Lazy Saturday Afternoons

So, what’s a girl supposed to do when her neighbours are karaoke lovers and strains of ‘Viva Las Vegas’ can be heard from over the fence at an ear-piercing level on a Saturday afternoon and she’s trying to do an assignment?

She looks down and takes a picture of her crotch. Of course.

I’ve titled it ‘easy-access trackie pants’.

Don’t ya just love the fluffy pink slippers too?

Maybe it’s time to buy new trackie pants…nah…they’re just to comfy and make it hell-easy to scratch (^v^)

Purpose

Chained naked to the bed by my collar, I waited for him to position himself on me, his legs wrapped tightly around my boots, his face about 10cms from mine. One hand on my neck with the other hand pinning down my right arm and with nowhere for me to go, the nightly interrogation starts. After ten or so minutes of the obligatory questions of ‘What are you?’ and ‘What are you required to dress as?’ and between the kisses and nipple-wrenching (this is, btw, what he calls a ravishing and what I call an interrogation session) he asked me this:

“What’s your cunt for?” 

“Your use and pleasure” 

“Why?”

Usually at this point, I will respond “Because I’m a slave” or “Because I’ve got no choice” or something else along those lines which, through trial and error, I have discovered are the ‘correct answers’. But this night I had a good long think about the answer and realised something for the first time:

“Because I don’t get any pleasure from it and I wish somebody did.” 

It was quite a startling revelation for me but on reflection, something that I’ve probably been aware of for quite sometime. While I do find penetration to be pleasurable in a sense, it’s more the fact that I’m enjoying being used and serving a purpose than getting any actual pleasure out of the physical sensations of being fucked.

I suppose for that reason more than any other, I became a slave- because I needed someone to give me the opportunities to serve a purpose and I wanted someone to get enjoyment out of me. I find the pleasure I get from being ‘useful’ better than anything I can give myself.

When I was married I spent a great deal of time frustrated. As a typical ‘sensitive new age guy’, he was as concerned about my pleasure as he was his own. He wanted to see my face and hated any position where it wasn’t possible including from behind or spooning. I, on the other hand, wanted to be an object and loved anything that made me feel less of a person and more of a hole. He also fiercely fought cumming ‘quickly’ so that I could have more ‘enjoyment’. Often I’d tell him “Don’t worry about me, enjoy yourself” because that’s what I really wanted him to do, but he was always on a mission to pleasure me. I lost count of the number of times I faked orgasm just so he’d be able to cum. Sexually we were so very incompatible and I probably made the situation worse by not being able to identify at the time what it was that I wanted and needed. 

But now I know my purpose.

 

The Rosetta Reminder Board

So I got up yesterday morning and there on the fridge, amongst the magnets and Chinese takeaway menus, was a message from Master

Don’t you just love a man with a sense of humour?

But while we’re on the subject of photos, anyone who goes back in my journal archives and clicks on a link to a photo will notice that the links no longer work. Without warning, Picasa decided that my photos breach their policy in that they are “pornography” and deleted my entire album without sending me an email or anything. It was only after I sent them a polite inquiry as to where all my photos went that they sent me a reply (4 days later) that “some of my photos had been deleted for breaching their policy” so apparently even the ones of me in fetish wear (no nudity) or the ones of my collar or of my tattoo etc. are apparently all “pornography” because they’ve deleted every single one of them.

It’s a massive task to go back through all my entries and re-upload and re-link all the photos so I won’t be doing that until some assignments are out of the way and I have several days to kill.

In the meantime, if anyone knows any free storage sites that won’t be ‘offended’ by my pics, please let me know. And just FYI, I’ve already been banned twice by photobucket so we won’t even go there.

Any info would be appreciated!

Collusions

Master has a new partner in crime. 

She is a sinister, evil woman who I think spends far too much time planning devilish tortures for unsuspecting subby folk. And with boots and boobs Mistress Blair is taking the kitten and Master world by storm. 

Hardly a day goes by when Master is not deep in conversation on msn with Mistress B, but it’s not often I know what they’re talking about. Though Master tosses me little scraps of information every so often about their latest dastardly plot, I generally have a strict ‘no reading over the shoulder’ rule to abide by that keeps me, more often than not, in ignorance.

I won’t say that I didn’t feel a bit jealous to begin with. Why wouldn’t I? She is an attractive, outgoing woman who appreciates the finer domly one things in life- canes, crops and cuffs. I felt a little bit out of the loop and to put it bluntly, annoyed that she was holding more of Master’s attention than I was. But I’m over that now and my biggest worry is what effect these collusions are having on Master.

For one thing, his thinking is going down a one-track path to nastiness. And to give a concrete example, he actually pulled a reverse mind-fuck double twist on me this morning! How dare he! For those readers who are unfamiliar with the ‘reverse mind-fuck double twist’ it involves making someone think you are mind-fucking them and then fucking with their mind anyway. 

He charged into my room this morning, waded through the veritable mountain of doonas and pillows (I sleep with 2 doonas and 3 pillows- I have ouchie pussy rings, how else can I get comfortable???) a quick neck chain check followed, then a ravish and finally he told me to get naked and go position myself on his bed for a morning caning. My mood immediately sank and the day was not looking good. He then did his famous dismissive sniff, left my bed and told me he’d see me that night for a meet and greet.

So I naturally thought that he’d done his little mind-fuck so I chirped up, rolled up in my doonas again and snuggled down for some more sleep. Approximately 3 minutes later I heard him bellowing in the corridor,

‘Why haven’t you done what you’ve been told to do????’

Thus began the reverse mind-fuck double twist. The first order hadn’t actually been a mind-fuck, but he’d made me think it was with the ‘see you tonight’ comment and then I ended up naked with a caned ass on his bed and a fucked mind anyway. That double twist just dug so deep. Damn domly ones and their reverse mind-fuck double twists!!!

 Actually, Master hasn’t really turned to the ‘dark side’. He still spoils me rotten on a regular basis *points to now non-existent block of choccie and packet of twisties in the pantry* But my Master, the nice, kind domly one, is really thinking of me as a slave and very little else these days. He says that I’ve changed, but what I actually think is that he has done a fair bit of shuffling upstairs (no thanks in part to his discussions with the Witchey One) and is a lot clearer now in how he thinks about me. It’s good. Things are a lot simpler this way and I can sense the clarity in him which in turn makes things clearer for me.

So the colluding is not all that bad. I’m glad that he actually has someone to talk to and discuss his harsh and cruel plans with. I have an endless supply of subby-minded folk with which to bitch and moan to about the foibles of the domly folk and the woes of the submissive soul, but I sense that most domly ones do their ‘thing’ in isolation. 

I just hope that when domly ones get together they all play nice with each other in the playground and don’t get their floggers caught up in a knot.

Mr. Brooks

Although this might sound disturbingly like another cunt/bum insertion device- owing to my penchant for naming toys ala Reservoir Dogs, it’s actually the name of a Kevin Costner movie I watched on the plane on the way back from Melbourne. While Master was busily scrolling through the games on the entertainment unit (which, along with the after dinner ice-cream and the guarantee of a 747 if you choose your flight right, is one of the only reasons I fly Qantas) I was pondering the last time I had seen a decent Kevin Costner movie and being unable to remember one in the history of mankind, I was preparing myself to be disappointed.

Surprisingly enough the movie was good, really good and I thought Kevin did a great job as the serial killer addicted to murder. But owing to the fact that I always try to draw connections with BDSM in absolutely everything I see or watch (Do the dynamics of  Bananas in Pyjama’s B1 and B2 show an under-lying power exchange?) I found the scenes where he was drinking in the power of his kills fascinating because they reminded me of how I interpret the feelings of Doms drinking in their power over the submissive. I’m not saying that I think that Doms are psychotic killers, but I do think that there are some similarities in the way that they process the feeling of having power over another. 

Throughout the movie William Hurt played Kevin’s ‘evil internal voice’ instructing and arguing with the ‘straight and narrow’ Kevin and the whole concept of having an ‘evil voice’ inside really struck a chord with me. There was also one scene in particular where Kevin was pouring over post-kill photos, hunched over the images naked, soaking up the bliss of exercising the ultimate power over someone that I thought matched my ideas about how Doms might feel post-scene. My own experiences have shown me that the pre and post-event rolling around of images in my mind are always so much more delightful than anything I feel during the actual event.

Having never ‘topped’ someone, I really haven’t experienced being on the other side of the BDSM fence so what I’m saying here is purely my own speculation and probably fantastical in some ways. The only time I can even remotely relate to what Doms could possibly be feeling is when I am involved in what I call ‘self-scening’. I used to do this a lot in my pre-slave days, planning sometimes for hours or days in advance what I would do to myself and what I would need to do it. I was always very calm but very tightly strung, laying out instruments of bondage and thinking about anchoring points and predicaments. A sort of nervous tension was around me that I felt the whole world must be able to see. 

The ‘scene’ itself mightn’t take very long, 30mins to an hour usually, with several adjustments of positions and uppings of the ‘ouchie factor’. I even remember making some holes in the wooden beams of my rented apartment for hook-eyes, doing a scene on the cold concrete of my balcony (screening material needed for that one) and messing around with thumb tacks and candle wax. It was almost as if there were two parts of me, the inflictor and the inflictee, but what I enjoyed most was not so much the event itself but everything above and beyond it.

Last night Master had me in what I’d like to term ‘training mode’- naked, leashed and being put through my paces like a pet on an obstacle course. For about two hours there was crawling here and there, dragging by hair, head to floor, foot-licking, cock-sucking, nipple wrenching, caging and crop, crop, cropping. He was being relentless on my ass with that mother- fucking crop that doesn’t function as a crop but as a short cane because the tongue is so soft and worn. He had me in tears numerous times and when I’m not even vaguely concerned about eating chocolate off his cock that is a serious state of mind. 

It’s times like that when I both hate and love him with a passion. The duality of it is crippling at times. My cunt was juicy beyond belief, but my pride was bruised and battered. I would have liked to thump the crap out of him in retribution, but there was also a lovely warmth that spread from inside rewarding me for being what I am.

Home alone

We’re baaaaaack! Well, actually anyone who reads Master’s blog will know that we’ve been back since Wednesday, but let’s not dwell on trivialities…lol.

So ten quality days with Master were spent in Melbourne and other than us both getting yucky colds, we had a wonderful time. There were lots of ‘Why are you sitting on the floor?‘ ,‘Why doesn’t he get his own beer/coffee/whatever?‘ and ‘Why are you still wearing that thing around your neck?‘ questions echoing around the various places we visited but it was all good. The highlight of the trip was definitely our ‘spanky spanky interruptus’ episode at Master’s parents’ house and once again we were reminded of the importance of closing bedroom doors even in a seemingly empty house.

Master went off to Yanchep (about 30mins north of Perth) today for work and won’t be back until tomorrow so we have a slave home alone situation. I think it’s the first night I’ve spent alone in this house in the 13 months I’ve lived here. I spent the day working on a uni assignment and had an easy dinner. It’s quiet and lonely and not the least little bit of fun I was expecting when Master walked out the door this morning saying, “Have fun!”

At times like this I have been known to evoke the slave girl’s cure-all…a masturbation fest! And while the thought of having a release without permission did cross my mind for about 0.2 micro-seconds, I immediately swallowed my pride and reached for my mobile. It’s frustrating and kind of scary to think that I can no longer use my body as though it’s mine, but it’s simply my way of life now.

Master graciously gave me permission for a release (although I could *feel* him laughing at me over the phone…) so I decided to spice things up a bit. Cue leather hood, ball gag, hand-cuffs, rope, chains, nipple-clamps, blindfold and one rather juicy, pumping climax. It was a release in more ways that one- good hard bondage is something I need from time to time and at the end of the day it really doesn’t matter whether it’s me tying myself up or Master tying me up. I even managed to give myself some great rope marks and imprints from my studded belt. Woo hoo!

One thing I particularly like doing when self-bondage is on the menu is presenting myself with a predicament like lower my head too far and choke myself kind of stuff. Now before any alarm bells going ringing in anyone’s head, I’m always very careful and don’t do anything stupid. After all, what fun is there to be had if you can’t enjoy the release at the end?

 

Getting away

Master and I will be off to Melbourne from tomorrow to spend some time celebrating birthdays and anniversaries with his family and friends. 

Being in the latter half of my last semester at uni, it’s not the best time to be going anywhere. I spent most of my time in the lecture this morning, between half listening and half working on one of my assignments, worrying about just when I was going to get my assignments done re: ‘If I finish that one before we leave and do that one while we’re in Melbourne, then I can start one of the two that are due just after we come back…..’ and so on and so forth. Gee, I just love being a student again! Remind me when I start to get the urge to study again of all the angst associated with it.

Melbourne promises to be a time of slut wear and secretive croppings. Last time we stayed at Master’s parents’ house he took his one-touch rope bondage to rope me at night in my bedroom and then he’d come and get me in the early hours of the morning and take me to his bedroom. I’m sure his parents were wondering what all the shuffling in the hallway and the muted spanking noises were about and why we wouldn’t emerge until well into the morning.

There were also the hand-cuffed cropping sessions that echoed throughout the house when no-one was home, but every little noise brought a ‘Was that a car door?’ response from me. (Reading back over that it sounds like I was trying to find an excuse for the cropping session to stop. Pffft! Me? Try to stop it? Never!)

I’m also worrying about more mundane matters like how I’m going to do pussy maintenance.  I really find it hard being out of my familiar environment and a lack of privacy is not so good. I don’t think a ‘she’s got an infection down there!’ excuse will cut it again this year as to why I need to have salt baths *makes mental note to take her own big-mutha bag of salt this time. Food is also an issue because I only eat  chicken and fish in the ‘meat’ department and I always feel like I’m imposing on people and being ‘difficult’.

But aside from all that, it will be nice to spend some quality time with Master. He’s a bit stressed about job issues and money issues and things like that at the moment,so it will be good for him to get away from it all and chill. He has worked out a lovely itinerary for us and arranged some great sight-seeing in and around Melbourne. The itinerary he, of course, turned into a colour-coded excel spreadsheet and forwarded to all involved *has a deja vu moment of an anal James Spader in the Secretary

Thank you Master, I love my spreadsheet (^v^)

So if you don’t hear from me for a while, think of me pounding the streets of Melbourne in leather and boots.

Writer’s Block

 I was having a few problems thinking of something to write about so I dropped Master an email:

‘Is there anything you’d like me to write about? I’m stuck for a topic.’

This was his reply:

‘Topics off the top of my head, no particular order or preference:
 
Caning me every night
Living with a cracked pussy is worse than a cracked Master
Plague time and holidays, why do they come together?
Inside my cage
Is Master’s family sane?
12 months of Living in Perth
Japanese housewife or Australian slave
Why l like rice
Learning to be obedient
It’s harder to be a slut when you’re falling apart

Master’

OMG…I so lost it when I read his topics. He’s funny, and even funnier is the thought that he’d be writing that completely straight-faced- he’s that sort of guy…lol.

Master is a funny guy – and I mean that both ways. Anyone who has met him in the flesh knows that he’s quite imposing and anyone who has heard him knows he’s intimidating. My friend who has recently turned to the ‘dark side’ of submission asked me once if he enjoys intimidating people. She says her IQ drops about 120 whenever he’s around and all she can do is wave mutely or giggle uncontrollably (I do have to point out that I’m the one who encourages her to do a lot of uncontrollable giggling.) He doesn’t do it on purpose, but combined with the fact that he doesn’t smile a lot or show his emotions, he’s just got a scary aura.

I spend a lot of time trying to woo him with my girlish charms and make him smile. Every so often I’ll get a smirk or even the holy grail of an audible laugh, but the most I’ve seen him laugh was about a week ago when he was watching some videos of “How not to ghost ride” on Youtube. I almost went out into the kitchen to find out what was wrong because it was a sound I had never heard- he was pissing himself laughing. It was so unusual. It used to worry me that he was so serious all the time, but now I’m used to it and I love him just the same (^v^) Although I do get myself into trouble often because I don’t know when he is angry/unhappy because usually there is no visible sign.

I’m often confused as to how to interact with people when I know they are dominant. As an example, I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to talk to our new Domme friend on the weekend, because although she’s not my dominant, I know who and what I am. We started out chatting like girls do, but as the night wore on and she put more and more of her Domme face on, I felt our positions being defined clearer and clearer. One way or another, I’m always conscious of the fact that I’m on the bottom rung of the ladder. 

At the last dungeon party we went to, I was talking casually to a guy about something, when suddenly he pointed to my neck and said to me, ‘A steel collar? You don’t find many of those’ and just the tone he used immediately slammed home to me the fact that I wasn’t there talking to him as an ‘equal’. I don’t know if he meant to do that consciously or not, but it was just an interesting moment that has stuck with me.

But back to the topic list,I think I have dealt with most of those themes to some extent or another at various times in this blog- with the exception of  the ‘Why I like rice’ essay- but to find the entries, you’d have to trawl through months of whinging and bitching. Sometimes you just can’t see the meat for the moaning. I like the fact that he’s put the ‘learning to be obedient’ line in there. Very subtly he’s trying to make me see the error of my ways – that the ultimate cause of all the unrest between us is my lack of obedience. The only thing that I can say to that is that I more than make up for my lack of obedience with my cuteness *wink, wink.

 

Cracking up

 Question:

How much ass crack, would a waxing crack up,
If a waxing session could crack your crack?

Answer:

About 10cms

Well, that’s how much of my ass crack is cracked at the moment. An interesting side-effect from my brazillian boo-boo last week, saw me scratch and scratch and scratch until I could scratch no more and then my ass cracked. It’s exactly the same feeling as having a split toe, except sitting down is super ouchie, going to the toilet is super ouchie and  laying on my back is super ouchie. After asking around, I’m apparently the only person who has had a split toe (where the skin splits underneath your toe on the joint between your toe and foot because of dryness), so if you haven’t, let me just say, it fucking kills!

But didn’t you get a brazilian pussy waxing? I hear you ask. Yes, but they also do up your bum crack because surprisingly enough, that’s where a lot of hair grows and you just can’t have a slave with a hairy hole.

Another interesting thing happened to me on Friday last week. I was in the library attempting to find some good resources for a year eight class (13-14yr olds) about utopias presented in sci-fi literature, when I had this absolutely amazing need to scratch. So I quickly found an isolated area of the library, put both hands down my pants and had one of those toe-curling, rip-snorting scratch sessions that brings tears of joy/pain to the eyes. I’d thought I’d sussed out a pretty good secluded area in the library, but apparently not secluded enough because I was stumbled upon mid-scratch by a tall guy wearing a back pack and glasses. I didn’t make eye-contact but I could imagine what he was thinking seeing a chick with two rapidly moving hands down her pants groaning and moaning. Master said I should of charged him for the privilege. LOL!

One of the itchiest parts of me through all this has been my clit. I’ve scratched and squeezed and rubbed my clit that much over the past 5 days that if I was ever going to have an orgasm that way, I would of had fifty bazillion by now. But alas, ’twas not to be.

Unfortunately, Master has chosen this week to start his new training project- “Let’s increase kitten’s pain tolerance!”  So he says that he’s going to cane me every night from now on. Last night after twenty ‘light’ strokes (and yes they were, because a “Fuck!” didn’t escape my lips) he decided to add some spanking and butt kneading to the recipe. Normally that’s fine (although I do think he spanks harder than anything else) but split butt cracks and cheek kneading do not a happy combination make and a ripping, tearing pain shot up through me that had me gasping and crying and snot nosed in 0.42 seconds flat. I’d spent the better part of my day moaning and bitching about my painful ass and telling him in great detail that any sort of movement, stretching or parting of the cheeks just kept ripping the skin. He then apologised saying that he hadn’t meant to do that. That was fine, I accepted that. But two minutes later when I’d rolled onto my tummy and he was having a look, he proceeded to pull apart my cheeks!!!!

“WHAT DID I JUST TELL YOU ABOUT MY ASS????”

I couldn’t help it. It needed to be yelled at a high volume. I sometimes wonder if he thinks I tell him things just for fun.It’s the same as my jaw. I often gently move his hand from the side of my face as he mashes my jaw joint into next week only to have it back there mashing away one minute later.I know he’s my owner and he can do whatever he likes and I’ve got to ‘suck it up’, but I just find it hard when I’m trying my best to get well for him.

So all in all, I’ve not been a happy camper since b-day. Thank you everyone for your suggestions about what to put on it! I’ve been slathering pawpaw cream liberally all over my nether regions several times a day and although it’s not 100% better or even 80%, this morning I woke up feeling better than I have since Thursday last week. Hopefully it will be under control by the time we leave for Melbourne on Saturday- Master’s hands permitting.

 

The Party aka The Blair Witch Project

Let me start by saying that I had a great time! It was fabulous to meet everyone that I’d either chatted to on-line or heard so much about- it’s always great to put faces to names.

About 3pm yesterday, Master gave me the nod to wear clothes! Yay! So instead of horrifying the room with my post-apocalyptic cunt, I got to cover it up with my purple 1906’s-go-go-girl-meets-slut look.  Not only was I comfortable, but I was also warm (^v^) I erred on the side of clown for make-up, but I wanted to make sure I looked ‘tarted-up’ enough and the whole ensemble was completed with big hair and boots.

We drove over and spent a little bit of time locating the correct house number eventually pulling out one of Master’s torches to shine on the letterbox to check the number. It was one of those ones that you twist the casing to turn it on and I got a bit happy with turning it on and off, making the car in the darkness of the forrest resemble a suspenseful moment in the Blair Witch Project (*insert heavy breathing and handheld camera shakes) After locating the property we ‘four double u deed it ‘ up the rough driveway and the party began.

Master spent the night snapping away pics and watching the entertainment. 106 pics to be exact. I spent the night chatting, checking out fashions and praying to god that he wasn’t going to make me strip and reveal my wussiness to the world with a ‘light’ beating. It’s amazing to see the masochists suck up the pain of paddles, straps, canes and needles. Cringing and looking on with the voyeuristic fascination of someone looking at the aftermath of an accident, I so desperately wished that I had been born with the masochist gene.

So on that same line of thinking, there’s a question I’d like to ask all the masochistic folk out there, did your pain tolerance start of low and gradually build up or was it always high? I’m trying to figure out whether there is anything I can do to lessen my wussiness or is it just something that I have to ‘suck up’.

Anyways, thanks everyone for a great night. Master has written up the night’s entertainment in detail over on his blog.