Phunk update

Thank you all for your comments and well-wishes…and fair amount of psychoanalyzing…lol!

I’m still not quite sure what I feel about the blog issue, I’ve quite enjoyed this time away with no pressure to blog and no need to worry about it (both pressure and worry are completely of my own making…) I need to think about it some more.

And in response to some specific questions and comments:

No, mruptonogood,  I’m never going to use ‘dinkum’ myself either..ever..but one word I do have laying around not getting much use though is superfluous…

No, kaya, my labia piercings are still not healed and it’s been 10 months. Have I mentioned that I don’t recommend them???????Lol…

Thanks to hisflower, slut_on_display, i_am_maye, aneyah, tesori_de_amo, carinastarr, Lori, toy, shula, martha, Roper , M , Mia and anyone else who has been kind enough to comment.


A slightly twitter-like post

1. I feel blah and like crap and that’s why I haven’t posted.

2. I don’t like pain, but I wish to god that I did.

3. I’ve been thinking, if direction is where you are going and where you have been, where are you then, when you’ve lost your direction and nothing else matters?

4. Why aren’t things easier???


The reverse half-twist

“Haven’t you figured it out yet? Your use is going to be so much more than what you desire.”

This statement of Master’s has been buzzing around my head for the past couple of days. It presents a triad of paradoxes- my wants versus my needs versus my reality.

He is slowly breaking me down. I can feel it. He is trying to make me need more than I want and turning my reality into something more than I need or want. He is turning my reality into something that he wants.

It’s interesting. He plants seeds and waits until the vines of ideas grown and I entwine myself. Take for example the party on the weekend. All week long he had been promising me this, telling me that, until I wasn’t quite sure whether I was going to be taken to the party naked or stripped then and there and beaten to a pulp. Come the night of the party and he was letting me chose my own outfit and was ready to walk out the door without an implement of torture in sight.

Not too long ago I would have waltzed out the door in sweatpants with the only thing in my hand being the plate of ‘oovie doovies’ to add to the feast. Instead, here I was getting dressed in a breast harness and a teensy little skirt with nothing underneath, and making running up behind him making suggestions along the lines of  “How about we take Mr. Strap?” In hindsight, it’s really quite scary. He’s helping to entrap me and I’m devoting myself to spinning the web.

Mixed in amongst my conversation with my mother on Sunday, was talk of whether she used to smack me or not. All of my childhood memories of my mother are a bit hazy. I remember her doing a lot of screaming and crying and storming this way and that, but I don’t actually remember the ‘discipline’ side of things, so I asked.

“Yes, I smacked you once I remember. I don’t know what it was about, but you dug your heels in and wouldn’t budge. You were biting on your bottom lip and giving me that look. I don’t think it would have mattered how hard I had smacked you. You were still going to do what you wanted to do.”

When I get an idea in my mind, nothing on earth will budge me. Apparently I’ve been like that since a very young age. I think Master knows this and is using the ‘reverse-psychology’ thing on me. I wonder what he’s going to do now that I know what he’s up to (^v^)


Girls just wanna have fun

I called my mum today for Mother’s Day and after the usually niceties of ‘Happy Mother’s Day, did you get my card?’ she wanted to know about me:

“So, what have you been up to?”

“Oh, we went to a play party last night.”

“A play party????”

“Yeah, you know, you go to a dungeon and people do stuff.”

“Stuff???What do you mean stuff?”

“Like bondage and whippings and canings and stuff.”

“Oh………have you been to one before?”

“Yes, but that one was south of the river at a different person’s dungeon. The one we went to last night was quite homey.”

“And….does it hurt?”

“Does what?”

“Whipping and stuff.”

“Yeah! Of course it does.”

“So obviously I didn’t give you enough of that when you were a child. Don’t they say that what you don’t get in your childhood you want when you become an adult?”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

“So how many people were there?”

“About thirty. It’s quite interesting to see what people wear.”

“Did you get dressed up?”

“Yeah, I went as a street hooker…thigh-high boots, garter belt, big hair…and my leash.”

“(laughing) God!”

“And was it like a ‘sex party’?”

“What do you mean? You mean, were people having sex all over the place?”


“God, no! Just whipping and bondage and stuff.”

“Oh, okay.”

 “And there’s usually more subbie boys and their dominants than subbie girls and the women get all dressed up in corsets and stuff.”


“And there was this one guy who was glad-wrapped to a pole and they were flogging his thingie!”


I thought at that point that it might be a good idea to change the topic….to washing machines or plasma tvs or something more familiar and safe (my mum does sales in an electrical store).

Last night was….fun! I had fun getting dressed up, fun walking around with a leash dangling from my collar and fun having my nether regions exposed and cropped in a room full of people. Lol. It’s really quite addictive! The murmur of voices discussing all manner of things around you help put you in a lovely concentrated space. I was feeling ‘strong’ and almost asked for “More please Master” but the only implement that he hadn’t really used much at that stage was the cane and I didn’t want to encourage him with that wicked stick! But I did actually want Master to go to town on my ass in some way or form.

I don’t like watching people in pain. Although there is definitely a morbid curiousity to see just how those weights are hanging from a guy’s dick or whether a tens unit on a nipple makes goose-bumps, sometimes you’re just not sure where to look. I flinch and and I ‘feel’ those super sharp ‘thwack’s that resound through the air. I can ‘feel’ how much it hurts and even though they may be enjoying it I just want it to stop. Strange.

I was sitting there for a few hours feeling the furry rug on the bench where I was sitting intimately on my bare bum and minge, watching this subbie boy and that subbie girl get a really nice work out and fearing like death the moment when Master would put me up there. Before we had left the house I had gone and gotten the cane and the crop and a variety of bondage equipment-Master was going to go without. He had been talking all week about what he was going to do to me at the party and by Saturday night I was quite ‘offended’ that he wasn’t actually going to do it to me. If I was going to get all worked out, by god he was going to use me!

I think I’vebeen bitten by the exhibitionist bug! God help us all…

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
   Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
   Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
   The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
   And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
   When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
   Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
   And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
   You may forever tarry.

By Robert Herrick 

I’m quite partial to poems and stories that talk about time and the very small amount of it we have on this earth. Movies about growing old or seasons of change are guaranteed to be tear-jerkers for me and I have been known to cry every single time I watch “Driving Miss Daisy”.

This poem brings up a very interesting point though-marriage, or mawige, as I like to call it in my best “Princess Bride” interpretation. (Do I hear someone down the back saying that I watch too many movies??) When this powem was written mawige=children and although I’ve done the puffy white dress and big hair thing, I ended up rejecting it before any ankle-biters came into the picture.

My friend that I was talking about the other day (the one I would like to tell my life story to, but haven’t) asked me if I wanted to have children. I said no and that I wasn’t really ‘that type’ of person. She is 22 and starting to think about her future in terms of family, kids, a station wagon and a dog.

While I could never imagine myself as a parent, I do have to say though that I have felt the warm breath of society on the back of my neck and the pressure to ‘do the family’ thing is there. I mean what right do I have to disregard thousands of years of human history? Procreate is what we do. We’re born, we procreate, we die. In a nutshell, we’re nothing more than baby makers.

Biologically, having babies makes you younger and keeps you chemically balanced. My abdominal pain (after much round-robining of doctors and umpteen tests) appears to be a case of grumbling in my pipes from lack of use. Like your appendix is used to process raw food and a lack of raw food often causes it to rupture, your waterworks apparently require you to pop one out every few years to stay in good working order.

I know I would be a very bad mother. I don’t have the patience nor the compassion to care for another in that way. Being that we’ve established that I’m not a Robinson Crusoe, there have to be others out there who had kids for the pure reason that it was ‘what humans do’. Is it better to share in the continuation of the human race even if it’s not your calling? 

I’ve always thought that slavery was my ‘calling’, that it’s wired into my DNA somehow. I don’t think I was meant to take on the role of procreator and even my family agrees that I’m not the ‘motherly type’. But somehow, my social conditioning makes it seem like such an internal and self-centred thing.

Perhaps it is really is all about me afterall.

The Robinson Crusoe Syndrome

After my last post and the flurry of  “Me too!!” comments, it made me realise once again that there are so many times that we feel so bizarro and so alone because of our apparent ‘bizarreness’, but that actually there are a hell of a lot of people who feel the same way as we do.

Master calls this the “Robinson Crusoe Syndrome”. Stranded all alone on a desert island, we feel that everyone else safe on the distant shore cannot possibly understand what we are going through. Sometimes what we don’t realise is that everyone else is also stranded on their own little island and we’re all floating around oblivious to each other, but experiencing the same feelings.

I often say that I am ‘funky and messed’ up and ‘hard to live with’ and Master assures me that in the scheme of things, I’m really pretty normal (I’m not sure if that statement is plausible or not, considering it came from the mouth of Mr. Bizarro himself!)

I really am coming to the conclusion that there are only a limited range of basic ideas and feelings in the world. We may feel that we are unique and so different from each other, and we may expand on an idea or a feeling might ‘mutate’ inside, but the beginning foundation is the same.

D/s is the same. There really is only a limited scope for things that you can do: put something in an orifice, tie someone up, beat someone with something, tell them to do something. There it is, the bare bones. Yes, we can get creative and build upon these things, but as Master says, “There are only so many ways you can tie up and beat someone.”

It’s funny. He’s a realist and I’m usually in lahlah land with the fairies angsting over my need to ‘feel’ and ‘breathe’ my submission. 

Sometimes you just can’t see the ocean for the sea.

The little slut that couldn’t

Master complained that I haven’t done a post of ‘substance’ for a while. Lol…He likes to read about the nitty gritty workings of my immature little mind and flashes of thoughts that I don’t explore aren’t good ‘reading matter’.

So, I’ve been thinking about me-as I’m prone to do-rolling me around like dirt on the end of my finger and squeezing to see what comes out.

I mentioned before my need for feeling that I’m not a willing participant in all this. Yes, there are elements of a forced fantasy in there, but there is also a healthy dose of non-acceptance of my sexuality. I often talk about my embarrassment and shame when self-releases and my escalating need to be used as an animal etc. are involved and that is basically due to the fact that I feel they are ‘wrong’ and ‘dirty’. Socially-conditioned I am and the very first to admit it I’ll be (ahhh Master Yoda strong in you the inverted sentence structure is…)

Master does a lot of ‘dirty talk’. He goes into great detail about what I am and how innocent and pure I am not. He says it all with a lovely menacing, breathy tone that makes certain parts of me go all squishy.  I can’t, unfortunately, say anything even remotely sexually connotative without blushing from head to toe and dissolving into giggles of embarrassment.

The other morning as I was kneeling chained to the bed, he said,
“Where’s my dirty banter bitch? Tell me how much of a slut you are and what you want done to you.”

I just knelt there and thought Fuck, he’s asking me to do something that I so cannot do! He might as well be asking tone-deaf gnat to sing for its supper.

So I blushed and giggled and just looked at him waiting for the moment to pass and hoping he’d soon get distracted by canes or crops or something.

“Well, I’m waiting.”

I don’t actually remember what happened after that. The sinking feeling that I could NOT do something that he wanted me to do was overwhelming. I should be able to and willing to do anything. That’s the ideal situation anyway.
I’m a slightly more complicated creature and loathe feeling my limits. I hadn’t felt that way since he’d ask me bark. That’s another thing that doesn’t work well for me. I think I need a few stiff drinks before attempting that one again.

Dirty talk is something I have issues with not only from the embarrassment point of view, but also from the it’s-not-something-that-a-forced-participant-would-be-doing point of view. I know Master (and most men for that matter) love hearing women confess their sluttiness and who are completely happy with spreading their legs whenever to whomever, but I’m just not that comfortable with myself at this stage. 

Bring on the alcohol!


You know what I hate? I really hate it when they ‘break’ you.

You’re there holding your quivering lip in check, scrunching your hands into little balls and trying to get through it without ‘breaking’…”I’m not going to die” you repeat to yourself somewhere deep inside…

Then something happens, a sting from the cane is just too sharp or the pain in your shoulders moves up a notch and you feel it coming. Guttural moans sound from the back of your throat. Tears form, welling at the edge of your lashes waiting their turn.

It’s not fair! You held out this long…why now?!?

The tears start to fall and once they start you can’t stop them.

He has won. He’s broken you, reduced you. Made you less than you were when you were free but more as a slave.

It’s humiliating and so frustrating. You always think that this time you’ll hold yourself in check and make it through, but each time he hurts you just a little bit more. He doesn’t let you taste the sweetness of victory. 

Victory is his to savour. The tears fall on the bedsheets. You feel very alone.

Through ragged breaths you gulp down air and sniff and try to calm yourself. 

The next is yet to come.

The perfect match

It’s a hard thing to find someone who is in sync with you and I have to say that I’m a hard person to get in sync with. Ask Master, he’ll tell you that I have more mood swings than a monkey on heat. I flit from ‘use and abuse me’ mode to ‘leave me the fuck alone’ mode in the space of about 10mins. One minute I’m all aroused and the next I’m as excited as new zealanders at a cow show.

I woke up at 5am this morning. Tossing and turning and punching the pillow for the next hour and a half did nothing to help me get back to sleep. This was some pretty serious tension that needed to be worked out and I was charged.

I padded softly into Master’s bedroom in my purple fluffy slippers and climbed under the covers. 

‘To what do I owe this early morning visit?’

It’s funny. He always knows why I’m there, but enjoys watching me writhe in shame as I confess.

‘I’m horny.’

He immediately tested just how sloppy my cunt was and forced his dripping finger into my mouth so I could taste my juices.


With my leash attached to the bed I rolled over and did what I was told. Edging close to the moment I held on for permission like the good little animal that I am.

“May I cum please Master?’

‘Cum for me bitch.’

Coming out

I’ve made a friend at uni and being the solitary, slightly aloof type that I am, that’s a big thing! She’s funny and we do silly girlie stuff like compare our myopia and take wee breaks together. She shares a lot about herself and I do a lot of listening. 

One day we sitting down having coffee when she asked,

‘So, what doyou do when you go home? I don’t know anything about you!’

I immediately thought, Uh, oh…it’s the question…is she ready to hear the answer though?

It’s quite a tough call. Sometimes I’m just bursting at the seams to talk about my life (i.e. my slavery) with someone who is sitting in front of me, but other times I just feel that it would completely alienate them and tell myself to shut the fuck up. I don’t know what to do. To spill, or not to spill, that is the question.

I’m tempted to tell the odd person who comments on my collar that it’s not merely a necklace but a slave collar. I’m also tempted to tell the person who asks why I’m walking funny that it’s because the cunt piercings that my master put in are hurting. How much truth is a good thing though and when is it prudent to shut your trap?

It used to be that you wouldn’t tell anyone that you are divorced, now you’re the odd one out if you, or at least your parents aren’t. It also used to be that gay was a bad label, but now it’s like a cool thing to be.  I tell people all the time that I am divorced and my mum now lives with her lesbian lover, so will there come a time when I can tell every tom, dick and harry that I’m a slave and get used and abused on a regular basis?

It would be nice if people could excuse themselves from Friday after work drinkies because they have a ‘horny slave to tie up’ or to leave a dinner party earlier because their girl was going to be ‘whored out to a friend’. Wouldn’t it be nice to have it all above board and to be able to walk into tack shops or hardware stores and be able to select the appropriate piece of crop or chain without mumbling some excuse to the sales staff that it was for their horse or boat (or would that take all the fun out of it?)

I haven’t actually told my new friend anything about what I do when I go home. She hasn’t asked about my collar, nor has the topic of why I came back to Australia etc. been raised. If she directly asked, I would tell her, but I don’t think she’s quite ready for the “Do you know anything about bdsm?”  talk just yet.  I don’t want to scare her off…who would I have to go on wee breaks with?