What starts it all?

This very pertinent question, asked in a comment on one of my recent blogs about my need for bondage, is something that I’ve thought long and hard over. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ve got an answer…yet….but it’s still a great blog topic…lol…so here goes.

The fascination for me about ropes, chains, cages and all the other delightful accoutrements of bondage is based on what they symbolize when I am placed in them. Why do you tie/chain/cage something or someone up? Because you want to keep them and you don’t want to lose them. Most probably, my love of bondage is an externalization of my desperate need to be wanted.

I don’t see instruments of bondage as vehicles of torture. Yes, sometimes they hurt, but it is the driving need of the captor to keep and hold the captee that I focus on. Bondage and submission are two very different entities in my mind and torture (pain play) is what I group together with submission. I tend to separate the ‘b’ from the ‘d’ , ‘s’ and ‘m’. Although the captor can, as an extension of their power inflict upon the captee whatever they wish as an extension of their power,  ‘keeping’ the other is their main purpose. 

I think bondage aficionados fall into two categories. Firstly, there is the group that loves bondage for bondage’s sake. Secondly, there is the group that uses it as a tool for keeping someone still while they do other nasty things to them. Both groups might delight in the artistry of intricate ties or orgasmic clinking chain, but only one group will be happy with the bondage session ending with bondage. That’s not to say that I don’t mind a good release being the culmination of a bondage session, I’m just saying that I don’t need 100 strokes of the cane to go along with it…lol.

The fantasy of being a captive is very strong in me. More than anything,  I want someone to want me enough to want to keep me tied up.  There are waaay too many ‘wants’ in that sentence, but life is about trying to get what we want and there isn’t any better way to say it. If you want something strongly enough, it becomes a need and I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again, living things are driven by needs. 

I submit to Master because that’s what he wants and needs. My need to be kept and owned is fulfilled by his ownership. It is in my interests to ‘keep him happy’ by submitting to what he wants to ensure that he won’t stop wanting me. As long as he wants to keep me captive, then I feel safe and secure. 

The collar that I wear is a constant symbol both physically and emotionally of my captivity. In some sort of a strange equation, captivity to me equals love . What is a stronger symbol of love then wanting to keep someone locked to you always? A leash is not so much a controlling mechanism as it is a connection to the heart.

Well, now that I can see you all rolling your eyes at all the lovie dovey crap I’ve been writing about love, I’d better get back to replying to the comment…lol.

My commenter also said:
“Growing up I have become less comfortable with being tied up. I think perhaps it is in response to finding so many woman were more into being submissive. Some were down right terrified of the notion of a man who wanted to be tied and yet NOT submissive.”

Biologically women are the weaker sex. Women propagate the species and nurture, we are vessels and receivers. This is something that we can’t change. Men are supposed to be strong protectors who provide and control. It is unsettling when these roles are reversed or changed in some way. A man who likes bondage, likes being in the weaker position and out of control. I don’t think women find it terrifying because you like being tied up and aren’t submissive, it’s simply because you’re not ‘playing the role’ you ‘should’ be playing.

It is so hard to change a person’s view or belief of something even if they know it is incorrect. Once an opinion is formulated, it’s often set in stone. If you are seen in a particular role, then you’ve got about as much chance of hell freezing over as you do of having them change their opinion about you. This goes for individuals as well as society as a whole. Men don’t get tied up and left on the train tracks-that’s something that happens to women! Women in hostage situations are poor pitiful creatures, while men should be tough enough to endure it! Unfortunately, we are all victims of preconceptions.

In a nutshell, I don’t know what starts it all. My home was pretty normal, I wasn’t abused, I don’t really see what would have ‘made’ me the way I am except perhaps to say that there are 6.6 billion people on this planet, all with unique thoughts and ideas, and it stands to reason that there would be more than a few people who like things that others don’t. The brain is an amazing thing and somehow I don’t think we’ll ever figure out how it works. 

Tie me tight and never let me go.


1. Thank you emails from mystery shoppers are bizarro- I received one in my alt. com inbox not long ago and it totally freaked me out. Now, if it was a ‘nilla thing and we’d gone out for coffee or something, I’d think he was a gentleman and be flattered. As it was, this was a guy who spanked me and sucked my tits and probed me in places where the sun don’t shine so it was just wrong.

2. Kissing is not better than the cane- after pleading and begging for my 50 cane strokes to be commuted to something more pleasurable, he gave me ten strokes that made me cry anyway and embarked on a very involved kissing session. Once it started I was actually going to ask for the remaining 40 rather than go through the kissing thing. (Have I mentioned that kissing totally and utterly freaks me out??)

3. Master is too funny- I scooted up close to Master while we were watching the movie (me on the floor and him on the lounge of course) and just for fun gently reminded him that I needed some attention:

“Hi, Hi, Hi! Me, Me, Me…I’m down here! Remember me? Attention please!”

To which he responded:

“Ah, so now you want attention. Not long ago I was prepared to give you 40 of my best. The ultimate form of my attention to you, the connection of my mind, my hand, my eye, my body and your bottom combining in a glorious embodiment of attention. But what did you do? You went to the other side of the bed, as far as your leash would allow you, and pleaded for a dispensation. Here I was willing to join body and mind with you in a resonating botty experience and you gave it up. It was a ‘Fuck you, fuck your cane’ situation. You had your chance and blew it.”

The magnanimous way that he delivered that speech had me dissolving into fits of laughter.

4. Pineapple buns are not substitutes for melon bread- after recommendations from a few people in the know about melon bread, I asked Master if we could go into town and buy some pineapple buns and see if they really lived up to their reputation. I had hoped that it would give me a melon bread fix (which I have been craving ever since I left Japan) but alas, no.

5. Toenails look much better on your toes than on wash basins-  Master bashed his toe with a piece of wood while trying to disassemble the futon frame many months ago and for all this time his toe has been sore and red. I put tea tree oil and paw paw cream on it and gently suggested that he go see a doctor (but he’s a man and they never want to go to doctors for some reason). For the past few days I noticed that the nail seemed to be hanging on by a thread and it finally came off one morning after Master’s shower. Looking at a toenail-less big toe totally, and I mean totally, freaked me out and I was doing the ‘Ewwwwwwww!!!’ thing in a big way.  We’re still putting paw paw on it and hoping it will grow back. Part of me feels terrible that it hurt him so much and continues to hurt, but part of me was also tempted to suggest that I stomp on his foot a few times to give him a ‘slave’s cunt pain’ experience, but I thought better of it…lol.

6. My two year anniversary of leaving Japan passed and I forgot it- Master reminded me today that it’s been two years since I left a vanilla marriage with my ex-hubby in Japan behind and moved to the greener pastures of slavery in Australia. On one hand it feels like a very long two years, but on the other hand I feel like I was in Japan just yesterday.

7. I couldn’t figure out where my Sunday morning disappeared to and then Master reminded me that I spent it removing hair from various parts of my body-  my memory is atrocious. How can you not remember shaving, plucking and depilatorating (not a word, but I’ll use it anyway) for an hour and half?

8. Fifty points to anyone who noticed the spelling mistake in my last post- yes, I’m a spelling/grammar nazi.

Leaerning experiences

Halfway through my second stint of prac teaching, I’ve realised that I’m putting one of my favourite bdsm techniques into play to get me through – the “it’s not going to kill me” technique. I’m just focusing on the end, gritting my teeth and bearing it. The way I’m feeling at the moment, I don’t think they could even pay me enough to be a high school teacher…lol.

Anyways, I’ve got one more week to go and then I can ‘relax’ with lectures and a flood of assignments for a few months before my final six-week stint of prac that will finish up my postgrad diploma in education. This degree is three years of an undergraduate dip ed squeezed into one and definitely not for the faint hearted. I have a piece of paper that qualifies me to teach adults and that is what I have done for about 10 years. You would think that teaching is teaching, but once you’re in front of a class of thirty thirteen year olds, you realise that you’re not in Kansas anymore Toto.

Once I finish, I’ll then have to think about what I really want to do and a lot depends on Master’s work and where he ends up being. As the slave in this relationship, I’m the one that tags along with Master’s plans and that’s just fine by me. I’ve moved into the realm of zero responsibility for myself and my actions and while, I’m not sure whether it’s a good thing or not, I have a feeling that it’s another step on my way to slavery.

This idea of zero responsibility seems to have lodged itself in my brain sometime after my last phunk. It is a growing awareness that everything I do and the way I am is “allowed” by Master, therefore it must be okay because he has “okayed” it. I used to worry that I was somehow controlling things and that he was doing things for me even if he didn’t really want to, but now I understand that everything that happens is by his design and that he really does want to do it. More importantly, I’m understanding that I’m okay because if I wasn’t he would ‘fix me’ so therefore I have nothing to worry about.

I’m stopping second guessing him and working under the belief that everything is good with our world because he controls it. Ideally, I should also be able to acquiesce with his wishes without copious amounts of wheedling and shirking of duties, but unfortunately zero responsibility is not connected with obedience. 

O B E D I E N C E child!!!! Hopefully that will be the topic of my next enlightening brain wave.

Before I get in trouble…

…I’d better write down here what I traded for 150 strokes. Master had an amazing run on our car spotting game on the weekend and he was racking up point after point and we were still no-where near home. He then decided to play the ‘What will you trade me for the 150 strokes?’ game. So this is what he finally found acceptable and what I have to do over the next week in addition to my normal duties:

3 relaxation sessions

3 back massages

5 nights of boot wearing

1 hour of Japanese conversation

I was supposed to write it down and tick them off as I do them- I only remembered when Master asked me this morning on the way to school if I had done it.


Don’t you just hate that sinking moment when you suddenly remember something that you were supposed to have done and haven’t.

And then comes the mumbled excuse.

‘I was going to do it, but I haven’t done it yet…but I will!’

Fortunately, my slave recipe only requires obedience or eye-lid batting.

My recipe for slavery

I had a vivid dream the other night. I dreamt that Master was cutting off my hair with these tiny little orange-handled scissors. He was cutting indiscriminately, snipping here and there, leaving me with hair that looked like a mop. I woke up some hours later and thought, “Oh fuck! How am I going to survive with shit hair?”

Apparently this dream was a symbol of my feelings of losing power and control. The Samson and Delilah reference had completely escaped me and when Master offered that interpretation, my first thought was, “Ha!”  But like so many things, a quick internet search revealed him to be right again.

As a result of our recent hiccough and resultant redefining of our relationship, the importance of being true to who I am and being a slave as Master wants has come to the fore. Try as I might, I’m me and no more. I can’t continue to break myself trying to be something or someone I’m not, so this is my recipe for slavery for me. “For me” being the two operative words here.

Ingredients- makes one happy slave.

250 chains of bondage

A bottom-less well of attention

Enough thought and care for Master for him to be happy (this keeps the mixture together)

One well-loved collar

Lavishings of chocolate and ice-cream

Copious amounts of trust, love and laughter

As much trying to be obedience as possible (this is sometimes difficult to obtain and can instead be replaced with eye-batting)

Foot-stamping, tantrum-throwing and petulant spoiled brat behaviour, as required

The ‘ask nicely’ tool, if things get a bit too sticky


Mix all ingredients well in a caring environment. Slave needs to be beaten, but does not respond well to over-beating, so keep this in mind (ignore what other recipes say.) Mixture may be lumpy and squishy if too much chocolate and ice-cream is added. Increase the amount of thought and care for Master as required to keep the mixture at a firm consistency. Bake in a moderate oven (moderation is the key!) for as long as necessary (remember: use the ‘ask nicely’ tool whenever necessary.)
If over-heated, allow slave to cool before coaxing out of the pan. Individual results may varying depending on outside temperature, hormones present and mood swings.

On the other side

It’s been a tense couple of days and we came through the fire very roasted but alive.

After my exam last yesterday afternoon, I caught the bus home and opened my email only to find this:


Given your comments in your email about not wanting to be a slave anymore

I have made an appointment at 11am tomorrow for the removal
of your labia rings and clit hood piercing as your not a slave you no longer
need to have a slave cunt

I will remove your collar tonight as well

You’re then restored to freedom and free to decide to do as you wish


At that time I cried a bit more and kept reading it over and over. After my last blog entry, Master and I had sent a few emails back and forth and things were heating up. It was 5pm and he would be home in 30 minutes. I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to say to him, but I knew that as soon as he came in the door, he’d head over to that drawer and take out that allen key to unlock my collar without so much as a ‘by your leave’.

When he did walk through that door that was the beginning of two hours of screaming (on my part) , raised voices (on his part), crying (of course we know whose part that was) and a fair amount of anger and animosity on both our parts. 

Yes, he did try to remove my collar, a total of four times. After the third time I screamed at him, “Would you just give me some fucking time and talk about it?” I don’t normally scream at anyone at any time, so that was some sort of indication of my level of frustration. 

We ‘talked’ about a lot of things and shouted a whole lot more things at each other. The phrase, “You’re not listening to me!” echoed through the house on numerous occasions. 

In the end all I wanted to know from him was what he wanted. I wanted him to spell out to me what being his slave entailed, then I was going to make a judgement about whether I could be that slave or not. 

I pointed out to him how the whole nipple piercing thing was making me seriously doubt his ability to make good decisions for me and that was leading to my inability to place my self in his hands and give up all my rights and choices. Forging ahead with his plans to do something that was obviously so wrong (nipple piercing) made me wonder what other detrimental things I would be subjected to.

He pointed out to me that I was a hurtful, self-centered whinger who was blinkered and was too busy winding herself up about trivial issues to see the big picture-that he did care for me and that I always, always had an ability to ‘ask nicely’ for things. The ‘ask nicely’ tool is one where I ask for dispensation or ask for something and if enough kisses are given with the asking then the boon is 99.5% of the time given by Master. The other 0.5% is when I need to be forced to do things or when he’s just in the mood to be ‘harsh’…lol (keeping up his bad boy dom reputation.)

He also wanted to know how I thought that being a ‘submissive’ would change how I was being treated at the moment. (The reality is that I’ve got a very good ‘slave deal’ and many, many dispensations for things are given to me along with many a blind-eye being turned) He then also informed me that the nipple piercing was actually a mindfuck and that he’d decided a while ago not to go through with it (that %%@x!!)

Master reiterated to me just well I was kept and that he’d never do anything to harm me. There was no way that I could refute any of that-it was all very true. I do paint Master in a very bad light in my blog and that is something that I really am going to change. I’m sure that anyone who reads my journal regularly thinks that Master is the big, bad wolf just nipping at my heels all the time. He’s not. He’s very far from that in fact. He is a wonderful man whom I care very deeply about. A lot of my problem is probably that I do care so much about him. Don’t we hurt most the ones we love?

In our discussions, my bottom line was that I am who I am and I’ll probably never change. If he could accept me as I am then all would be good. Somewhere inside I have always had this fear that one day he’d just turn around and say, ‘I’ve had enough, piss off.’ I had been living on the edge of fear, just wondering when I was going to get kicked out on the street for my behaviour. I had a sharp taste of that fear when I apologised for my behaviour the other day and was told that it was not good enough and then got the frosty Master treatment. This was actually just Master doing back to me what I do to him so I coud have a taste of my own medicine, but I didn’t like it. I knew that I had gone too far that time and I was really freaking. I had apologised, but Master wasn’t doing what I expected. Hey! that wasn’t in the script!

Master summed it up very well when he said that I had a mortal fear of abandonment. So in order to alleviate that, I am now in control of the allen key. It’s my choice to be a slave and if I choose, I can take my collar off at any time. But as long as I live in Master’s house I will be his slave, by his definition, and not by anybody else’s. He won’t set me free, only I can do that.

So we started off today at the piercer’s place in town at 11am. I ended up in tears (again!..I’m getting so good at humiliating myself in public.) I was given a choice of taking them all out, taking out the two that have the bad growths on them, or leaving them in and getting a doctor’s opinion. Master suggested I have a think about it and see what I want to do. Even though my body’s reaction to the piercings is nothing I can control and the piercer said that I had done everything right in terms of aftercare and couldn’t have done anymore, it’s just incredibly frustrating to have gone through/be going through that pain for nothing and still not be able to fulfill my ‘slave requirement’.

Yes, I felt like a failure again and even though I got a pep talk from the piercer that it wasn’t ‘my fault’ etc., I’m still upset about it.  I’m going to try and find a ‘piercing-friendly’ doctor here in Perth and see if I can have the growths burnt off (if that’s what’s required) or some form of antibiotic for them.

So after having my make-up run down my face (again!), we headed over to the outlet shopping mall and got coffee and chilled before beginning some retail therapy.

That was our day. Last night was intense and it was nice to be normal again. I don’t think I’ve written down everything that happened and I hope it’s not too confusing for those reading, but the most important thing is that I’m still in the kitchen with Master cooking- my Master chef.

Who am I?

Let me first just start by saying that I don’t appreciate the ‘if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen’ type of comments. Everyone is entitled to their opinion and that’s fine. I’m just saying how I feel about them.

The big reason I’m not liking them is because I am having serious doubts about myself and the comments are ringing true. I can’t stand the heat and I think I’m going to have to get out of the kitchen. Staying in an M/s relationship when I’m not a slave is not good for either of us. Master wants a slave and I don’t think I can be one. The only option for me is to choose not to be a slave and leave.

This whole thing has been brewing since my phunk period, or perhaps even before. I’ve doubted my self -my abilities- and found myself lacking. Perhaps I could be a bottom, or a ‘sub’ on the weekends. But a slave 24/7 is something that I do not think I can do.

Master wrote me back a little reply along the lines of saying sorry is not enough (which I didn’t think it would be) and that he hasn’t seen any evidence of my choice to be a slave and that despite his repeated talks to me, I don’t seem to listen, accept or learn.

All very true.

I’ve always lived by the rule of no-one is going to take care of you except yourself. This means be true to yourself and if you’re not happy, do something about it. Master makes me very happy, but my inability to respond to him and make him equally happy just festers like an open wound.

He doesn’t want a domestic or a defacto, he wants a slave. I don’t think that’s who I am.

So that’s that. I’ve got my last exam in 2 hours and I can’t seem to wrap my head around study. Waaay too much thinking going on upstairs.


I make a lot of mistakes. 
Sometimes it feels like this blog is just a collection of my fuck-ups, both big and small.

Mistake 1: I told Master I couldn’t do something without even trying. 
(This in the slave girl world, is akin to saying “No”, that word of all words that is guaranteed to cause trouble.)

Mistake 2: I then cried when he got angry and I still didn’t do it.

Mistake 3: Then I got angry at him for ‘setting me up to fail’ (by trying to make me do something that I’ve told him before that I have issues with) and gave him the frosty treatment.

Mistake 4: Twenty four hours later I knew I had been wrong and still didn’t apologise for treating him like shit. 

Mistake 5: He dropped me off at uni, picked me up from uni, bought me salt, chamomile and emu oil for my pussy, baked me a banana cake and cooked Japanese for dinner even though I had treated him like shit and I wasn’t appreciative enough.

Mistake 6: Instead I wrote a self-defending comment on his blog and made him look like the bad guy-again.

Mistake 7: Somewhere along the line I managed to piss him off- either with the comment or by something I said or the lack of an open apology or by a mixture of all three and now he’s being frosty to me.

Mistake 8: But this, more than anything else, was my big huge mistake that started it all off. I opened my mouth even though I am pre-menstrual. 
(I know it’s a typical girlie excuse, but I don’t have any other reason for why a generally rational and decent human being (moi) treats others like shit, and in particular, the one who does the most for her and is the nicest. So, I’m sorry.)

I don’t mean to make him look like the bad guy. For some reason he really does bring out the worst in me. If I was looking at myself, I’d see the spoiled, petulant brat who doesn’t appreciate how good she has it and who should be kissing her Master’s feet for deigning to keep her this way. 

The kinder he is to me, the more I want to hurt him. I don’t know whether it’s me trying to get back some control, or just the fact that I feel that he is ‘safe’ and I can be ugly, secure in the knowledge that he will take my ugliness in his stride. 

It puts me in this little cycle of self-loathing where I lash out at him, then hate myself for it, then lash out again because I’m hating myself. The cycle just keeps on going. 

I’m not nearly as patient as he is. If our positions were reversed, I would have decollared this piece of shit slave long ago.  And before anyone else says otherwise, no, I’m not good. If I were good, I’d be trying to break the cycle or change myself or do something.  I just really feel powerless about myself, screaming silently on the inside while I say or do something else that is so hurtful. 

I’m sorry, that’s all can say. I’m so sorry. I can’t say that I won’t do it again, because I know I will. But I am sorry.

Masters are from Venus and subbies are from Mars.

I think I need to post just to get those damn ugly pics a little bit further down the page!

For the past couple of days I’ve been feeling like I need to be used- and used hard. It’s one of those times that comes every now and then, when the need for some stimulation and sensation outweighs the fear of what else it will bring.

I describe myself as a sensation junkie. I like to feel different things and meet the little challenges that are put before me. With Master, pain generally only comes at one level-high. For this reason, it was quite interesting to be spanked by someone else, just to see what other levels are available on the pain dial. He said to me later that he was sitting there watching our mystery shopper do his thing with ‘Hit her harder, for fucks sake!’ screaming through his brain. Lol…

Boots are Master’s thing and bondage is mine. I like bondage to be tight and constricting-that’s why it’s called bondage after all, and not ‘Fun with rope and chains’. Rope marks so deep you can see the different twines, creases left by leather belts with raised bumps where the belt holes were…mmm….thinking about it is enough to make me juicy.

The lack of two things is guaranteed to make me stir-crazy: (1) a lack of release and/or (2) a lack of bondage. I can only go so long until I start looking longingly at scarves and belts and things that my twisted little mind sees the bondage potential in. I batted my eyelids at Master on Sunday and again last night hoping that telepathically I could transfer my desperate little plea, 

‘Tie me the fuck up!’

I can’t ask to be tied up. That destroys the whole fantasy thing. I can’t be tied up so I can undo myself either. Whoever heard of a damsel in distress held prisoner in the dungeon with the door left open and cuffs she can slip out of?? 

I’ve tried to communicate with Master my feelings about bondage in terms he will understand;

“You know how flat boots with no heels don’t do it for you?”


“And you know how short little ankle boots do nothing for you either?”


“Well, boots for you have to be a special type. They have to be long, preferably over the knee, with high stiletto heels and smelling of leather. Any old boots just won’t do it for you, right?”


‘Well, that’s like me and bondage.”

“What are you getting at?”

It’s at this point that I’d love to beable to say:

“I like it to be real. If I just wanted to tie myself up, I could. It’s only when you’re with another person that you can really do bondage- unless of course you want to get tricky with keys in ice cubes and stuff. I’ve been tying myself up since I was  about 8 years old. For 22 years I’ve been waiting for someone to share my secret with and tie me up nice and tight.”

But what I really say is something along the lines of:

“”Nothing much, it’s ok. What do you want for lunch?”

I don’t want to stand there and tell him what I want. I want him to want to do what I want without me saying it…lol. This is the crazy shit that men say women go on with. I was watching “The Break Up” on the weekend and the bit where they have a huge fight over washing the dishes resonated with me. The issue was that the woman wanted the man to want to do the dishes and not just do them just because she told him to. I pointed this out to Master as the ‘eternal lack of understanding between men and women’.

In D/s you’ve still got to deal with all the man/woman shit too. Now I know why there are so many masochists among us…lol

Just in case words were not enough

Steeling myself for what was to come…

The needle goes in…

Then comes out the other side…

It’s times like this that you want a plank of wood to chomp down on.

Just times this face x 6 for the holes made by 12 gauge needles and x 6 for the stretching of the holes done with 10 gauge rings and then you’ll end up with my pussy. (The clithood I also had done was not actually too bad compared to these suckers.)

I think the trauma has scared me for life…lol.

P.S This was posted as a community announcement for any subbies with domly ones who are pondering piercing because it ‘looks good’ to link to. You just might want to warn them that it’s not a good face….lol.

P.PS Of course some people have had piercings and it was a walk in the park, “Oh, did you just spear my labia? I didn’t even notice.” Some people heal very quickly and love their rings. I’m SOOOOOOO completely jealous of these people, but it’s something I can’t change. Ultimately, I think you have to prepare yourself for the worst and just go with whatever happens- if you’re lucky, great. If you’re not, suck it up.


Master has been talking a lot about what other modifications he wants to make to me. At the moment, nipple piercing and a tattoo of his monogram on my left ass cheek are high priorities on his list. 

He keeps asking me,  “What’s going to happen to these nipples? What’s going on your ass?” These two questions are easy enough to answer and I’ve answered them at least once a day for the past few weeks, or it could even be a couple of months now. The questions that follow these two questions are the slightly more sticky ones.

“Do you want me to pierce your nipples? Do you want to wear my monogram?”

Now, if they ain’t two loaded questions, then my ass loves butt plugs. How are you supposed to answer something like that?!?  My answer of choice, of course, would be “Hell, no!!!!” But apparently that answer isn’t supposed to come out of ‘good slavegirl’s’ mouths. So the way I get around it is generally to say , “Yes and no.” And if I’m really fearing for my ass, I’ll say, “Yes and no, Master.”

Tattoo pain doesn’t bother me. My tattoo on the right cheek was a tingly, buzzy kind of thing. After it was done I casually mentioned to Master that for his next slave he should alter the order of things…get the tattoo…THEN get the piercings.Give your next slavegirl a chance to work up to these things!

 I know it sounds petty, but what bothers me most about it is the design. This is something that I have to wear forever and ever and monograms or initials just ain’t cool. It’s like getting “Mum” tattooed on your bicep-you’ve either gotta to be (a) so drunk you don’t know what you’re doing, (b) in a back alley of bangkok or (c) a fashion victim. 

I understand that he wants to mark me as his property and I know he has a compulsion for putting his name on everything that he owns…*points to the Dymo label makers both manual and electronic in his possession and the array of felt-tip markers for writing on book spines…but a part of me thinks that it is too early for something as defining and indelible as initials.

Piercing pain, however, does bother me. Aftercare bothers me even more. I’d rather get a tooth or even several teeth pulled than go through piercing shit again. I had nine teeth pulled as a teenager, big, mother fucking teeth with roots that were an inch and a half long so I know what I’m talking about here. Seriously. I’m being deathly serious here. A few months after I got my labia piercings done I was having problems and I thought that they might have to be taken out and I was thinking ‘Fuck I’ve come this far, I ain’t losing them now.’ Now I’m at the point where I’m just so, so over them and would take them out in a flash if I could because I know it would stop the pain. 

But, like anything, I guess it’s not really up to me and at the end of the day, he’s going to do whatever he wants, just because he can.

Mystery Shopper Number 2

Last Thursday night, I had a visitor. A softly spoken man in leather shoes and a tie who came to inspect me. Through the breathing hole in my hood I could his shoes and later on in the photos that Master showed me, I saw the tie and the hands that hadn’t felt as large as they looked.

Dressed in my leather teddy and boots, Master trussed me up in an assortment of spreader bars before putting on the hood. I wasn’t to speak, I couldn’t see, I was just a piece of cunt to be inspected.

After an intial feeling of panic that I generally get when a hood goes on and I feel briefly like I’m being smothered, I knelt and waited, strangely calm. I could have gotten nervous or worried, but there was no point. I couldn’t stop what was going to happen and it was entirely out of my control anyway.

Then there was a knock on the door and our mystery shopper had entered the building. 

“Well, this is kitten. She’s in spreader bars at the moment, but we can easily take her out of those. She’s been kneeling there for about half an hour now, So you can go ahead and do what you want. Would you like to use her?”

Obviously Master was dispensing with the pleasantries and cutting straight to the chase. I was expecting a bit of light chat or a sitting down with coffee or something before any ‘use’ ensued but apparently no.(I’m working on Master enjoying the ambiance of the moment, but we’ve still got a bit of work to do.)

Spanking and fondling was first on the menu. He was kneading my ass and commented on the ‘aroma’ that a good spanking produces as he worked over my cheeks with even strokes. I was then unlocked from the spreader bars, stood up, stripped and put over his knee. More spanking and an inspection of my deeper recesses followed. As he fingered and rolled my clit, little moans passed my lips I couldn’t stop the little leg twitches. A part of me was wondering whether I should be enjoying this or not and the other part of me was telling that part to shut the fuck up. All the while Master was his snap-happy self. I was then put into the cage while they went off to the computer to look at the pics.

After a CD of the pics was burned as a momento of his visit and pressed into the hands of our mystery shopper, I was taken out of the cage to properly thank him for using me.

I’m still quite amazed by how ‘normal’ it felt. I said to Master that it was really no different to him telling me to go and kneel on the end of his bed. My brain is now processing “Make me coffee” and “Spread your cunt for this stranger” in exactly the same way. They are both things that I am required to do as a slave.

As a slave, it’s what I do. As a slave, I can enjoy it.


“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “to talk of many things…” 
Lewis Carroll

So, here I am. All five feet five and *cough, cough* pounds of me…you’re not really expecting me to tell you how much I weigh are you???? Lol.

I just finished my last soul-draining assignment of the semester and I’m so elated that I actually felt like coming here and baring all my crap to the world. Beware! My crap is not pretty- Master even has the photos to prove it. 

Well, we’d be going back about a month I guess. I had one of those can’t-seem-to-stop-crying-for-five-minutes meltdowns that occurs even now and then. I don’t know what they are, but they’re certainly phunky. I can’t even really describe it. It’s like a wall-a wall of nothing that I just walk smack into and it sends me back reeling, daring me to go past *this line*. Not that I can see the line of course, but it’s there. Some invisible line in my psyche that my brain just doesn’t want to cross.

I was about *this close* to deleting most of the stuff that I had written in here over the months. I was just feeling too raw and vulnerable. It was all the comfort I had to pull up under my chin and protect me from the hard cold of the place where I was. But I didn’t. I suppose a part of me cherishes where I’ve been and gone and I couldn’t part with what makes me, me-for all my faults and foibles.

I would describe my phunk as a total absence of self-confidence. This was the result of a string of things-my perceived failures at school, my perceived failures as a slave, and my failure to be someone that I liked and that I could be proud of. It’s hard to be told that you are crap at doing something that you’ve done as a job for more than ten years (i.e. teaching) and it’s hard when you realise that you aren’t who you think you should be. My inability to accept my pain tolerance and the yearning to want to be what Master wants me to be do gnaw away at you. If I wasn’t good at my job, then at least I could be a slave. But if I wasn’t good at being a slave either, then what the fuck good was I?

That was my headspace. Everything I did was wrong. I was wrong.

Yes, I compare myself to others. Yes, I put myself under a lot of pressure. I say it’s human nature to compare-that is afterall how we differentiate between things. How can you understand “hot” without “cold” or  “dark” without “light”? We compare and compartmentalize, grading everything we do and everyone we meet. How hard you grade yourself is entirely up to you, but I’m a pretty damn hard marker. I always have been and probably always will be. I see failure or the acceptance of ‘less than my best’ as a slippery slope to damnation. I was fine when I had no-one else to disappoint except myself, but now it’s not myself that I’m worried about, it’s Master and what I can and cannot do for him.

I said to him today that I was sorry that he didn’t get me ‘in my prime’, when I was younger and had no fear and was a lot tougher both physically and mentally. Master has said that I don’t disappoint him and that he is happy. He is constantly trying to puff me up and let me know that as far as he is concerned, I’m A.O.K.  But I’m getting softer as I get older-in more ways than one…lol.

Anyways, I must have reached some sort of equilibrium inside myself, because I’m no longer dreaming of quick painless deaths (see! even in my dreams I want it to be pain-free…lol) Since the end of phunk, I’ve had a use session with Mystery Shopper Number 2 (which I will have to write about in another entry), my bed now carries a chain bolted to it and Master now seems to be interested in spanking my botty- which he never really did before. 

Master had always seemed to use implements of torture before but he definitely seems to be partial to inflicting the torture with his own hands recently. I sometimes get to the point that I want to scream “Give me the damn nipple clamps and the crop ’cause they hurt a whole fucking lot less than your god damn hands!!!”

Masters…can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.