more realistic.  Whoever said that 24/7 slavery is possible, obviously wasn’t living and breathing, nor a member of the human race.

I don’t really register my slavery except when it’s being shoved in my face. It’s not a constant thing that I think about, so while some people might argue that I am a slave 24/7 because that is ‘what I am’ and ‘what I exist as’ I don’t really feel that way. Have me chained to a bed and blindfolded and I will tell you I am a slave because I will feel it, but have me eating a muffin and sipping a cappuccino in a mall somewhere and the only thing I will tell you I am is a sugar and caffeine addict.

I’ve never lived consecutively in one place for more than a year in the last 12 years. All these moving adventures have meant that I have an opportunity to look at my stuff and cull it with wild abandon on a regular basis. One reason I move so much is that I get bored. Once I figure out ‘where’ I am, the challenge is gone and I get restless. On the other hand, I also like routine and regularity with everything having a place, so I don’t know how to explain the paradox.

Anyways, the kitchen still looks like a bomb has hit it and who knows when the cleaning bug will come and bite Master and I on the bum again.

Funnies

“You’ve had your grand macho latte, now go down there and earn your keep!”

Master to me after we’d just gone out for coffee and he wanted some relaxation.

“Regretful.”

In reply to Master’s question, “What are you?” with cane raised over my ass.

“I really think you’ve got masochistic tendancies and you hit your toe with that piece of wood on purpose, ‘Oh, yeah baby, feel the burn!'”

Me testing Master’s patience.

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

Another one in the collection of Master’s non-committal-say-anything-and-she’ll-think-I’m-listening responses generally said in reply to something along the lines of “I’m thinking about taking up yodelling.”

“You’re just white park trailer trash!”

I might feel a bit more offended if it was white trailer park trash.

“You’ve got a cunt’s slave.”

I just love inversion part deux. Lol.

“I can wait.”

In response to Master’s comment that he will die before me and it’ll be a while before I can come back as a Domme and shove a butt-plug up his ass and see how he likes it.

Slave for a day day

Mask, gag, hogtie, boots and Mater’s new bedhead (complete with metal bars). They were the ingredients for the main dish of the day.

Towel on the floor for the drool. Have I mentioned how much I hate drool?

After some caning and crying and snotty nose, I realised that in the mask, with the gag, I could barely breathe. Panic snuck in and grabbed me by the cunt ring (ouch!) That was when some thrashing and moaning ensued in an attempt to communicate to Master that I need the mask off and I needed it off now!

The only problem with having the mask removed was now I didn’t have a gag to chomp down on. One red ass later I was in serious need of some chocolate.

Different strokes for different folks

Easter Sunday, while the rest of the world was celebrating the rebirth of Jesus, I was being reborn as a slave.

“Back to basics” is what Master called it. “Boot camp” is my term for it. Interestingly enough an episode of boot camp signalled the end of my previous D/s relationship, so I’m hoping that my current one will withstand it…lol.

It all started at the beach on Friday as wefrollicked in the ocean when I asked, “Are you happy with us at the moment?” He replied that he thought we were getting slack and that I needed a refresher course in who and what I am. I had to agree. I often think (have thought) that I’m so easily ‘distracted’ (I lose sight of what I should be doing) and the sad reality is that I can no longer pull myself back into line. I used to be so self-controlled, so on top of everything I needed to do, but these days I just can’t. I run amok and it’s often the case that I’m looking at my self from outside and thinking ‘Why the fuck are you doing that?’ I hear little voices from deep inside cajolling me to stay on track, but the booming voices from outside drown them out and I lead myself astray.

I think it may be due to the fact that I’m an all or nothing girl. I don’t cope very well in the middle and I can’t regulate myself enough to have a balance of both. When Master is kind to me, I swing to the ‘free and easy’ side. I can’t have one foot in the slave side and dip my toes into freedom-for me, it just doesn’t work that way.

What exactly does ‘strict’ mean? Can you be strict and not cruel? Can you maintain strictness 24/7? Does being strict equate to having rules and routines? I’ll be very interested to find out.

Never enough of a good thing

A funny thing happened last night. I’d gotten dressed ready to greet Master as I have to when I’m home before he is, and I was getting into that nice little head space of, “Mmm..I’m going to be used and abused.” (I’d just like to point out here and it takes me a while to get into that space. It’s not like flicking a switch, and there is a certain amount of building up to ‘accept’ it on my part.)

A cropping, a hot towelling and some dick sucking later I was thinking, “Yeah, I’m getting warmed up now.” Master had also been stoking my fires:

“When I’m finished with you here, I’m going to put on your mask so I can crop you properly. Then I think I’ll put you in your cage with cuffs on until I’m ready to feed you. You can eat your dinner off the floor in a bowl because you are my animal.”

So I was turning all this over in my mind, accepting it and getting pretty juicy in the process, when he announced:

“Ok… you can cream my feet now.”

Well, creaming his feet wasn’t high on the list of things that I wanted to do at that particular moment, but I figured that once I creamed him, he’d have me in a pool of my own cream.

Fifteen minutes later, my fires were burning low and I thought that it would be a splendid time for some masking, some beating and some cuff and cage time. That was when he turned to me and said,

‘Ok, you can get out of your gear now. And do you want to pop into your cage for 20 minutes while I cook dinner or save it for the weekend?’

Talk about being raised up 50,000 feet and dropped on your head. I couldn’t believe what he saying. It was like presenting an open barrel of wine to a die-hard alcoholic, giving them a whiff and then whizzing it away without letting them taste a drop.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, “Don’t say shit that you’re going to do, if you’re not going to do it!” Disappointment after something like that will have me low and feeling like crap for 3 days afterwards. It’s like bypassing the high and going straight to the depths of the after play subdrop.

He wonders why I say, ” Are you serious?” and question every little thing that he tells me to do. It’s because I’m never really sure whether it’s a “cry wolf” scenario or whether he actually wants me to do it. 

Now, this is not a mindfuck. A mindfuck is something that you feel good about afterwards when you think, “Shit, he really had me going there!” It’s the threat of something that you fear like the plague being done to you, that he uses to play with your mind. Having things that you want to happen repeatedly dangled in front of your nose and then having them whisked off like they were nothing, is not good.  I don’t think he understands the difference.

I’ll be the first to admit that I give mixed messages. I say I’m not a painslut and that I’m not into pain, but I’ll want to be beaten on occasion and I’ll fantasize about whippings and bruises and welts. I’m sure Master must be pretty confused. From his point of view he probably thinks that I’d be happy to get out of my uncomfortable fetish gear and not be beaten. From my point of view, I did my warm up, I took my mark on the starting line, I was ready to run when the gun fired. If the gun ain’t gonna be fired, don’t have me there to begin with. 

Just once I’d like to play/be played with until I was really over it. I’d like to do it to death, be absolutely tired and drained and have given everything that I can. I’d like to be tied up so I didn’t want to look at another chain or a piece of rope. I’d like to really be beaten, to be strapped down and cry and scream until I couldn’t look at a crop or strap again. Now I say these things, and I fear them at the same time. I know the reality of it would be terrible, but some part of me wants to experience it. So would you as my Master, give me what I wanted, or would you file it away as another one of my flights of fancy?

Master and his special ways

Following in the footsteps of Master’s most recent post kitten and her special ways I thought I would jump on the bandwagon and add my thoughts about life with a man who has a host of peculiar ways of doing things i.e he’s excruciatingly anal.

Number one: Everything in the house that contains water has to be overfilled all the time. He goes haywire if the water chiller or the electric kettle are less than 110% full. I pointed out one day that it might be good to use up all the existing water before refilling, just so you could make sure that the water is fresh, but no…I think I got a cropping for it.

Number two: He’s naked more often than I am. It did concern me when I first came here and it was full frontals all day, every day. I’m used to it now, so it’s not an issue, but isn’t it interesting?

Number three: He has a healthy dose of road rage when people aren’t driving fast enough/ don’t turn corners quickly enough/ show even the slightest hesitation. His favourite phrase to yell at the top of his lungs when driving is, “Who the fuck gave that deadshit a license?”

Number four: He makes bizarre ebay purchases. Just as an example, he came home today with a spotlight that you can wear on your head and he was so pleased because he’d got it for a very frugal 6 cents. I asked him what the fuck he was going to do with it to which he responded that you can use it to go bush walking at night. I then asked him, “When the fuck are you going bush walking at night?” to which there was no response…

Number five: His tv viewing is made up almost exclusively of ‘war shit’ and ‘boy shit’ i.e. documentaries and movies about war or shows about cars. (But I do have to say here that he is very good about my relationship with Sex and the City.)

Number six: He goes ballistic if I don’t use a teaspoon to measure out his coffee. I’m a ‘shake-it-out-into-the-cup-and-adjust-it kind of girl so I can see small blood vessels bursting at the back of his eyes when I make his coffee without a spoon (^v^)…,on purpose.

Number seven: He farts….and craps….a lot.

Number eight: He’s loud. Anyone who has heard Master’s voice won’t forget it. I spent a lot of time in my two weeks of prac teaching kiddies the difference between a small voice and a big voice. Maybe I should have taken Master along to school with me.

Number nine: He eats everything cold-cold apple pie, cold lemon meringue, cold custard. That is waaaay too bizarre for me.

Number ten:  His bones seem to dissolve on occasion and he can’t do anything for himself. A remote control 30cms out of reach will result in an “Oi!” directed to me at the top of his lungs.

I could go on, but I’ll restrain myself…lol.

It sounds like we’re a happy, healthy couple, don’t you think?

Callous

I’m always trying to figure out just what pushes my buttons, gets the juices flowing and turns me into a blithering mass moaning, “Fuck me, pound me, beat me Master.” 

Anyone who graces my blog would know that bondage is my ‘thing’. Bondage was first and foremost in my fantasies and dreams and is something guaranteed to get me, as Master says, ‘sloppy’. But something else that I’m beginning to linger more and more on is the idea of being ‘roughed up’.

By roughing up I don’t mean black eyes and split lips. I know some people are into face slapping and punching, but that’s not for me. I like more of a ‘drag and wrench’ approach- hair pulling, hand around throat, swatting of exposed ass, knee between the legs to force them apart sort of stuff. Yes, I suppose there is an element of wanting to struggle on my part involved in it, and Master will tell you that I constantly pull on cuffs or chains and play with the door and the bars of the cage, all in an effort to confirm that I really am ‘bound’.

At least once a day I tell Master that he is harsh. Usually this is in response to his lack of response to one of my well-thought out jokes, or his decision to up the tally of my croppings because I had more points than him in the car spotting game and as Master, he really shouldn’t lose. But in the scheme of things, he’s really not harsh at all. He often phrases requests like:

 “Shouldn’t you be naked in your boots?” or “Would you like to scratch my back?” 

To which I naturally answer:

“No.”

In the internet world there is a tendency of some *cough,cough* domly types to start conversations with, “On your knees, bitch.” That’s all fine and dandy for the 40y.o geeks living at home playing out their cyber-dom fantasies, but it takes a certain panache to carry that off in real life without the subby laughing in your face.

Master saying, ‘Naked, boots, my bed, now!’ in his no-nonsense tone that normally I would find really harsh is often enough to start up my factory. Followed up with an efficient wrap around of his hand in my hair and a tug backwards of my head then I’m all systems go.

“You’re my slut, my animal. Now I’m going to use what’s mine.”

Sweet nothings whispered in my ear. Deathly quiet promises of violence to come. Harsh and callous. Just the way I like it.

Behind the wall

Master and I spent our Sunday in a monastic town. There is something about all those high walls and dark, musty-smelling buildings that appeals so much to me.

There is a very old Hayley Mills movie called, ‘The Trouble with Angels” that I saw…umm…about 20 years ago.  Hayley plays a girl at a boarding school run by nuns. One scene that has always stuck with me is when she stays behind at school one Christmas because her Father was too busy to come and take her home. The Reverend Mother is telling Hayley about her childhood and family and what she gave up to join the convent. Hayley asks her how she could possibly leave everything and everyone she loved behind. The Reverend Mother answers,

“Because I found something better.”

It’s a beautiful moment and in some ways, I relate to it. 

Nearly two years ago I gave up basically everything I had and left everyone behind because I had found ‘something better’. I remember when I was going to be with my first owner and my friends and family that were ‘in the know’ were farewelling me like I was going off to join a convent:

“Will you be able to talk? Can we phone you? Are you ever coming back?”

A year later I returned with my tail between my legs because things hadn’t worked out. Two months later I was off again, to a place even further away this time and it happened again- rushed exchanges of phone numbers, hugs and looks like I was going off to war. Interesting, isn’t it?

Convents and monasteries turn me on. The idea of rules, routines and a tightly cloistered way of life pushes my buttons. Now, I know that my ‘lifestyle’ and their ‘lifestyle’ are massively out of sync, but for some unknown reason I find it has certain parallels: we both serve a ‘God’, we both are God-fearing and the most glaring similarity, our genitals are off-limits to anyone but our God!

I wouldn’t call myself religious, but I do love the religious culture- icons, art, clothing and holidays are all fascinating. I find the structure and purpose of religions appealing-it’s like being a member of an exclusive club. And in that sense, bdsm is a ‘religion’ all of its own. We bicker and fight about who is the greater ‘believer’, all the while forgetting why we joined in the first place.