Is my slut, your slut?

The light burned into her eyes blinding her, encouraging a retreat behind closed lids. He had both arms pinned beneath and held her head exactly where he wanted. When she risked a glance, he was staring down at her, eyes boring into the back of her head. And his voice questioned and probed, repeating the same interrogation over and over again, 

“What are you?” 

To which she replies:

“I’m too cutie for these cuffs, too cutie for these cuffs, too cutie it hurts!” …in a slightly early nineties Right Said Fred flashback.

The part right up until the Right Said Fred flashback is a scene that is played out almost daily in our household. It generally precedes any ravishing that is carried out and sometimes is repeated again after aforementioned ravishing. Now, the correct answer for the ‘What are you?’ question is either:

a) your slave
b) your slut
c) your animal
d) all of the above

I generally swap the answers around to find out exactly what answer Master is phishing for in a given interrogation session, but one answer that I have a problem giving is b) your slut. Because I don’t think I am! *stamps foot

On the way home yesterday I had a chat with Master about it. I asked him what his definition of a slut was. He replied, “a girl that likes sex”. I pointed out the common social definition of being a slut (which also happens to be mine) that a slut is a ‘loose chick’ who likes to fuck anything that comes her way. To me, being a slut has derogatory connotations and moral implications and is not something that I equate to ‘being excessively horny’…or am I just being prudey here?

So off I go to the source of all good and true knowledge, Wiki, to find out whether I’m right or he’s right (heaven forbid!) 

For those etymologists among us, slut was first used in Middle English to refer to a “dirty, untidy, or slovenly woman.” The almighty OED now defines it as “a woman of a low or loose character; a bold or impudent girl; a hussy, jade.”  Haha! So I was right…or so I thought. Then I scrolled down a bit more to read about ‘alternate usages’ and this is what it had to say:

“a slut is a person of any gender who has the courage to lead life according to the radical proposition that sex is nice and pleasure is good for you.”

While I do call people ‘pain sluts’ or ‘bondage sluts’, that’s more a tongue in cheek usage for someone I know who likes that particular thing very much. While I could describe myself as a chocolate slut according to this definition, I generally only reserve it for things in the bdsm realm such as latex and leather.

Hmmmm….so either Master was exceptionally modern and up-to-date with his use or I’m just an old fuddy duddy. But hang on, aren’t I 30 going on 13? Must mean Master is 49 going on 19.

Home sweet home

It was the trip home that never seemed to end. It went on and on and on and on. And just when you thought that it was over and you could go home, it still kept going on and on and on and on. It went on so much it started to get comical.

Flight delays, luggage delays and no fucking cornetto ice-cream to make it all worthwhile. I was not a happy camper. Who would have thought that going from one side of Australia to the other would be so difficult? All I can say it that the relationship between QANTAS and I is very strained at present. But anyways, I got home in one piece and Master was waiting for me at the airport, true to form with camera in hand. We kissed and then he started the ‘bum rub’ and ‘ hair pull’. It was nice to be home.

Unfortunately the Hooker 2007 look didn’t look as hooker-ish as I thought and the “Come fuck me” boots were quote, unquote, “Nice day boots, but not really in the “Come fuck me” boot league.” Ahh well, I guess you can’t hit the hooker look nail on the head all the time. As I said, my main problem was that I went so far into hooker territory the first time I came over that anything else I wear now just pales in comparison. But I was sad that I had disappointed Master so I made up for it with an alternative hooker outfit for our supermarket visit.  There’s nothing quite like scaring wholesome couples and families in your local supermarket on a quiet Saturday afternoon.

We’ve had a nice quiet weekend, with some long warm cuddles in bed and some boot wearing. Last night there was some show and tell and ensuing usage of Master’s new velcro wrist and ankle cuffs. There was also some Kurosawa bondage, also known as wrapping rope around your upper torso with arms at either side. ( I call it Kurosawa bondage because it just reminds me of what they do to prisoners in samurai movies.) He woke me up this morning with a charge into my bedroom followed by a few wallops of the riding crop on the doona to get me awake. Ahhh…it’s good to be home.

I had a ‘full grease and oil change’ while I was home – hair cut, waxing and chiro visits. I thought I would try and spruce up as much as I could for Master. I did think about going to see my GP and having a pap smear while I was there too, but I thought I might leave the guy to live out his life in small town gorilla territory in peace. Middle-aged men and pussy rings seem to be an explosive combination. So I’ll go and flash my pussy at my GP over here again, as he is already past the initial shock. 

I’m trying to get into the mind-set of going back to uni tomorrow and ending my life of holiday leisure slut. I’m not looking forward to hitting the books again. Being hit by the books? Mmmmmmmm. Hitting the books again? Not so mmmmmmmm.

Small town bdsm

My home town has a population of about 22,000 people. Small, but still a reasonably large dot on the map by Australian standards. Most of my family has been here for 5+ generations and it’s hard to go downtown without running into at least one person you know.

That’s not normally a problem unless you’ve got external and tangible signs of your slavery visible on your body.

Funny moment 1.

Getting ready for a jaw x-ray, the technician advised me that I’d need to remove my hairclip and ‘necklace’. I said to her, “I can’t!” to which she raised both eyebrows and returned with “So, it’s one of those permanent fixtures is it?” She ended up attempting to push my collar down as much as possible to get it out of the way of the machine and the x-ray was completed without a hitch.

Funny moment 2.

I went to the chiropractor for visit number one the other day and after some sombre small talk about my marriage break-up and how things are in my life, he started to fumble around my neck to remove my ‘necklace’. I said, “It doesn’t come off” to which he replied “Pfffft! You’re kidding. Getting some psychiatric help for that one are you?”

Funny moment 3.

Chiropractor visit number two started with the question, “So, still haven’t removed your collar?” I then got a lecture about the OH&S issues involved with wearing a non-removable metal collar and the visit ended with the ominous warning, “Wait until I see your mother!”

Funny moment 4.

A new waxer when confronted with my below the navel jewellery today was sizing me up for a brazillian like an artist with a thumb to a canvas. “Hmmmm…this way? No…maybe this way…no…okay, you hold these down this way and I’ll put my hand through here and pull down this way. Ready?”
It was Twister on the waxing table- without the pretty coloured dots.

I’m starting to handle these situations a lot better than I used to. Not so long ago, I’d turn beet-red and stutter and mumble and literally want to melt into the floor. Amazing what a little bit of time will do for the ’embarrassment factor.’

Master is always fascinated to hear of what happens during these interactions. I’m not sure if he gets a certain twisted pleasure in hearing how I deal with these ‘difficult’ situations that arise due to his additions to my body, or if he just likes to hear the nitty gritty of the humiliation for me.

I think he might get a certain satisfaction from hearing about nilla folk coming across his slave and seeing what he has done to her. It’s probably a little bit like a new father of a baby parading ‘his’ bundle of joy and enjoying people gush over it. It doesn’t matter that they weren’t the ones who carried the baby for nine months or made it through the labour, it’s their baby as far as they are concerned. In the same way, I’m the one who went through the piercings and lives with the pain and discomfort afterwards, and I’m the one that wears this heavy lump of steel around my throat so Master can enjoy the finished product. 

I’m not sure if the ‘slave as the mother of a new born baby’ analogy works in this case, but I do feel like I’ve been up to my knees in kids during this visit home and it seems like a logical thing to use. There must be something in the water in these small towns, everywhere you turn there is an ankle-biter nipping at your heels. Good thing I’ve got “Come fuck me with a love glove” boots on to protect me (^v^)

Retail therapy

I bought a couple of things for Master today. After discarding the decidedly non-erotic options of a creme brulee sugar burner (for the gourmet chef who has everything) and a vacuum-pack storage bag (for the man who has too much of everything), I decided to buy something that he would really like, a pair of “Come fuck me” knee-high stiletto black boots.

This is boot pair number 19. But for the insatiable boot fetish that Master has, no number of boots would be too many. I didn’t angst over this decision as much as I normally do. I saw them and thought, “Master would love them!” and ripped out the trusty old plastic to make the purchase. What better gift could I get him than another pair of boots with my trusty legs to parade them around for him.

I’m planning on doing another ‘hooker flight’ when I head back to Perth on Friday. When I first went over to Perth, I was under instructions from Master to wear ‘slut wear’. I was done up in boots, fishnets, a bustier with garter attachments,big earrings and I had the big hair and make-up to match. Master was highly amused when he saw me, remarking that I’d gone ‘straight past slut and into hooker territory.’ I’d left home wearing bogan fashion (jeans and comfy top) and changed at Sydney airport, clogging up one of the toilet cubicles for over an hour. I was expecting security to come knocking, but fortunately they left me in peace to do my ‘slave duty’.

Once again I’m going to step on the plane as henny penny and make the hooker transformation en route. These past couple of weeks, I’ve been scouring the shops for suitable boots and fashion, something that will please and surprise Master. Once he reads this, he’ll no longer have the surprise, but he might enjoy the anticipation frenzy instead.

It’s not easy to get slut fashion in winter and not in my size- which is not the pre-pubescent/anorexic size eight. Some of the clothes I’ve seen, I wouldn’t be able to get my arm inside let alone a leg or two. So it has been pretty slim pickings. No luck on the red ‘Star Trek Uhura’ outfit I’m afraid, Master. We might have to trawl through ebay for one of those.

Master tells me that ‘things from now on’ will involve me wearing a lot more fetish wear at home. Usually I wear fetish wear only for the afternoon Master-Meet-and-Greet sessions and on other occasions that require it. Generally I’m just nekkid when being used, or wearing one of Master’s tops if it’s particularly cold. I don’t class boots as fetish wear-they’re a normal part of life that Master has also assured me will be ‘making many more appearances.’ God help my poor back!

I like dressing up for Master generally. I don’t normally go out a lot and it’s one of my few chances to break out the make-up and get dolled-up. Master is very rare for a boy in that he always notices the extent I’ve gone to to get ready for him, and he always points out new things I’m wearing or new combinations. He really does care a lot for me and shows it in how observant he is. He is one of those rare boys who would notice a new lipstick colour or a non-radical haircut.  Once again, I’m a lucky spoiled slave (^v^)

‘Release price check aisle nine!’

Master called me 3 times before 12pm today. While I was tempted to claw through the fog of sleep and answer the phone on more than one occasion, I didn’t. I’m on holidays and next week things will be ‘back to normal’ in slaveville. I thought I might try and enjoy my last days of ‘freedom’.

Master said not answering the phone was ‘blatant disobedience’, I stand by my defence that I’m not a ‘morning person’ hehehe. It’s a very good thing that education strokes for disobedience evaporate at 12am that night, or I’d have a very sore and sorry ass next Friday.

My M/M tally (masturbation and McDonalds) has hit 13/3 with at least another few on cards before the end of the week. Thirteen releases in twenty one days, I’m not sure if that is a lot or not so many. I don’t know how often other people masturbate, but I know that weeks have gone by when I’m with Master and I haven’t asked for a release.

Well, it’s not that I haven’t wanted to ask, it’s just that I’ve been too shamed or too worried about bothering him to ask. There have been quite a few nights that I’ve padded softly into his bedroom stopping just inside the door, torn between wanting to wake him to get permission for release, and letting him sleep in peace. I’ve turned and gone back to my bedroom more times than I can count.

It’s a very tough thing for me to ‘ask’ for release and even tougher to ‘admit’ that I need one. I hate having to depend on Master for release. I really do resent the control he has over one of my most basic processes. I suppose it would be like having to ask for permission to go to the toilet, but I don’t think I’d have as much trouble with that. I constantly talk to people about my toilet habits! Announcing that I’m going for a wee or a poo and Master and I regularly discuss how many ‘poo jews’ we have or haven’t had. (I seriously do think that boys have too many poo jews! It’s just not natural.)

Master always tells me to wake him for ‘whatever reason’ but I really feel ashamed going into his bedroom and kneeling gently on the bed to wake him. He knows immediately what I’m there for, but always, always makes me say exactly what I’m there for. He likes to hear me say it. He likes to hear me admit to being a slut and an animal that wants her needs satiated. He likes to watch me rock and pulse and feel the bed quiver as he holds my leash or hair. Holding desperately to the edge before I slide over I squeeze out those four little words,

‘May I cum Master?’

‘Come for me bitch.’

Pulling me back towards him, pinning me down with his body and roughly shoving his fingers into the cunt that belongs to him. He feels my moistness and often parades it in front of my face, remarking on how wet and moist his little slut it. He then often forces his fingers into my mouth so I can taste the animal that I am after I have cum for him and his amusement alone.

Time heals all wounds

There’s yet another slave marking in the wind. Master is going to tattoo “Property of XXX” on my left ass cheek. His full name will be emblazoned on my butt. No doubt, no romance. A dispassionate marking of an animal that I won’t even get to see until it is done.

When he first told me that this was what he wanted, I baulked. I thought that once the ‘slave’ tattoo on my right flank and the piercings were done, it would be over. But he wanted more.

It’s not the pain or the aftercare of another tattoo that stressed me. It was the simple fact that this time, there would be no turning back. It wasn’t a ‘generic’ slave marking that could stay with me no matter who my owner, this was something that was ‘owner-specific’ and hammered home to me the gravity of the situation.

I felt that it was too soon to make such a ‘permanent’ addition to my body and worried about what would happen if we broke up. I was thinking purely as a vanilla girlfriend, worried about the relationship ending. But over time there has been a change in me. I’ve realised that there won’t be a ‘break up’, there won’t be an ending of the relationship and a dividing of the furniture. I’m a slave and that’s the way I’m going to stay- there’s no confusion there now.

I told Master about my worries before and how a tattoo saying ‘Property of XXX’ would lower my ‘re-sale value’ that it would make me less desirable for my new owner. His response was that it wouldn’t matter, and that my skin would be my passport showing my journey through slavery. What I was actually saying while I was making these objections was that the idea of being ‘indelibly’ marked as his property was scaring the crap out of me. It felt like I was being pushed into the ‘secret garden’ and the gate was being forcibly shut behind me.

I’m not sure when, but at some time I have came to accept that I would be marked, that Master would do to me as he wanted, and that worrying and angsting about it would alter absolutely nothing. It felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders as that realisation sunk in and it’s very liberating to know that ‘someone’ is control.

Originally Master was allowing me to have some input in the design process. I put forward a few ideas, but my heart really wasn’t in it. I didn’t really want it to be done, so my research was half-hearted. Then some time last week, he announced that he was going to choose the design and make the appointment. All I needed to do was to bare my bum at the appropriate time, everything else would be arranged.

The idea of that was intoxicating. The whole marking had changed from a “romantic couple joint idea” to an “enforced property marking of an animal”. No longer was I being marked by my lover, but by my owner and Master. The change in headspace was amazing. So much so that I find it hard to explain.

I think my ideas had been changing for sometime. I’d been adamant about not having it done when Master first announced it, and over the months he’s been chipping away at my resolve until he finally reached the core. The restraints and binds that I’d wrapped so tightly around what I wanted and what I thought was right, were stifling me. When Master presented me with his want, his decision, it truly was liberating. 

Thank you Master.

Thought police

‘You need to understand you’re owned and a slave now. You don’t have options, choices or the ability to free yourself. You are what you wanted to be and that means that your behaviour and thoughts must reflect your chosen life. I own you. I decide, not you.’

Master sent this doosey of a text message to my mobile today and while his messages and conversations generally give me little tummy flips, this one made me a bit…for wont of a different word…angry.

I’ve always thought that my thoughts were exactly that, my thoughts. I don’t have an issue with my behaviour needing to be appropriate for the slave that I am, but my thoughts? Am I only supposed to be thinking slave-appropriate thoughts?

I’ve always said to Master that nothing is going to stop me voicing what I feel. I always tell him exactly what I think and feel about everything and it often includes the phrases, ‘Hahahahahaha!’ ‘You’re kidding, right?’ and ‘fucking ridiculous’.But just because I call something ‘fucking ridiculous’, doesn’t mean that I’m not going to do it. If it’s something that he has ‘told’ me to do, I will obey, I will do what I’m told, but I also feel the need to say exactly what I think about it.

Does it matter if my slavery is not ‘gracious’ as long as I do what I’m told? Do I need to have my thoughts and feelings regulated? Do my thoughts have to ‘reflect my chosen life’ and is it better to keep my ideas to myself if they don’t?

I’d like to be that ‘gracious’ slave whom nothing is a problem for and do everything with a “Yes, Master” and a smile, but I’m not. My thoughts still might be those of a ‘free person’ and it’s going to take me a bit longer than 11 months to get deep enough in my slavery so that I don’t resent being told what to do. That’s actually what it is I’ve found- resentment at being told what to do at the ripe-old age of 30. I find it interesting that Master thinks I should have more appropriate thinking even though I’m still only ‘crawling’ in the slavery scheme of things.

But did you notice that I said ‘it’s going to take me a bit longer’? See, I’m of the belief that there is hope for me yet, that I’m not a lost cause and that eventually I will get to that stage of quiet acceptance of my slavery and I will stop fighting it.

I fight it because I have freedom ingrained in me. Unfettered choices ran through my blood for many years and it’s going to take time to re-wire all those neural pathways. I won’t just wake up one morning as a ‘gracious’ slave after going to bed screaming and kicking against my bonds. Fortunately, forever is a long time and that is how long Master promises me my slavery will be for.


I seriously think that turning 30 was the worst thing I ever did.Not of course that I had any control over it, but if I could have, I would have stayed at 29. I just feel like I’ve turned into a decrepit old woman over night. Not only have my normally light and relatively pain-free periods turned into the periods from hell, but I’ve also got mystery pains that come and go and now a funky jaw joint. I’m falling apart!

I asked Master on the phone if he wanted to trade me in. I mean really, in the slave meat stakes, I’ve gone from a prime sirloin steak to some festy mutton chops.It’s sad. Here I am finally with a Master who understands and wants to own me and I’m falling apart at the seams!

As we all know, I’m a sexual slave and as such, my main attributes are orifices. Out of the three orifices I have for use, all three of mine are not healthy. Orifice number one, which number twos come out of, likes to shut up shop for days on end and no entry or exit is allowed. Orifice number two is permanently surrounded by ouchie rings and if the wind blows the wrong way it hurts. This brings me to my last orifice, number three, also known as the ‘relaxation therapy orifice’, damaged jaw joints mean that food is getting chopped up into considerably smaller pieces these days and sucking dick is off the menu. This is not boding well for someone whose ‘hole’ reason for being is her holes.

To put it bluntly, I’m upset that there is yet another thing that I *cant* do. Yes, there have been moments that the mere thought of yet another session of relaxation therapy has brought tears to my eyes (I did think that my jaw started to ache a little too quickly…at least it wasn’t all in my head) but I am happy to be useful.

Orifice number three has been the only one that I have been able to consistently depend on, rain, hail or shine, I could at least suck dick, even when my ass was bunged up and my cunt was oh, so terribly sore.Now I don’t even have that. It’s sad and I feel more sad for Master, afterall he is the one who will have to have his relaxation therapy sessions rationed.

So what would you do if you had faulty goods? You’d take them back and exchange them or demand a refund wouldn’t you? Why would you want to be stuck with something that didn’t work properly? That’s how I’m feeling at the moment like something as far from perfect as you can get and that I’m nothing but a burden.

Relaxation is the one thing above all others that Master wants and now I can’t even give that to him.I hate how life always jumps up and bites you on the bum.

I wrote an entry before about me and my porn viewing habits, but I decided to pull it. 

Even though this blog is mine and fortunately Master allows me to write whatever I want, when I want, it doesn’t mean that I can write things that hurt, intentionally and unintentionally. So after I wrote that entry I thought about how I would feel if our positions were reversed-  if Master was the one looking at porn and writing about it. I wouldn’t like it. I’d feel hurt and jealous. It wouldn’t matter that it didn’t ‘mean’ anything to him or that it was just ‘cheap entertainment’, I still wouldn’t like it.

I’m a jealous soul for a slave. I like to think that Master is mine and no-one else’s. Of course, being a slave means that if he wanted to have another, I couldn’t do anything about it, but I would like to think that I was ‘enough’ for him and that I satiated all his needs.

To be honest, I don’t like it when Master looks at other chicks wearing boots and comments, “Mmmm..slut in boots.” I’m supposed to be his slut in boots! It almost feels like I’m being usurped. I’m also not completely comfortable with him pointing out croppable asses when we’re doing retail therapy. In an attempt to control my ‘jealousy’ I also point out croppable asses and sluts in boots, but all the while I’m pointing them out, I’m fishing for a, “But you’ve got the most croppable ass” or a “You’re my slut in boots” comment from Master. Even an innocent  “God that Seven of Nine on Star Trek is hot!’ comment is enough to make me ‘out of sorts’. Lol…I’m terrible, I really am. I’m sounding like a psycho jealous girlfriend.

I don’t know if Master feels the same way when he knows that I’ve been surfing for porn, but I imagine that he does. So I just wanted to say sorry Master. My blog was inappropriate and wrong and I didn’t mean to be so insensitive. I’m sure you’ll educate me if you feel it’s necessary when I get home.


Kink radar

A slave is a state of mind. 

This delightful phrase jumped out at me as I was doing my pre-sleep reading the other night. ‘Oh my god’, I thought as I read it, ‘the guy writing this book has to be one of those who have ‘stumbled across the secret garden.’ (as my newly-outed subbie friend likes to describe the subscribers to the world of D/s.)

Certain phrases, certain ways of describing things made me think that this guy had not only stumbled into the garden, but he was tending it. Take this next paragraph:

“When he was in an abusive mood, not simple pain but humiliation seemed to fascinate him. She had learned that he would not stop until he finally made her cry for one reason or another. If she did cry it was only because she could not help it, when she fell to depths of such pain, or humiliation, or despair that she simply could not hold back her tears. Jagang enjoyed watching her cry, then. She did not do it just to give in, to make him stop what he was doing, but only because she was at a point that she could not help herself. And that was what he liked seeing.”  
Phantom, Terry Goodkind

While this paragraph gives some delightful angles on crying and what domly ones like about it (which I would like to explore later), it also describes a power relationship that reeks of D/s. You know how sometimes you just get an inkling that someone is ‘our way inclined’? Well, I get that feeling when I read this author’s books and my friend was also giving me these vibes. She somehow oozed subbieness and I really thought it was only a matter of time until she would say something that would confirm my suspicions. She said the same thing about me- that she’d felt maybe I was ‘our way inclined’ but she shrugged it off as her projecting her subby fantasies onto me.

Is there such a thing as a Kink Radar? Can you tell if someone is subby or domly just by the way they act or the aura they have around them? I still, after eleven months (almost our one year anniversary!) walk around the place wondering if people know ‘what I am’, if they feel something different about me. Even though I don’t act differently or look different, other than for that unusual necklace around my neck, I sometimes feel as though I have ‘Kinky Slave’ flashing on my forehead in neon lights. I’m literally just waiting to be ‘found out.’

Does that mean that I’m not fully comfortable in my skin? Probably. And it also means that I’m not at that stage where I don’t give a shit what people think. Sad, isn’t it? 

But I’m curious about Kink-dar….there is Gaydar, so shouldn’t there be Kinkdar too?


Well, there are 5 releases and 0 macca’s meals on the score board at the end of week two. I had a bit of an urge for grease and thought about walking up to the local Mikey Dees for a feast tonight, but I was good and resisted. While the release tally is slowly climbing, as pms kicks in and I’m starting to get a healthy case of horniness, my need for a macca’s feed is waning.

I don’t know what it is about periods and horniness, but they seem to go hand in hand in my case. There’s no doubt that hormones have a lot to answer for, but it seems funny to me that my body feels the need for seed when I’m the least likely to get it and biologically the least likely to procreate.

It’s been interesting once again being thrust into vanilladom. Other than my collar, cunt rings and tattoo that mark me, I’ve slipped undercover into the world of ‘nilla folk without making so much as a ripple on the surface. Being gorilla territory, I’m usually wearing long pants and high necks so every little bit of me is covered up and with nothing on show to separate me from anyone else and I’m feeling very ‘normal’.

I don’t now how those folks in the vanilladom do it -no boots, no bondage, just lots and lots of BLAH. In the ‘nilla world, play time doesn’t bring cages and canes, it brings pictionary and “Deal or no deal” It’s a bit of a yawn fest really-no wonder I’ve been going to bed at a very healthy after-school special time of 9pm.

These little episodes of ‘wholesome’ family life are good in small doses. I of course, love to see family and friends and it’s nice to go for coffee and have a face-to-face conversation for a change rather than e-mail and text, but I think if it went on for too long, I’d go stir crazy.

Kink does have a bit of an addictive factor. Once you start down the path, it’s hard to go back and walk the ‘straight path’ again. While I’m sure there are people who have given up the D/s lifestyle, you don’t often hear about them. More often than not, you hear of people who have given up trying to get their partners ‘interested’ in their kink, but not people who have given up their kink for wholesome-ness.

I’m happy here for the time being, playing the role of dutiful daughter, grand-daughter and godmother, but that’s because I know it’s not forever. I know that something else is waiting for me, something better.

H is for head harness

Funny that I should choose to write about this topic when I can’t open my mouth wider than a centimetre and talking is a chore. Actually it feels like the day after a particularly long gag session when your jaw is stiff and you can’t quite smile properly. Hopefully it’s just my wisdom tooth moving around and making itself known again and not something more sinister that will require root canal work.

But back onto topic, head harnesses are something that I’ve been meaning to talk about for a while because my feelings towards them have changed dramatically. Several months ago if you had asked me what I thought about them, I would have said that they’re not particularly attractive and didn’t turn me on at all. Now I’ll tell you that the reason I like them so much is that they make you look butt-ugly!

Let me explain…I’m starting to equate unattractiveness with objectification. For me, looking ‘pretty’ or ‘cute’  seem to be qualities that wouldn’t encourage objectification- if you’re worried about how your hair looks, I don’t think you can really let yourself go and ‘letting go’ is a necessary step on the way to being ground into dirt.

Head harnesses are not meant to accentuate the human form, they’re there for control and humiliation. Essentially a head harness is a gag, and while you could create the same pool of drool quite comfortably with a simple ball gag,  there is something so primal, so de-humanizing about the wide straps of leather criss crossing your face and the straps being tightened under chin and behind head. A harness to bind you, a harness to control and animalize you.

I used to look at pictures of damsels in distress strapped up in head harnesses and wonder how anyone found them attractive, the harnesses looked big, ugly and quite uncomfortable. Now I’m beginning to think that it wasn’t the attractive factor that people were interested in, it was how much you could make that girl look like nothing more than a cum and fuck hole that was the beauty of the head harness. 

Slut controlled in a harness. 
Harnessed slut made to cum like an animal. 
Animal for her Master.

Nitty gritty

Slave though I may be, and property of my domly one I am, Master and I are two completely different individuals. Although we share a few likes and dislikes, fundamentally we are two people with different upbringings, different ideas and different ways of doing things. Different doesn’t really seem to be problem if you only see each other for short, sharp romantic rendezvous, where your hair is always perfect and no-one farts, but when you wake up and find someone else’s pubic hair on your toothbrush, you know that there’s going to be some compromises in store.

Normally you live with someone because you love them or at least like them, but in the world of D/s often it’s the case that two people live together because one wants what the other can give. It’s very rare for someone to totally give up what they know and go to live with someone across the other side of the country or even across the world in ‘traditional’ relationships, but in D/s it’s more common. I’m still amazed by the fact thatI met Master for the first time at Perth airport. I’d seen a photo or two and spoken to him on the phone a fair bit, but that is all very different to being with someone in the flesh. 

Fantasies don’t often contain the nitty gritty of life and when you have your sights fixed on living your dream, the other mundane bits of daily life don’t really seem to rate a mention. I wonder how many people have said ‘as long as we are together, the other stuff will work itself out.’
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA….How wrong can a person be! Those type of shut-eye comments, make my side ache after laughing so hard.

It’s the nitty gritty that you have to focus on. Life is much, much bigger than the slice of D/s that you will eventually find the time to fit in there somewhere. There is no point finding yourself a subbie one or a domly one to scratch your itch 24/7  if you don’t intrinsically like that person to begin with. Having your slice of D/s doesn’t mean that you can have your cake of life and eat it too.

I was sooooo lucky with Master, because we get on exceptionally well, but I’ve learned my lesson and wouldn’t decide to live with someone before meeting them first. Of course, I won’t have a say in whomever Master gives/sell/pawns me off to in the future as long as I am a slave, but I have a feeling that he would see to it that I would be happy with whomever he chose.

A sticky relationship

Pain and I are not the best of friends-we fight and yell when we’re together and scream and shout when we’re not. It’s a difficult relationship that is always shifting and moving with the tide and I’m not quite sure how we can make peace.

I remember the first time I was ever ‘beaten’. It was with a cat of nine tails that splayed across my back. It didn’t feel particularly ouchie…in fact it didn’t feel anything at all. I had expected flights of angels to suddenly appear and sing me gently into subspace, but alas, they didn’t appear, and when my first beating was over I experienced my very first ‘WTF???’ moment.

Since that time I’ve been beaten with a variety of things both scary, like single tails and birches, and cute such as Master’s purple paddle (the cushioned side!) but sometime in the last ten months I turned extra wussy. Now, I’m not sure whether it was a reaction to the kindness and attention lavished on me by Master, or whether it was an ebb and flow thing, but beatings seem to hurt ‘more’ now and I’m less and less inclined to want to face the music made by Master’s rhythmic strokes.

Except the memorable MP3 punishment beating and the 300+ strokes of Mr Strap, that both made my ass resemble something straight out of the X-files, Master probably hasn’t beenparticularly harsh on me or my ass. Yes, he has made me cry on several occasions and broken skin, but at least he stops. For some others that would be when they rubbed their hands together with glee and really started getting medieval.

It probably sounds at this point like I’m complaining about ‘not being beaten enough’. Trust me, I’m not. I frantically scan for bugs and ranger rovers when my ass looks like it is about to be caned and I quite happily beg, wheedle, plead and trade with everything I have in order to save my tender botty from painful attentions. But at the same time, there is a gnawing feeling of disappointment when I do get out a beating.

Some of my most memorable moments in my slavery are trophy moments. Bruises that don’t fade for ten days, welts with beading blood, even my piercings are all things that I hold dear with a sense of fierce pride. Don’t ask me why. Maybe that I how I measure my worth as a slave, or prove to myself and others that I have ‘what it takes’ to make this slavery thing work. Whatever the reason, I find this facet of myself intriging.

I’m not a masochist, I don’t get off on pain whatsoever and the sad thing is that I am fully aware of all my faculties during the entirety of painful proceedings. I never get whisked off to blissful subspace, I’m always there in the flesh, fully aware, fully conscious of the ouchie things happening. Yet I’m also acutely conscious of when it’s ‘been a while’ since I’ve been beaten. It’s not a craving that I feel-not like wanting chocolate or a nice release, it’s more a consciousness of absence, a wistful feeling that something once there is missing.

Master has promised that my botty is going to receive a lot more attention from him from now on. I’m scared shitless of the prospect, but at the same time, comforted. A part of me feels that regular beatings are something that should be happening and if they do, all is right with the world. But then again, maybe being the attention slut and whore that I am, I’m just happy for administrations of any form. I’m lucky that Master is more than happy to oblige.

Service vs Security

Even if you haven’t picked up anything else from this blog, the one thing that you will have picked up is that I’m not a very ‘service-orientated’ slave.

I’ve read and marvelled about subbies who enjoy cleaning the house, cooking, cleaning, washing and doing all the domestic duties for their domly ones.They thrive while making coffee ‘just so’ and presenting it to their master on bended knee and positively glow from ironing perfectly straight creases into domly ones’ boxers. I wish that was me. Domestic duties hold about as much excitement for me as menstrual cramps.

I do the bare minimum of household cleaning and fortunately I’m blessed with a Master who is not anal about cleaning and who has serious gourmet flair, and what’s more, he actually ENJOYS cooking. (he’s mine girls…stay away!) The only way I can generally get through the cleaning is by bribing myself to get the job done by ‘rewarding’ myself with some WoW time or something yummy as a treat once it’s done. Cleaning is painful stuff. Maybe I need to start doing the ‘it won’t kill me’ mantra for this form of pain play too.

I’d love it if I got a subbie buzz from service. There are some very rare occasions when I imagine how pleased Master will be with a sparkling bathroom and I clean with a bit more vigour, but mostly I just do it because it needs to be done.

The joy in being owned for me is not about pleasing Master through service, it’s about being secure in the knowledge that I am wanted enough to be ‘owned’-that someone just doesn’t want to ‘be with’ me, but wants to ‘own’ and ‘keep’ me. I want me to be pleasing, not necessarily what I do.

Along the same vein, I’m not sure if it’s because I’m getting older or what, but doing things just for the sake of doing them, seems to be a big old waste of time to me. I remember that once upon a time in a different period of slavery for me, I used to have ‘tasks’and a list of things to do like compulsory blog entries and daily enemas and so on. It never really did anything for me in terms of putting me in a ‘slave headspace’ or making me feel ‘owned’. I think the biggest reason for this was that there wasn’t any checking or feedback from my owner. I got it into my head that it wouldn’t matter if I stuck to the rules or not and it seemed that my owner didn’t give a toss whether they were done or not. I felt that he didn’t care and therefore there was no point. I mean, it’s not like I’m a masochist and that I actually got some sort of ‘perverse’ pleasure out of the crushing force of three litres of water on my bladder for thirty minutes and I didn’t get anything at all out of the ‘service’ aspect of the tasks. I wasn’t getting anything out of it and eitherwas my owner. That whole ‘experiment’ in tasks was a big fat failure.

Master and I are discussing at the moment, how we can improve my slavery and whether some sort of organization of my day is in order. I’d already thought about some lists of domestic duties just to get me a bit more motivated into the cleaning thing, but I don’t really see the point in doing other tasks just for the sake of keeping me occupied.

Master and I have a thing whereby I get dressed in fetish wear and wait kneeling for him by the door on days when I am home before him and we have a nightly banter session in his bed where we bond and talk about our days. Other than that if he wants something he yells out ‘Bitch! Coffee!’ or ‘Bitch! Remote control!’ and I bring him the necessary item. That’s about the extent of my slavery on a daily basis. In terms of ‘play’ he might out of the blue tell me, “Naked, on my bed!” and I’ll go and get appropriately naked, chain myself to his bed and await his pleasure, whether it be to receive a caning, a ravishing or provide him with relaxation. These are all little things in our life that I think fit in well and do keep us out of the vanilla doldrums, but you’ll notice there isn’t a lot of service in there…lol.

Master wants to take greater ‘advantage’ of his slave and is thinking about other things we can do and how he can keep a balance between my time for him and time I need for study etc. He’s also thinking about how he can help me to ‘feel’ my slavery more and become more obedient. It’s an on-going discussion between us at the moment and most of our chats have been about this topic. It’s interesting because in these chats he often realises something crucial about me that I’ve thought he knew and understood totally, but he hadn’t.

There’s always more to learn-for both of us.

Release frenzy and Maccas fest

When Master announced that during my time away I’d be able to masturbate and eat Maccas to my heart’s content, I busily started planning a daily diet: 

Holiday Diet
Pre-breakfast release
Maccas pancakes and hash browns
Post-breakfast release
Mid-morning release
Pre-lunch release
Maccas deli choice roll and berry crunch yoghurt
Post-lunch release
Mid-afternoon release
Pre-dinner release
Large McChicken meal and a caramel sundae
Post-dinner release
Getting ready to snooze release
Post book-reading release

Optional extra releases if sleep is broken

It sounds a bit like “Super Size Me” with a masturbation addiction doesn’t it?

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for my waist line, the holiday diet plan hasn’t seen fruition and I think I’m even releasing less than I do normally when I’m at home.  Five days on total release and Macca’s freedom and I’m happy to say that I’ve had the grand sum of 3 releases and not even a whiff of McDonalds. Sad, isn’t it? Admittedly, the current environment is not particularly conducive to keeping my cunt in a state of perpetual sloppiness, but it seems to be another case of wanting what you can’t get and not wanting it when you do get it…lol.

On the phone yesterday, Master wanted another release, but I was gobbed up with dissolved disprin on my cunt and couldn’t oblige. This is another treatment that I’m trying on the ‘Save the middle two cunt rings’ program. You get a teaspoon, put a few drops of water on it, add a disprin and make it into a paste, apply the paste liberally to ouchie cunt rings and leave it there until it crumbles off.  I’m not sure whether it was this that helped my first rings when I was having trouble with them or not, but I thought that I might as well give it a try. 

It was actually a good thing that I couldn’t oblige because I have to say that ‘long distance’ D/s feels, at this time in my life, bizarro. Last year before I actually went to be with Master, we spent two months doing the hit-your-bum-with-a-wooden-spoon-twenty-times-and-shove-something-up-your-cunt ‘virtual submission’ thing and at the time I enjoyed it. Now it seems kind of silly. 

I know many, many people have long-distance and cyber D/s relationships in which orders and tasks are given and it is up to the sub to faithfully carry them out and then report back on their success. For some subbies it works wonderfully and they revel in the knowledge that they are autonomously able to please their domly one without actual check ups. These kind of relationships rely on a lot of trust and faith on both sides and if you can sustain the mindset, they’re a great solution to situations where you can’t physically be together. 

After my holidays, I’ll be going back to an extremely short leash and copious amounts of submission. Because I have the ‘real thing’ waiting for me, virtual submission seems to give me huge, ‘Wtf am I doing?’ moments these days. If I didn’t have Master and his just-looking-at-it-makes-me-want-to-cry cane awaiting my return, and ‘remote-controlled domly behaviour’ was all I had, then I’d probably be happy to do something, anything, to give me that submission buzz, but I think I’ll be able to survive these three weeks without reminders of what awaits me. It’s always better in the flesh anyway.

The unattainable

Well, after 30 minutes I finally managed to get the blood flow back into my fingers enough that I can type! Yay! Have I mentioned that cold weather and bad circulation don’t mix??

I just got off the phone from Master. I read his latest blog in which he’d mentioned that I hadn’t ‘come through’ with the phone call before bed last night and he sounded a bit miffed so I thought an immediate phone call would be in order. Before I left, I told him of my plan to get some dial up internet time and recharge my mobile so we could talk, to which he was disinterested and said, ‘You’re going home to see your family, not chat with me.’ You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. Shesh…boys! Lol.

So Master has written down his list of what he ‘wants in a slave’ and I’ve looked it over. No surprises there- in a nutshell, obedience and boots. He’s quite an easy man to please (^v^)

In my meltdown of about a month ago, one of my biggest issues was what he wanted and whether I could really be that. Sometime in the past ten months, I finally admitted to myself that I will never be the ‘perfect slave’ and if perfect obedience and and acquiescence without a hint of whinging and moaning was what he wanted, then I could never give him that. It’s not that I won’t try, it’s just that it’s not me.

Master also has a ‘thing’ where he likes to see me struggle and enjoys slapping me back down if I start standing up too high. He’s said it himself on a couple of occasions, that he likes to ‘play’ with me and see me beg and plead and try to wheedle my way out of things. I know that I can ask for dispensation, I know that I can beg and plead, and while I have this knowledge, I’m never going to immediately do something without a murmur simply because he told me to do it. Perfect obedience is never going to be the product of a system which is flexible, and not that I’m capable of perfect obedience anyway, but give me an inch and I’ll take a yard.

Master says he doesn’t want a ‘perfect slave’ but in the same breath he says that he wants me to carry out his orders without demur. It’s interesting. He says he is ‘unhappy’ with my current performance as a slave and that I could do better if I applied myself more. Very true. But what’s in it for me? What do I get for being a better slave? More rules and more pain? Hmmm…doesn’t sound like something I want to sign myself up for.

Maybe I should stop right here. I’m not sure if I should be writing this blog now. I’m getting very negative and I’ll probably pay for it later. I have a dinner date tonight with someone that I’d be happy to bury 6 feet under and it’s put me in anargumentative mood. Damn fathers.


WWF crackdown!

Master has been talking recently of how things will be different when I go back home. He’s promising immediate education if obedience is not instantaneous and getting back to the ‘basics of slavery’- rules, rituals and routines. 

Like the seasons, I think there is a rhythmical ebb and flow to D/s relationships. Periods of ‘virtual leniency’ are generally followed by crackdowns which last for a while and then the rules ease out a bit before tightening up again and thus the cycle repeats. I would imagine that this is the case for all except the truly anal dominants, who micro-manage others as an extension of their own disciplined lifestyle.  I don’t think there would ever really be ebb and flow for those people and James Spader in the Secretary seems to spring to mind as embodying that type of character.

Master and I are not anal people. I’m TC as far as language is concerned, but my philosophy about cleaning is, ‘if it ain’t smelly, don’t clean it.’ Master is TC about how his coffee is made and what bowls are used for his fruit salad, but that’s about it. We compliment each other fairly well in terms of there are no OCD behaviours among us and we’re both pretty laid-back. 

Experience has told me that people won’t change. We all get set in our ways at an early age and short of undergoing a military bootcamp type of regime, people can’t change. Master might say that he is going to get tough and ‘crackdown’ but I know that in reality, very little will change. He doesn’t like to or want to micromanage, he wants me to be independent and autonomous within my life and only come to him for the really big decisions, like what boots to wear and what colour eyeshadow he’d like. He wants to be left alone to watch ‘war shit’ on tv and ‘fogey black and white’ movies. 

I have periods where I’m disciplined-where I’ll put on boots without being told and ask before doing or eating anything. These periods of ‘good slavery’ will be closely followed by periods of complete and utter hedonism. Yes, I need the security of the ‘ownership umbrella’ being held over me, but I don’t always want to have it rammed up my ass. As a human being, I just want to be me sometimes. Slave or not, I’m still me. 

Master calls this a friction in me about being a slave, but not really accepting that I am. Thinking that I still am entitled to ‘down-time’ or that I should be able to do what I ‘want’, shows that I’m not fully into the ‘slave’ mindset. The slavegirl in me loves the idea of a crackdown. It sounds very juicy -extended periods of leash wearing, bondage, high protocol etc. but the ‘me’ in me just wants to be able to curl up in front of the fire and chill like Master does.

I’ve had a few strong women role-models around me and I believe very strongly in the equality of women movement. Nothing makes my blood burn more than women not earning the same amount of money for doing the same job or working couples in which the woman still has to do much more of the domestic stuff than the man. So how do I translate these beliefs into D/s? Well, when I’m not working it’s ok. I see it as my role in the house to look after the domestic side. When I’m working as well however, a lot more ‘Why?’s and ‘You want me to do what?’s slip out from under the slave veneer. It’s hard to move into the ‘underdog’ position when you feel more like you should be the ‘equaldog’.

What is funny is that Master doesn’t demand much from me at all- a cup of coffee here, a remote control there. He gives me lots of space and love and attention, but I still whinge and bitch and moan about the very little that I have to do. I’m a take, take, take girl and god forbid if I have to give anything.

In short, like any couple, he wants to do his thing and there are times I want to be allowed to do mine. As Master commented the other day, “On the weekends, I just want to chillout. There’s no reason, however, that your naked slave ass can’t be worked to the bone while I relax on the lounge though.” Hmmm…I’m beginning to see the advantages of being the Master.

For love’s sake

Ladden down with krispy kremes I stepped off the plane into the cold of ‘gorilla’s in the mist’ territory (so named by Master after hearing tales of my hometown with its mountainous location and mornings with fog so thick you can’t see the end of your nose ) I always get a bit teary and swallow the lump that forms in my throat as the terminal building comes into view. It’s not so much the coming ‘home’ that impacts on me, it’s the coming to family.


Love is a very curious thing. When my sister and I were growing up there weren’t a lot of ‘I love you’s’ thrown around the place. Mum was either screaming her head off at us or crying. I remember once she had the biggest screaming fit because we hadn’t done the vacuuming before she got home from work. She’d come home and sneak off into the laundry attached to the garage, disappearing for ages only to reappear much later with no washing in sight. We discovered what she was doing in there one weekend when she went away with some friends and we had no school uniform to wear. My sister managed to get in through the small laundry window and told me later of the mountains of cigarette butts and empty packets inside.


My father was a gruff silent man, obviously out of his depth with a household filled with women. He’d come home sometime after 8pm, eat his meat and three veg, read the paper then disappear to bed. Days would go by where you wouldn’t hear a word out of him. Friends at school would sometimes ask, ‘Does he ever talk?’ like he was some silent freak or something.

 We didn’t talk about school or anything, never said ‘good morning’ to each other when we got up or ‘good night’ when we went to bed.  I didn’t even know how to talk to him, and I still don’t.


When my sister left home my father started coming home later and later. My sister would come around to visit me and she’d leave by the front door if we heard him coming in through the back.

Mum and I used to do our own thing and leave him to his own devices. She waited until I had finished high school and left for Japan and then she moved her things out of the house one weekend while he was away without saying a word and he didn’t say anything either.


My grandfather was a horrible man and the best thing he ever did was die early and let my nanna have some enjoyment in her life.  He was either drunk or gambling or both and would stagger home reeking of smoke and beer and proceed to tell nanna was a stupid piece of crap she was. My sister and I often stayed at nanna’s –in fact I think we were there more than we were at home.


I don’t think I’ve ever seen ‘how’ a relationship with two people that love each other works. I don’t know how they spend time together and talk to each other. I hadn’t seen anyone kiss except for on tv and it’s only been the last few years that ‘I love you’s’ have been creeping into phone conversations and the occasional late-night chat with the family.  It’s something quite new.


Master thinks it’s quite amusing that I don’t like to kiss or ‘get intimate’. It’s just really all quite foreign to me. I’m never quite sure what to do or how to say it. Maybe some part of me doesn’t want to even admit that I do love him because once I admit it then it becomes real and things would be expected of me.


Master said that by loving him it would make me willingly accept and want all that he does-painful or not- and that I will want his use and attention much more. I wonder if loving him will make me want ‘those sort’ of attentions less. I’ve asked the question about whether love and d/s can coexist before many times and I wonder if being romantic and intimate, takes the place of d/s or actually enhances it.  I’m a bit scared to try and find out. I want to be romantic because I know that that’s what Master wants, but I also fear it at the same time. Fear of the unknown.

Face-slapping and ass-licking

As of today, I’m on holidays!!! Yay! The first semester of school has finished, my second session of prac teaching is over and for the next glorious month, I will be a ‘free’ woman…

…well, it would be glorious if I was going to be with Master, but I’m hopping on a plane tomorrow and going about as far away from him that I can while still remaining on the same continent. That’s unfortunately how it’s got to be when your family lives over 3,500kms away. 

But before I disappear for a while to my hole-of-a-hometown-in-the-mountains-where-it-is-fucking-freezing, I thought I’d share another interesting moment in the life of kitten and Master. 

Chained to the bed in yet another moment of ravishing passion, Master’s hand made contact with a part of me that I thought would never feel the force of his hand- my northern cheeks, you know, the ones on either side of my nose. Now, my southern cheeks have had quite a few rendevous with Master’s paws, but my northern cheeks haven’t felt anything harsher than a bad dose of beard burn (but, holy hell can’t that hurt sometimes!)

Face-slapping was… in a word…shocking. Like a frozen mars bar shoved up your cunt on a sub-zero night, it had me wide-awake in an instant. More than anything it really felt ‘taboo’. I know a bit of slap and tickle on your face is not exactly incest or necrophilia, but  face-slapping sounds a bit too much like abuse. While pussy-slapping or tit-slapping is naughty, face-slapping is right up there with wife-bashing as far as my limited view of the world is concerned. I know a lot of people get really turned on by face-slapping, even to the point of marking and bruising,  but on my face, it felt really, really weird. I think it had me so off-balance that I actually shut up for the entire time that his hand was getting up close and personal with my cheeks.  He did it very gently- they were barely slaps, but for my first time, it was more than enough. IOn reflection, I found it fascinating that something so ‘subtle’ could wind me up so much. 

My induction to face-slapping was closely followed by ass-licking. Picture this: me chained to the bed in boots, Master laying on his stomach.

‘Lick my ass.’

‘Ummm…well, you know, I’m not really into scat. we kind of discussed this before didn’t we? Scat was one of our hard limits that we both agreed on.. and it’s not very good health-wise and everything…bacteria etc.’

‘You silly bitch. I said lick my ass, not my crack!’

‘Oh! hahahahah…(lick, lick, lick)’

‘For a kitten, your licking sucks!’ 

‘Well, it’s your butt…and its furry!’

‘Just get on with it!’

Life in our household is never dull.