Chain reaction

After my wax yesterday my general pussy area was looking fire truck red. These things usually settle down after a few hours, but by 11pm last night, not only had the red not gone away, but the itching and throbbing had started. At the moment my pink bits are so swollen that I’d do any cunt pump aficionado proud.

It seems I’ve had, yet again, a bad reaction to the wax. Two out of three of waxes will be good, but one will always leave me with something akin to chemical burns. It’s not the temperature of the wax- how my skin reacts just depends on the mood it’s in. I hate having sensitive skin.

After rolling around in bed for hours trying to get comfortable and being woken up every 40mins or so by insane itchiness and stinging, I got up and grabbed an ice pack, hoping that the coolness would soothe the burning. So I’ve had very little sleep and I’ve got a three hour lecture this morning, as well as a long study session planned for this afternoon. Goodie!

Master took pity on me last night and decided not to cane me, nor to shove Mr Purple up my bum. This is another one of those moments where reality is much grittier than fantasies one reads or hears about. There are always so many little things that can affect play and more often than not, the times that you are feeling 100% are the exact times that there is something wrong with the other person, or they’re just ‘not in the mood’. We may want to have fuck fests on tap, but it just ain’t possible because D/s doesn’t suddenly make us inhuman. Sad though it may be, I have to accept the fact that I’m not The Woman of Steel. I don’t cum faster than a speeding bullet. I’m not more powerful than a hitachi wand. I’m not able to straddle “The Challenger” in a single bound. 

Look! Up in the sky! Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s Super Slave! …..not.

Scaring the newbie

So, it was time again. Time to slather hot wax on my pink bits and rip the hairs out as they grip onto my follicles for dear life, shouting “Nooooooo…’s not my time to go!!”

I decided to go to my old beauty salon that I haven’t frequented since they changed management and last week I made my appointment. It was B-Day today, so I took a bath and did a cursory trim down there this morning then walked the 30mins to the salon.

Mwahahaaaa! a newbie! I thought as the girl showed me into the room with the bench and that dreaded plastic cover sheet that usually has me lying in a puddle of sweat after 10mins. I stripped off and put on one of those adorable little paper g-strings that they give you, then hopped up onto the bench.

‘So, just to warn you, I’ve got some piercings.’

‘Oh! Don’t worry.’

And that was that. Not a reaction, not  a question. I was totally disappointed. It seems everyone is getting so blase about piercings etc. down there these days. That has been two newbie chicks in a row now who haven’t even batted an eyelid.

There is something deeply humiliating about lifting up your butt cheek, or pulling apart your cunt lips as a total stranger gets up close and personal to your pubic hair. After two years of brazilians, I have finally managed to stop blushing though.

For the next twenty minutes I was feeling like Ralph ‘Wax on, wax off’ Macchio as she slathered on strips of hot wax , flicked up the corners and then ripped them off in quick succession, only breaking the silence to ask, 

‘Do you want it all off?’

To which I always reply, 

‘Yes, and I’d like you to do my navel and behind as well.’

There is a party on this Saturday night to which Master is threatening to take me butt naked (but wearing boots of course). There’s nothing worse about angsting about whether you’ve got any stray hairs down there while a room full of people scrutinize every inch of your body so I wanted to make sure I was totally hair-free. I’ve got enough hang-ups about what I look like without worrying about things that I can control.

Master has promised a detailed cunt inspection tonight with a photographic record. Nearly every night for about two weeks, I’ve been disappearing into his bedroom only to reappear naked and booted 5mins later in order to ‘present’ my cunt to him. That’s generally been enough to arouse him into action and it’s not long before he orders me to his bed and some cropping or caning followed by ravishing ensues.

Some nights I really do feel like it’s ‘Clothes on, clothes off, clothes on, clothes off’. While I’m sure staying naked would be ok for some people in some climates, three degrees at night for me is too cold to stay naked, so it’s clothes on, clothes off until summer…mmmm…summer….can’t wait.


While ironing Master’s work shirts last night, I came to a startling revelation:

D/s slavery = Married life in Japan

Wow! I’d never realised it before but most of what is expected of me as a slave in Australia in 2007 is what was expected of me as a married woman in Japan in 2005. Bizarro!

Let me explain. In a nutshell, I’m expected to keep the house tidy, do the washing and ironing, get Master what he wants (ensure that he’s comfortable), greet him when he comes home, be pleasant and cheerful and acquiesce to his wishes. And the truly interesting thing is that I did all that and more as a ‘good little housewife’ in Japan.

In Japan, I’d clean the house, do the washing and ironing (even lay out his shirt and tie combination for the next day), hang out the futons, serve him dinner before me, refill his rice bowl or tea etc., greet him when he came home and see him off when he left in the morning, make his lunch (even fill up those cute little fish-shaped soya sauce bottles for his obento lunch box) and acquiesce to his wishes – he chose where we went and what we did and when.

The only difference between what I did then and what I do now is what goes on in the bedroom in a sexual sense. So, what is slavery if it’s not what goes on behind bedroom doors? The bondage, the beatings, the collar, the boots are all things that are sexually related. That is the bdsm in our relationship.

The service side of slavery and everything that happens on the surface is what happens now as a part of normal life in many cultures and happened in our culture a few decades ago. Is slavery a sneaky way of turning back the clock and getting women to be domestic goddesses again? Because men want to be the hunter-gatherers outside the home and pampered on the inside?

Don’t get me wrong, a lot of women actively want to fulfill that role and are happy to do so. It’s a much simpler way of life and after the pendulum swing to the extremes of women’s equality and sensitive new age men, perhaps it’s time for the pendulum to swing back again.

I never said no to my ex-hubby except in the bedroom. Everything he wanted, we did. I just went along with it because that was what you did. My headspace then and now is much the same ‘I should do what he wants. I’ll bite my tongue and be obedient because I’m his wife/slave.’

Yes, I know I’m owned now. Yes, I know I don’t have a choice about anything anymore. The reality was that I left my husband (I exercised my choice) which perhaps I couldn’t do anymore (although theoretically I could still chose to leave my slavery), but being owned and being married don’t seem that different to me.

We’re still two people struggling with life, enjoying each other, just now we’ve got a few more toys to play with (^v^) So my question again, what makes slavery different from a traditional marriage? I seem to have missed it somewhere…

Up the cunt…and bum part deux!

I’ve been a bit wordy of late, so here’s some visual stimulation:

From left to right: Mr. Purple, Mr.Medium, Mr. Mini

Next time I talk about Mr. Purple, you’ll all know what I’m talking about!

And the full collection of my toys for insertion with cunt use on the right and bum use on the left:

Mr. Purple, Mr. Medium, Mr. Mini, Mr. White, Mini Mr. Purple, The Rabbit, OMG!
(Is it just me or is Mr. Medium a lefty and OMG! a righty?)

There also is a remote controlled pocket rocket somewhere around the place, but it seems the bermuda triangle effect has struck again (See Master! The bermuda triangle effect doesn’t exclusively work on ouchie things like nipple clamps and crops etc . *innocently whistles*)

Everytime I hold this I think of a light saber for some reason….Feel the dark side!

Even though Master is a boy, he can operate complex machinery and take pics at the same time. Wow!

And just a pic of a nightly cunt presentation in one of Master’s favourite pairs of boots…just ’cause I know he’ll like it (^v^)

Up the bum

As part of our one-year anniversary celebration the other week, Master let me shove things up his bum.

So in one of my bizzaro-est moments in my life to date, I lubed up the thin purple vibe and inserted it delicately into Master’s poo jew tunnel.

His first reaction?

“Is the fucking thing on?”

Now that is a question I often want to ask in relation to vibrators, and ranks right up there alongside “Is it in?” , “Am I supposed to be enjoying this?” and “Can I go and pee?” (Let me just add here that in Master’s collection we also have the Goddess of all vibrators, The Hitachi Wand, but on me it does zip, bupkis, nada. I might as well be trimming my cuticles for all the entertainment value it has.)

I moved the mini Mr. Purple in and out and around the dark passage for good measure all the while having the strongest “Wtf am I doing????” moments. By this time, Master was ready for bigger and wider things and so I lubed up Mr. Purple and attempted insertion. 

Mr. Purple requires a lot of relaxation and quite a good deal of gentle coaxing on the sphincter to insert and for Master, a novice to butt plugs, it was not to be.

“Maybe next year”,  we both said and cleaned him up and went back to living life.

Now, the glaring question is why the fuck was I doing this? 

In the heat of the moment, I have been known to say to Master, “How about we shove Mr. Purple up your ass and see how you like it?” or “How about we cane you and see how you like it?” or even, “Hahahahaha..I’d like to see you try that!” So on the auspicious occasion of our anniversary, he decided to let me be the one doling out the ouchie stuff.

To be honest, it totally and utterly freaked me out. Not only were there homosexual connotations that I wasn’t prepared to deal with (not that I have any problems with homosexuality, just that I wasn’t prepared to see Master in that light), but our roles were reversed. (There also was distinct lack of an “Ouch!” reaction from Master , which just wasn’t fun at all and made me feel like an even bigger wuss!)

It was surreal and I was glad when it was all over. I didn’t get any satisfying feeling of having wreaked my revenge, nor did I look forward to the prospect of doing it again next year. 365 days is just not long enough.


The slave’s lament:

“I’m damned if I ask for something, and damned if I don’t”

The Master’s lament:

“I’m damned if I do something, and damned if I don’t”

It’s all too hard. I suppose most of the problem is that in any D/s relationship you’ve got two people with very different needs. Admittedly, they are supposed to compliment each other, but unless the slave is a masochist and the dom is a sadist and all they want to give and take is pain, then things are going to get complex.

I *can’t* ask to be dommed, but there are also times that I need things that are not forthcoming for a variety of reasons. And in those situations, all I can do is ask. I have the *need* for certain things, releases, beatings, bondage etc.  burning inside (as well as the fear and dread associated with receiving those things) that eventually pushes me to ask. Asking for things, however, takes away the whole feeling of submission for me. If it’s all happening because of me, then it ain’t submission. Likewise, I will bitch and moan to Master when he does give me those things(it hurts/ you only have one level of pain giving-high/ do I have to????)  and bitch and moan again when he doesn’t (you don’t like me/you’re not serious about us/ D/s doesn’t mean as much to you as it does to me.)

Thus the slave and Master laments are born. Both of us are damned if we do and damned if we don’t.

Submission to me is hard work. It doesn’t come naturally or gracefully to me and it’s a constant struggle to bite my tongue and do things I don’t want to do. This is why I often question whether I’m really slave material or not and ponder whether the role of a bottom wouldn’t be more suited to me. I guess I don’t feel ‘good enough’ to join those magical realms of slaves who do everything with a “Yes, Sir”, “More please , Sir”, “Would you like a blow job with that, Sir?”

People often say submission is a gift. I don’t agree that it’s something that is quite on par with diamond rings and boxes of chocolates, but it is something that has value to the one who is giving it. Whether the person receiving it takes it as something of value and treats it as such depends on the individual, but the person giving will always be conscious of what they are ‘giving’ and I would say that someone not valued, is not going to hang around for long.

For me, I can only give if there is a purpose. I *need* to know that what I am doing will serve some ultimate need (i.e. Master’s need) or be a step towards a future goal (i.e. Master’s grand scheme of things). I can’t just submit for the sake of submitting. What I step up to the plate for is the knowing that what I do has a purpose for my Other.

Lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m not going anywhere. I’ve lost my purpose and can’t see the grand scheme of things. Some would say that the slave needn’t be privy to the knowledge of the “Master’s plan”, but I say that no-one stands on a start line waiting for the starter’s gun without knowing what race they are running. 

Looking back I think I became a slave for two reasons: (1) the idea of bondage on tap and (2) for growth. I’ve given up my bondage on tap idea because I know that it’s just not going to happen, and as Master says, I could ‘never get enough bondage’ but my feeling of wanting to become something more than I was is still there. I always had a feeling that there had to be more to life than this. I think what scared me the most when I got married, was that I saw my life mapped out for the next 50-odd years and it was a downhill path.  The challenges of motherhood and married life were not the ones that I wanted to face, I wanted, needed something more.

Challenge, to be extended, to be pushed, to go outside my comfort zone. These are all things that I feel lead to growth and isn’t this what domly ones seek to do? Don’t they want to push and prod and pull and see just ‘how far’ their slave is willing to go for them? Don’t they enjoy throwing up challenges and seeing how the subbies deal with them? 

It sounds a bit like I’m after a life coach. It might be a good analogy. We want someone to help us get somewhere that we can’t get to by ourselves. That’s why in the vanilla world we pay for personal trainers and teachers to teach us things. That challenge and push of meeting expectations,  is often what we need. If the bar is set low, we’ll do less and less to try and reach it. If the bar is set too high, we’ll feel like a failure and reject it all. Set just right, the bar will help us reach new heights and become more than what we were.

My gift is given based on the idea that it will be valued by Master and used for a purpose.  Maybe I’m expecting too much and hoping that Master will solve all the woes in my life. I know that he can’t- that’s my shit to deal with. But I do hope that I will be a little more than I was.


Last night was good. There was bondage, there was a hood and there was some ouchie stuff.  A girl kinda needs that combination every once in a while.

I had dressed in ‘minimalist slut’ – red, thigh-high pvc boots and red and black gloves- for the ‘meet and greet Master’ session. In our little chat earlier that afternoon, Master had commented on msn how he thought that minimalist slut might be a good look for the party on Sept. 1 so I decided to oblige him with a preview of what it would look like. He liked it and I was in a mood to be played with.

With my current uni timetable, ‘meet and greet Master’ sessions have been occurring anywhere from 2 to 3 times a week. So for these occasions I’ve been picking an outfit, getting ready and waiting in position for when he walks through the door somewhere between 5:15pm and 6pm. All in all it’s a two hour event and that’s without any play etc. involved. Generally these sessions see him walk through the door with a “Well, well, well, what have we got here?” to see me kneeling head down, bum up at the door in whatever fetish outfit I’ve chosen, and then he gets comfy i.e. naked, and takes me to his bed for some ravishing.

That’s all fine and dandy because that’s what he likes, but there is that bitchy, moaning part of me that thinks, “I just spent 2 hrs getting ready for you to kiss my make-up off and then it’s tv watching and dinner time?” I do get a wee bit disappointed when I’m in the mood for more, but we’ve already moved onto “What’s for dinner?” topics.

So last night I took matters into my own hands and requested that we do ‘something more’. Master obliged with some bondage that actually required use of my teeth to undo myself when it came time to do so and it also left  me with some lovely marks. (The man wondered why I was so chirpy afterwards! Lol…) Ouchie stuff with the flogger and crop followed and soon had me , aka Miss No-pain-tolerance, rolling around on the bed screaming. During all this there was copious amounts of photo-taking being done.

Then he said something interesting:

“There should be some good pics for your blog in there because I know you like to compete, eventhough you say you don’t. And I could do the sort of stuff to you that kaya and fucktoy have done to them, but I don’t think you’d get anything out of it.”

I’m still trying to process exactly what he meant by it, but my initial reaction was, “Well, fuck you too” because at that stage I was feeling really fucked over.

Not only had I initiated proceedings by ‘requesting’ that we do something, which took half the magic out of it from the start, but he’d then basically said that he was only doing it to keep me happy (i.e. so I’d have something for my blog)and that stuff he could do (i.e maybe wants to do), he couldn’t do with me.

I didn’t say anything to him at the time in terms of how that statement had made me feel because I was too euphoric about getting to do some bondage, any type of bondage because it had been waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too long since anything like that had been done, but it definitely did take a lot of the shine off the whole thing. 

I couldn’t even remember what the flogger felt like, it had been so long since I’d felt it’s touch and….god, bondage…it had been a good couple of months I’d say since there was anything more than some handcuffs or wrist cuffs. There is nothing I like more than that feeling of being restrained- trying to move, but not being able to, and even that slow, dull muscle ache you get in certain positions, can be oh, so yummy.

So even with Master’s comment detracting from the experience, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Like spring rains to the desert, my goodness it was good.

Half an itch

I have been known to watch porn from time to time and something strikes me odd about it –  is it just me, or is everyone in bdsm porn obsessed with making the woman orgasm?

Now, I have to state that there are only a few porn sites that I frequent ,and all of them except one are produced by the lovely folk over at so perhaps it is their kink to focus on getting the woman off and not a characteristic of porn in general, but I do find it curious as to why the big focus on the big ‘o’. 

I’m O-challenged, always have been and quite possibly always will be (although I hate to admit the fact that I may never be able to have an ‘o’ provided by someone else, the prospects seem to be quite grim.) But I watch the reactions of these women in the clips, the reactions I believe to be real that is…lol…and I can see a lot of things that I feel too- the twitching, the over-sensitivity of pink bits, the amazing need for the sensation to stop or change or do something!

Being stimulated by others, clitoral stimulation that is, gives me a sensation akin to being tickled. It’s not quite like that, but it’s as close to it as I can explain. It feels both good and bad and it feels very different to when I ‘release’. I call it a release because it is exactly that-there’s a build up of pressure and then a nice release. Now I’m not quite sure if I need to just ‘endure’ through the ticklish stage of clitoral stimulation and that somehow I will arrive at the same destination as when I release, or if something else needs to be done, but generally what happens is that the ‘ticklishness’ just reaches a point and I either (a) start to get sore or (b) need to pee. That’s it. There’s no satisfying release, no peaking climax like I have when I see to my own needs and it kind of feels likes I’ve only half scratched an itch or eaten half a piece of chocolate. It makes me want to scream, “Is that it???” out to the universe.

Our mystery shopper the other week seemed very intent on getting me to orgasm. As it was, he spent over a good solid hour doing things to my clit, cunt and bum that probably would have seen any other woman cum. All I had was my usual ticklish sensation then I started to get sore and then my mind started wandering. He seemed frustrated and I was too. I felt kind of sorry and guilty for not being able to come through with some cumming for him. I guess I equate being able to cum when required as a characteristic of a ‘good slave’. The pleaser gene in me wants to be able to do that sort of thing for those who use me.

But back to my original topic. Why is being able to make a woman orgasm such a turn on for so many? From my point of view, I just want to be used as an object. I don’t feel a need to orgasm for my own pleasure in play situations and I don’t expect a guy to be able to give me one in order for me to feel fulfilled. In fact, I get highly stressed if I know that the other person is focusing on me and my pleasure where sex is concerned. But increasingly I’m seeing porn and reading blogs where it’s all about getting the woman to orgasm as many times as possible. Is that the new yardstick of a domly one?

Yes, I’m pleased when Master gets off. I feel good because I’ve served a purpose and given him pleasure. I don’t expect anything in return though because the act of being used is what I get off on, not getting off for getting off’s sake. I’m sure there is an element of control and power involved in being able to make a woman cum, but is that what is behind the big ‘o’ being all the rage?

Health Kick

So, the weather is slightly starting to warm up and it’s that time of year again- health kick time!!

Actually, I’ve been meaning to start this again for a while, but distracting things like uni and *whispers in a really small voice so Master can’t hear* WoW have belayed my motivation. But I decided that once I got back to Perth and this semester started, I would be really good. And I’m happy to say that I have been-lots of exercise and healthy food has been on the agenda and I’m into a nice little routine now so it’s not that painful.

I brought back my super, dooper scales that I had in storage at my nanna’s house. I got them several years ago in Japan and I just love them because not only do they tell you your weight and body fat percentage, they also tell you your BMR (base metabolic rate), your percentage of muscle, your percentage of fat around your organs (as opposed to the fat under your skin) your bone density and your health rating as a whole based on these figures and your height, age and sex. They are very cool and you can’t buy anything like it in Australia, as far as I know. Because I’m a number fixated person I just love to watch the numbers go up and down and generally I record them as a bit of a motivational tool.

Generally I felt pretty ok with myself before I started the health kick, but there is a part of me that gets a bit stressed when I’m not as strong as I have been or could be. I kind of see it as part of my ‘slave duty’ to be fit and able to take what the domly one wants to dish out and generally I find that when I’m fitter, my pain tolerance is higher (I figure it’s all that pain of body pump and copious amounts of laps in the pool that dulls my pain receptors.)

I hate exercising, I really do, but I love challenging and pushing myself and have been known to pit myself against others…I’m squatting an inch lower than the burly guy in front of me..Woo hoo!…That guy just lapped me in the pool…oh crap!

Having my cunt pierced put a major hole (hahahahahaha…I really am too funny sometimes) in my mobility and ability to exercise. I used to jog and do more active aerobics classes but I find the up and down movement of the rings not only painful, but the sensation is beyond bizarro and into ‘makes-me-want-to-vomit’ territory. As a result, I’ve turned to more sedate swimming and muscle training classes and while they get basically the same results, there isn’t the mental stimulation of more active things. It’s a shame because I used to really enjoy it – the things we have to sacrifice for domly ones!

And speaking of sacrifice, I see the whole ‘looking after myself’ thing as something I do for Master. I want him to have the most pleasing toy possible and I want him to be proud of me when others are around. It comes back to me being a reflection of him and therefore I want to be the best that I can be.

A few days ago he mind-fucked me good and proper by telling me that a mystery shopper was going to arrive in 50mins and that I needed to be ready. He then poked fun at me for wanting to go and shave my pussy and not wanting to eat dinner, saying that it was “Okay for me to see hairy pussy and lumpy tummy, but not okay for the mystery shopper!” Well, that is in a sense true, but not because I had vanity issues with the mystery shopper, it’s because I wanted Master to be able to display me in the best possible condition. After all, I am a direct reflection of Master and our relationship.

The health kick thing is exactly the same. It’s like wanting to wash and polish your car – not only does it keep the paintwork in good condition, but it also gives a good impression to those who see it. Master says he’s happy with me how I am and that I don’t need to do anything, but that’s just one of the ‘safe boy’ answers that he spurts to make sure that large objects don’t get thrown in his general direction by pms-ing womenfolk. Let’s just say then that I’m doing it for us.

Breaking in

The lovely

 ,who always writes thought-provoking entries I might add, wrote an intriguing post a couple of weeks back entitled “breaking vs. training” and I’ve been mulling the topic over in my mushy pea brain ever since. 

One thing I’ve never quite understood is this notion of training. I’ve always interpreted training to mean honing a skill or at least getting better at something. Most of the ‘training’ I receive is more along the lines of practice, repeating actions- it’s ‘doing’, not training. It’s not as if Master is there coaching me, screaming from the sidelines, “Come on! Suck harder!”

I suppose part of me hoped and believed that with training things would become easier and I’d be better at them. That somehow, magically, pain would be less ouchie and Mr. Purple (my dildo cum butt plug) would feel a lot less like a phallic lump of concrete shoved unceremoniously up my ass. Unfortunately, pain is still ouchie and taking Mr. Purple out sometimes requires a jack-hammer.

Do I think I need to be broken? Yes.
Do I think I need to be trained? Yes.

I have a romantic idea of being broken. That somehow I would reach a point and after that I’d stop resisting. Master often asks me why I keep resisting and to be honest, I don’t really know why. Force of habit perhaps? It’s not that I actually say ‘no’ or anything, it’s just that I’m not very gracious in my submission and copious amounts of lip-quivering and whining accompany most things that I’m not excited about doing:

“You want me to go and get the cuffs and rope because you’re going to tie me up?”
*skips off merrily to get the stuff. Lalalalalalalalalala.

“You want me to lube up Mr Purple and work him in my butt on the floor in front of you while you watch war shit on tv?” 
*spends ten minutes moping around and doing other stuff before finally dragging her heels and going to do what is required.

I don’t really think of ‘breaking’ as breaking my spirit as the connotation suggests. I think of it more as breaking down my resistance, breaking my non-acquiescence. But perhaps, expecting or wanting this breaking to occur from the outside is where my problems start.  Maybe it needs to be an internal thing that I consciously do rather than something that is enforced on me from the outside.

Extended play is something that I have fantasized about. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to play for hours and hours on end. To be used until there is nothing left to take and to remain in a heap on the floor somewhere after they are done with me. There are times when I’ve definitely had enough of a particular activity, but the sensation junkie in me is usually ready for something new, not for the ‘play’ to finish. I like to have a full-course meal, from the entree to the dessert, with samplings of each. I probably eat the same way that I’d like to play, lots of little bits of a variety of things.

Part of me feels that if I’m used enough eventually I will get to a point where my will just won’t matter and that I will be ‘broken’. As it is, I care ‘too much’ about myself and my feelings for ‘gracious acceptance’ to take place. Ahh well, someday perhaps.

First Anniversary

On this day, one year ago, I was up on the bench getting my first labia and clithood piercings.  Two days earlier I had stepped off the plane at Perth airport and met Master in the flesh for the first time. It was all very surreal at the time. One moment, I was a free woman on the east coast of Australia, the next minute, I was a pierced slave on the west coast. It all happened so quickly and with such finality. I always think of August 13th as the day that changed my life because it was the day that I officially became a slave.

So, it’s one year later and I now have to say that I’m officially a pissy slave…lol. One only needs to read my previous post to see how much I have not grown or improved or changed in anyway. It’s kind of sad to think that Master and I have spent all this time and energy trying to transform me into something closer to the ideal slave, but it’s all been for naught. I’m not any different in the way that I think or the way that I act. I’m officially a lost cause. But that’s me and I’m fortunate that Master accepts me for all my flaws and faults and has unending patience for my stupid blonde moments and my idiotic slave-trying-to-act-like-a-free-woman episodes. I’m lucky he just doesn’t beat the crap out of me and be done with it. My stupid pride and unwillingness to ‘just submit’ causes both of us so much grief. 

After much discussion yesterday about my appalling behaviour and misinterpretation of everything, I apologized from the bottom of my heart and really meant it. I simply hate it when he’s angry with me, even frostiness or slight pissy-ness is something I abhor. It just seems like I’m so far away from him, when I need to be so near. That emotional distance just seems to poison my insides in some way.  

Fortunately we’re all good again. Master has forgiven my transgressions and I’ve reaffirmed my desire to be obedient and good. Just to make sure that I never forget my role and my place again, I now have a daily cunt presentation ritual. That’s what I am, a cunt for use. I don’t have rights or choices or options. My existence is simple and I really want to work towards keeping it that way.

Master stayed true to form by spoiling me on our anniversary. Flowers, champagne and a lovely dinner that he prepared. Flowers. They are one thing I never expected as they had been a running joke between us for the past year. After a house guest furnished me with flowers last year, I’ve been joking with Master about “Where are my flowers?” He said he’d never bring me flowers because I wasn’t “his girlfriend, wife or lover.” Instead, today he brought me flowers because I am “lovely and cute”.  The flowers are gorgeous with white and yellow and my favourite colour purple. Unbeknownst to me they were in the car behind my seat when Master came to pick me up. Master then told me about how he’d left early and told a co-worker that “girls wanted anniversaries to be celebrated properly and he had a florist to go to.” It was then that I cottoned on and looked around the car for the bunch. All the while Master was sitting there in the car beside me with his ‘ice-man’ look complete with a twist of bemusement.

Tomorrow was to have been my property tattoo marking, and Master had organized to take the day off for the occasion. While the appointment was cancelled, he still has the day off so we’ll do some errands and spend quality time with one another. Things are good and will continue to be so, my obedience and submission permitting.

Sharing the load

In one of my pondering sessions, one of many that I have while I’m in the bath, sitting on the bus, doing laps in the pool or pounding the pavement (while talking to myself…am I the only one who walks along talking to herself?) I came up with the answer. The answer to something that has puzzled people all over the world for centuries- why do men piss women off? 

I’ve come to the conclusion that most of the angst in any given relationship generally comes about when one party thinks that the other party isn’t doing their share. This dissatisfaction can come in many forms, but let’s just take one example- cleaning. I’m actually pretty convinced that this is the straw that broke the “gaijin’s” back when I was in Japan. For the whole 9 years that I lived together with my ex-hubby, he never once, not once, lifted a finger to help around the house. Now, from his point of view, he felt that he was contributing to the relationship in other ways- working, earning money, organizing trips away etc. (I’d also like to add that I was equally working and earning more money.) But, what boys need to realise is that it just doesn’t work that way. You can’t substitute a ‘share’ of something for a ‘share’ of something else. “Shares” in relationships are absolutely, one hundred percent, non-transferrable and non-refundable. Giving me chocolate on Valentine’s Day or surprising me with a weekend mystery tour certainly gives the other party brownie points, but it ain’t going to do anything about their ‘share’ of the cleaning that needs to be done. The sum of the total doesn’t equal the sum of the parts as far as relationships and living together are concerned, because every little share in every little category needs to be done and satisfied.

There are a lot of different categories for shares in any given relationship- things like, “spending time with your partner’s family”, “special occasion celebrations”, “washing and ironing”, “getting a haircut before you look like something out of the Addam’s Family”. Basic stuff that you expect the other person to do and that drives you absolutely insane when they don’t. How you divvy stuff up depends on each individual, but most boys will realise the shares that they need to do because there will be copious amounts of nagging involved. Ignoring the nagging does nothing to decrease your shares, and in some cases, it might increase them.

So how does all this fit into D/s I hear you ask? Well, in my case, the categories are a bit different to your run-of-the-mill housework and family stuff. For example, I don’t require him to do any of the housework because he does the cooking. That is our little arrangement and it suits us just great.  But there are still other things that I expect Master to do and it drives me absolutely insane, when he doesn’t.

The whole idea of ‘shares’ involves the idea of equality in the relationship. Not necessarily hierarchical equality, but an equal amount of roles and functions. It’s the idea of “Well, fuck, I’m submitting to all this shit, why don’t you do a bit of domming every now and then?” I figure that if I’m literally putting my ass on the line, there should be an equal amount of input from Master. If you have a relationship where only one side is inputting, very quickly your D/s fountain is going to run dry.

At the moment, I have the following shares that I expect Master to input:

A share of nice, hard play
A share of non-leniency
A share of going through with what he says 
A share of absolute decisiveness
A share of treating me callously and as an animal
A share of communicating clearly and thinking things through carefully
A share of non-knee-jerk reactions to things he doesn’tlike
A share of education when I need it
A share of slapping me down when he needs it

I hope everyone noticed that the words ‘a share of’ can be replaced with ‘I want’ and there is very little meaning loss. That’s because my expectations of him are invaribly my wants. My wants, my image of what a dom ‘should be’, will be what I compare him to. When the image and the reality differ, some compromises can be made,  you can learn to live with some different aspects and alter your expected shares, but there is a saturation point- also known as a breaking point. This is the straw that breaks the slave’s back and is generally when things fail.

One thing I find with Master, is that he fulfills a lot, and I mean a lot of shares in the “nice-ness” category. He spoils me to distraction and basically everything that I want is given to me in one form or another. He has amassed a huge, mammoth amount of brownie points, and has done more than his fair share in the ‘treating the slave well’ department. But to me, that doesn’t give him dispensation for the other shares that I want, and expect him to do. 

It sounds harsh, cruel and I’m sure a lot of people reading this are thinking “you don’t know how good you’ve got it, shut the fuck up.” I’d probably agree if I was a reader reading this too. I suppose the bottom line is balance in all things.You need a little bit of spice with your sugar and sour with your sweet. 

Today, he has been frosty with me all day because I told him to be ‘decisive’. An incident at the tattoo shop when we went to confirm the final design for my ownership marking that was to be done on Tuesday, resulted in him cancelling the appointment and storming out of the shop. This is what happened:

We’d both looked at the basic design of his initials and said, ‘It’s boring, it needs something.’ and then one of the receptionist chicks said “Well, you can just get this, get something simple to start and you can add to it later.” We had both liked the idea of a collar (maybe with celtic banding) with either a padlock or a name plate with his initials on it and after they said that celtic wasn’t possible in a design that small, he started talking about just getting something celtic, bigger, with no initials, nothing. I assumed that his name or initials were an absolute given in the design. So I pointed out that if he didn’t want his name on me, “What were we here for?”

By this stage, I didn’t know what he wanted and it looked like he was about to put something on me that he wasn’t fully happy with. I told him to be ‘decisive’ and think about what he wanted. Then he asked for his money back and stormed out. I thought that he was pissed off at me for talking to him like that. For not ‘submitting’ to his will and standing there like a dumb mute. After finally getting him to talk about it, I realised that what I took for indecision was actually him making a decision not to do it, so I apologised. He wasn’t clear, he made me think that I had pissed him off, rather than him being pissed at the receptionists and their lack of help.

In the tattoo shop, making a decision about putting his name indelibly on me for life, I’m sure you can imagine that I needed him to be decisive. I needed him to say, ‘Yes, this is what I want. It’s going on your ass. The end.’ And if the design wasn’t what he wanted, say, ‘This is not what I want. I’d like to cancel the appointment. Bye.’ From my point of view, I’m putting my ass on the line, a huge, massive input from me. All I’m asking from him is a firm decision that that is what he wants and that’s what will make him happy. A share of being clear and decisive is all I want him to do. It’s a trust thing. Standing there with design in hand having him say, “Hmmmm….” is akin to pushing me towards the gaping hole in an airplane and saying “Yeah, I think I folded your parachute right.” I can’t do itunless it’s a “Parachute, check. Go, Go, Go!!!!!”

So that’s my vent, from my view and my ideas about why men piss women off. Think I can patent it?

P.S Master has just read this and said,

‘You piss me off. I’m not going to discuss it. I’ve given you a chance and it seems you are going to throw it away again.’

and now he’s gone off into his bedroom, turned off all the lights and left me in the dark… in more ways than one.

My censored life

Sometime back in July while I was home for holidays, I received an e-mail from the foundation that gave me a scholarship for my undergraduate degree in Japan. They were publishing their annual magazine and wanted me to write an essay about what I’d done since leaving uni. It was to go in the section “Illustrious OGs and OBs (old girls and old boys)”.

Seeing that this scholarship provided me with about $30,000 of fees for 3 years of my four-year degree and that I wouldn’t have made it through uni without it, I thought I’d better write a damn good essay, but my problem was, how would I explain why I left Japan and what I’ve done since then? I didn’t think that “seeing the bdsm light” or “currently revelling in her slavery” were phrases that should appear in a document set for “illustrious” purposes…lol.

After delaying the thing for as long as possible,  I finally sat down on Tuesday night and started writing my story for the past 12 years. I’d post it here, but it was all in Japanese, so in a nutshell it covered my journey to Japan (fresh out of high school and my first time on a big plane!), my struggles with learning Japanese (never-ending!), my employment after graduating, the move back to Australia and my current studies.

In the re-counting I ‘neglected’ to mention my marriage, my divorce, my reasons for returning to Australia and anything even slightly connected to the Three C’s (collars, cunt rings and canes). It was a 100% ‘nilla version of my life and I have to say that it didn’t sound even half as interesting as the real thing. While I was re-reading it, I was struck by just how unremarkable my life is/has been if you ignore the whole D/s aspect of it. The Three C’s and everything that goes with it is what has really brought the colour into my gray existence.

I titled my essay “The Value of Life” and started out with a quote by Montaigne, from “Essays”:

The value of life lies, not in the length of days, but in the use we make of them; a man may live long, yet live very little. Satisfaction in life depends not on the number of your years, but on your will.


In the vanilla version, I said that all my experiences and the people that I had met, had enabled me to have satisfaction in my life. If I transferred that over to the more colourful version of my life, I’d say that  “use” is an integral part of my satisfaction in life (^v^)

I think that D/s has allowed me to live a lot more in a shorter period of time. The experiences have enriched me and hopefully, there will be many more to come; after all,  if there’s a will, there should be a way.

“You can just keep doing that yourself while we watch.”

The vibrator had been tunnelling in for I don’t know how long. Sometimes deep before being pulled back to the shallows and sometimes ploughing rhythmically as he thumbed and fingered my clit. Every now and then the vibrator would touch one of my cunt rings and the ring would shiver in harmony with the pulses.

It might have been ten, fifteen or twenty minutes, I’m not sure. I was sitting on the lounge with my legs spread wide as the mystery shopper did his deed. Behind the blindfold I thought many things, ‘Are my juices dripping onto the lounge? What is he going to do next? Is he going to hurt me now?’ I could hear Master somewhere off to my right silently witnessing the proceedings.

Then, leaving the vibrator in my cunt, the mystery shopper got up to have his cup of tea, announcing: 

You can just keep doing that yourself while we watch

Mystery Shopper #3

My Sunday was a very bizarre mix of “Wtf am I doing?” moments and totally dispassionate acquiescence as I submitted to another. 

Master informed me at about 10am that I was required to be bathed and ready by 4pm and to plan my day with that in mind. As soon as I heard that, all my plans for a quiet, stress-free Sunday went right out the window and my stomach felt like there was a succession of tsunamis going through it and I desperately needed to pee.

I asked for a bit of clarification along the lines of, “Is it a past Mystery Shopper returning? Is he from Alt or BDSMWA? What is he going to do? Is he bringing toys?” Master then decided that I was getting entirely too ‘inquisitive’ and ordered me to his bed for a pre-shopper interrogation session.

After a few questions about what I was (and me supplying the appropriate responses) Master started to go into detail about what was likely to happen and what was expected of me. It did nothing to quell my nerves, just ascerbated them and I decided to go for a walk to get rid of some nervous energy.

At this stage I was, in a word, hurt. Half of me felt like curling up into a ball and crying my eyes out and half of me just wanted to slap Master down. I’m not quite sure why, but I was completely and totally resenting him making him go through all of this and it hadn’t even started yet! As I pounded the pavement I thought about pushing all these feelings deep down inside and getting on with what I had to do.

I’d planned things so I would keep busy. I didn’t want to be standing around the house killing time with my fate hanging over my head. In fact I got bathed and ready and was in the cage blindfolded and hooded about five minutes before the mystery shopper was due to arrive.

It was absolutely pitch black in that mask. I could hear everything, but couldn’t see a thing- I couldn’t even tell if it was light or dark in the room- and then the doorbell rang. I had this need to go to the toilet again, but by that time it was too late.

I’m always amused to listen to the conversation of people in this situation. Things like, “How are you?” sound so out of place when there’s a man with a bag of toys and a naked masked girl in a cage just off to the side. If it was me, I’m sure I’d dissolve into fits of laughter or just die on the spot. 

It turned out to be a new mystery shopper, I didn’t know the voice. He wasted no time with chit-chat, it was right down to business with a short inspection and pegs and nipple clamps. For the next hour and a half, my two available holes got a thorough workout. I spent a lot of time with my fists curled into balls and biting my lip or arm. Most of what he did felt quite nice and eventhough I was forbidden to talk, there were lots of noises that I couldn’t control and bucking, twitching and swaying that comes from playing heavily with my pink bits. He was very well prepared with toys and all the necessary safety and hygiene stuff.

I was so disassociated from the whole process. As I said to Master later, it wouldn’t have mattered who was doing it, because at that point I was just in ‘use mode’ and I just would have done what was required. It could have been Master’s hand on the end of that vibrator ploughing me roughly, or someone else, I didn’t know and it didn’t matter.

During our de-briefing after the mystery shopper had gone I told Master what I felt about it. 


I felt absolutely nothing about the whole experience. 

Master says that was a good thing and I’m inclined to agree. If I did, that would mean that the whole objectification process hadn’t worked. There shouldn’t be any feelings or any thoughts. Nice and simple. I barely have anything to write about in this blog other than the events that transpired.

The only thing that I will say it that I felt a little bit like he was overly concerned about how I felt and how I was enjoying it. Most of the activities were geared towards me having enjoyment and so I thought that it detracted from the ‘animal for use’ aspect that we were aiming for.

Anyway, I need to process this a bit more as I’m sure this can’t be all that I have to say (Yes, I can hear everyone nodding ALL the way over here….lol) More details about what actually happened can be read on Master’s blog.


Waiting patiently


First, the pegs


Then the anal beads


The latex hand working up to a fist


Does it need a caption?


I see these three words ‘suck it up’ floating around a lot and I’ve even been told to ‘suck it up’ on numerous occasions, both by Master and by commenters on my blog. I used to substitute ‘deal with it’ for ‘suck it up’, but now I come to think about it, ‘suck it up’ seems to have a connotation of ‘deal with it and relish the experience’. I’m generally told to suck up painful and unpleasant things (as though I was some kind of masochist! Shesh! *rolls eyes to ceiling*) and it’s also one of Master’s favourite responses to the great subbie question- “But why??”

Now a few words from yours truly about why I can’t just ‘suck it up’…

I used to be the kind of girl who put up and shut up. In another life I got my hands ‘dirty’ a lot and generally just had to cope with a lot of shit. I didn’t even think about doing anything other than ‘sucking it up’ at the time, because I didn’t know any other way. That was how things were and I had no other option but to deal with it. So I did.

There was no thinking about my needs or my wants, things just were as they were. I held all of that slavey stuff- my dreams, my fantasies, my hopes and fears- deep inside because I knew that it was ‘never going to happen’. That part of me was never going to see the light of day…or so I thought at the time.

Then the kitten was let out of the bag and me and my life suddenly became too big to fit back into the box that it once fit snugly into. I no longer needed to live my sad excuse for a life and suck it up. I learnt that my needs and my wants could be met and I didn’t need to put up with anything less. I’ve become a lot less tolerant and a lot stronger in what I think and want and feel.

At the same time as gaining this new found ‘freedom’ I’ve also lost every ounce of freedom that I had. But I can’t go back to where I once was, I know better now. There is no need to suck up, deal with or put up with anything other than exactly what I want. I’ve got an immensely better quality of life at the moment and everyone who knows me can see the difference. I’m a lot less tightly strung and I’ve lost that ‘deer in headlights’ look about me. But it’s come at the price of losing my ability to just ‘suck it up’.

So that’s where I am at the moment, I’ve got the bratty voice inside me saying ‘You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to!’ and the slavey voice saying ‘You don’t have a choice, you’ve got to do it regardless of how you feel about it!’ Master always says that it takes me a long time to answer him during the ‘interrogation sessions’ and that’s because there’s all that incessant chattering from the two noisy girls upstairs. 

I suppose it’s a question of really identifying what I want (i.e. slavery) and listening to that voice andtuning out anything else. The bratty voice really is like the devil though, whispering in my ear, enticing me to indulge in the forbidden fruits of the forest, ‘Just say no, what can he really do to you?’ Leading me into temptation, forcing me to face the music.

The Touch of a Woman

My timetable for this semester has me at uni Mon, Wed, Fri with Tues and Thursday off. Two whole days a week I get to stay home and do the ‘living life stuff’. Later on I’m sure I’ll be using those days to frantically type some more ‘teaching crap’ so I can hand in assignments mere minutes before the deadline, but this week, I spent my two days scrubbing and vacuuming, mopping and dusting. 

I cleaned the house from top to bottom before I went home for holidays-doing the extra little things like dusting the louvres on the inside of the pantry door and scrubbing the underside of the soap holder in the shower. Three weeks I was gone, and while Master kept the house in an above-average state of tidiness, I noticed something was missing as soon as I walked in the door- the touch of a woman. 

Master and Jacque the poodle pup, stacked the dishwasher, took out the garbage, washed and ironed work clothes. Not really all that much different to what the ‘woman of the house’ does. But two boys left alone in the house for three weeks were lacking something. Now I’m not quite sure what the difference was, but it was tangible. 

I’ve noticed that with other boys too. I’ve regularly disappeared home for weeks and sometimes months at a time, only to return to a bachelor pad.  There’s something sad and kind of sterile about single boy’s places. It just makes me want to bake a cake and fold their socks into smiley faces for some reason.

Master said that while I was gone he missed the sounds I make, the sense that there was another person in the house. He missed the banter and the smells and interactions. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there is something different to a space shared by two people, some essence lingers in the air of laughter and happy times. The feeling that you are not alone and never will be.

After two days of fussing and primping, the house has returned to its former state of cohabitation. Master even baked an orange cake last night so instead of the heady smell of cleaning products, there was a wonderful aroma of orange throughout the house. 

Cake, cappuccino and quality time with Master….all sound like ingredients for a wonderful weekend.


So after my recent post about what the word ‘slut’ means I was reading through the comments and a sudden thought occurred to me, Just because Master calls me a slut, is it ok? Does his approval or consent to label me as something, even if I am not that thing, suddenly make it ok? On a similar line of thinking, if he told me to jump off a cliff, would that be ok because he was the one that told me to do it? 

Now, we’re not talking about obedience here- whether I actually do the thing or not is irrelevant. The question that I’m asking is whether the simple fact of being my owner suddenly gives him a blanket consent or approval for his actions and words.

Everytime I have a discussion (i.e. vent) about something that I don’t like or don’t agree with, inevitably, someone always pulls the he’s-your-master-so-if-it-makes-him-happy-you-have-to-do-it-and-it’s-ok card. This “get out of sticky situation free'” card is fine for me from a slave point of view, and I realise that I have to accept his decisions, whether graciously or not, but I don’t think that just by being my owner that it makes everything he says or do right. 

Fortunately, Master is a good guy. He won’t tell me to jump off a cliff or throw spit balls at my lecturer who doesn’t like me because I speak better Japanese than her…lol…and he enjoys the fact that I have my own opinions and that we can have half-decent conversations, as long as it’s not about war shit and I’m not having a blonde moment. But I find the whole idea that there is no ‘regulating body’ , other than his own discretion, as to what is wrong and right slightly unnerving.

Taken from another angle, if he decided to treat me inhumanely and emotionally abuse me, that would be ok because he is my owner. If he judged his actions and words and didn’t find them lacking, then they would be acceptable because he could always use his “get out of sticky situation free” card. 

Theoretically, he’s not meant to do anything to harm me, hurt perhaps, but harm, no. So it wouldn’t be in his best interests to do anything really nasty to me, but where do you draw the line about what is ok and what isn’t? What if his judgement is a little to far to the left of the middle?

I suppose this is where the whole trust factor comes into it, but it just made me wonder…slave=lemming?