If someone stares at you for a longer period of time than is normal it’s because:

a)  You walk like Mr Bean dances
b)  Dental hygiene for you is a buzzword of the 1950’s
c)  They saw your wanted poster outside the police station
d)  You’re having a wardrobe malfunction
e)  Wearing a bib should be mandatory for you
f)   They’re staring at the collar around your neck

Well, it’s a tough job, but someone has to refute most of those alternative options above:

a)  I tend to hobble in boots rather than walk, and I keep my arms firmly to my sides, avoiding any circular motion
b)  I have an uber-super Oral B supersonic electric toothbrush, which could also double as a vibrator thanks to its 10,000 oscillations a minute
c)  I’ve never been caught for anything I’ve done wrong (^v^)
d)  Wardrobe malfunctions are usually confined to slut wear and since I’ve been in henny penny teacher wear, it ain’t happening
e)  I know that food goes into my mouth and not onto my shirt (hint, hint Master)

So obviously the answer must be f. But for some reason, when I notice someone staring at me, I always assume it’s one of the reason listed from a to e above. That last one never really seems to dawn on me until much, much later.

Still no more comments on the collar, but I am noticing more people staring. Any one want to place a bet on whether I get any straight out questions or comments before the end of my 6 week prac?  Master and I played this game before with his family and I lost and my ass paid for it. I thought most people would be tactful enough not to say anything, and his family wasn’t, but how about 120 teaching staff and 1800 kids?

Next year

One week down and five to go on prac. I’ve decided that six weeks is definitely too long. But the question that is on my mind constantly as the weeks roll by is, what am I going to do once uni is all over?

Money is always an issue whether you are in an M/s or a vanilla relationship. Although my fantasies of slavery placed me at home cleaning, scrubbing and doing his bidding 24/7 the reality is can we afford to do that and do I want more than that anyway?

Master has told me of a Mistress he knows who has several slaves living in cages in her house. Upon entering their life of slavery they turned all their wealth over to her and truly became her property. A favourite is chosen to sleep on the floor by her bed at night and the others are locked into their cages under the house. These kind of scenarios always make me think about the banalities of what will happen to those slaves if anything happens to go wrong and what sort of a life is that to lead. While I am a slave, I’m not locked away from the world and I do play a part in society.

I had the opposite situation with my previous owner. I went out and worked shift work either starting before dawn or finishing after midnight. He took all of the money that I made and used it to pay off  his mounting debts and occasionally surprised me by bringing home a new tv set or ordering samurai swords off ebay. Meanwhile I’d often get calls at work from the real estate agent saying that the rent hadn’t been paid. And what was he doing during all of this? Playing computer games. Eventually he had to go out and work in a job that I got for him and which I later regretted getting for him because he sat around there and played games too, while I had to do what he was supposed to be doing a lot of the time.

Yes, I was stupid and naive but I guess some part of me wanted so badly to be a part of a D/s relationship and after all, I’d left my husband and everything I’d known for the last ten years and I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to get what I’d been promised! So I stuck with it, hoping that he would change and I’d get to live the life of slavery that I’d dreamed about for so long. But obviously I was just being used and he had no intention of entering in a ‘fair’ relationship with me from the beginning

The staying in an obviously bad relationship deal is such a cliche and I’m quite embarassed that I did it too.  ‘Better the devil you know’ really is true in a lot of cases and I guess for me I was scared of being on my own with no money and nothing to show for the past months. I ended up living like that for a year and then it just got too much for me so I asked him to remove my collar (it was another one of those lockable ones and thus my issue with lockable collars began), packed my bags and left. 

I have a very different situation with Master and if I’d been smarter I would have come here a lot sooner. Master wasthe one I was bitching to and asked advice of during all that crap with my previous owner. He didn’t try to lure me away or whisper sweet promises of slavery in my ear or anything, he just lent me a patient, understanding ear and helped me on several occasions to ‘start again’ with my owner. Of course, no amount of starting again would of helped that relationship, but he was very supportive anyway.

With Master I’m in the interesting situation that I don’t necessarily have to go to work. If I worked, we’d be able to put some money aside for holidays and superannuation and things, but an income from me is not required for us to live per se. So I’ve often thought what it would be like to be his full-time bitch. During school holidays and things there have been times when I’ve been home and able to meet and greet him everyday and keep the house tidy and those times have been really nice. But they have been limited periods and I wonder what doing that for months would be like. Would I feel fulfilled in being able to serve him fully without the additions of income and a working life, with its associated social connections for me?

The other option for me would of course be to work from home. I worked from home as a translator in Japan and theoretically it would be possible here too. To that end I’m taking an accreditation test on the 9th November, to give myself some more options for next year. Not quite sure when I’ll have time to study for it, but I’ll give it a go anyway.

So at the moment, next year is very up in the air for me, but one thing’s for sure….I ain’t gonna be a high school teacher…they don’t pay you enough for that abuse!

Is it Friday yet? Please?

I’m tired. Super tired. So tired in fact I’ve been in bed waaay before 10pm each night this week. Maybe it’s a good thing so I’m not up and around pining for Master.

Master came home for his mid-week visit last night and it was lovely to watch him pottering around in the kitchen and hear him yell his favourite phrases, ‘Bitch! Coffee me!’ and ‘Bitch! Sock me!’ (which means take his socks off, not slap the shit out of him). It’s definitely much nicer when he’s here.

After dinner I made some worksheets, cleaned the kitchen, stacked the dishwasher, ironed his work shirts and had my bath. Upon emerging I heard a  “Bitch!” so I went into the lounge to see what he wanted.

(Pointing to the ground in front of the lounge) “So, like, I’ve been away for several days and like, aren’t you supposed to be here, soaking up my presence?” what would Masters be for if not for providing such poignant ruminations?
P.S I had my first “I like your necklace” comment today. I generally find that it’s the slightly ’emo kids’ who make the positive comments about it and it won’t be long before the “Why do you always wear that?”, “Isn’t it heavy?” comments from the ‘normal kids’ start. Can’t wait…lol.

Where I’m at

Sitting here in my purple cuffs and restraint belt, I thought it might be a good time to do a bit of an update of sorts- apparently I’m going into the cage later with my hood so that might call a halt to any blogging action later in the afternoon.

Well, I finished my last assignment on Wednesday and my last exam on Friday, so to all extents and purposes, I’m finished uni and studying, again…for the…umm…third time? I’ve been under a fair amount for pressure for the past few weeks, so that is my excuse for not blogging regularly and I’m sticking to it. Now whether or not my entries become more regular now or not, is another question…lol. For the next six weeks I’ll be doing prac teaching at a secondary school in about the most inconvenient place I could possibly be going to in Perth. We all know I’m not a morning person and the 6am wake-ups I’ll be doing in order to get there on time, will be hideous. So if you don’t see a blog for a while, just assume I’m napping.

After my exam on Friday I went with a friend to Sexpo and literally turned her into my bitch. We had great fun with the assistance of the guys at Sax Leather and trussed her up in some delightful purple cuffs, a collar, leash and blindfold and then they even obliged her with a bit of paddling and flogging and some kneeling action. Her reaction was priceless. Fingers crossed she gets a collar to call her own soon.

In “Hooker 2006” and come-fuck-me boots, I looked decidedly dommely and after having her at the end of my leash, I thought it might be interesting to walk around with the leather paddle I’d bought Master in my hand. I’m sure more than a few people there thought she was ‘my girl’. I’ve decided to call the paddle “Mr. Amnesia” because for some reason, I have memory loss when it comes to pain toys. I constantly forget how much they hurt and my fervent vows never to buy Master anything to inflict pain with again, go right out the window. Along with a lovely front-lacing burgundy corset I also made another couple of painful purchases that I’m hoping to surprise Master with later on which I might be tempted to call “Mr. Amnesia Revisited” and “Mr. Amnesia Returns”.

Saturday morning I thought it might be a good idea to scrub the ‘I love SEX’ fake tattoo I’d gotten at Sexpo off my hand before going shopping among the ‘nilla folk. It had crossed my mind that perhaps the back of my hand wasn’t the best place to put something like that and I’d had images on myself unable to remove it and doing a ‘Michael Jackson’ to school on Monday. I applied some soap and started rubbing. There wasn’t even a hint of fading or imminent removal so I brought in the big guns – my loofah. After several minutes of vigorous scrubbing, it finally started to budge and although it involved scrubbing the back of my hand red raw, it’s now completely gone. The lesson for today? Put embarrassing shit like that in a non-embararssing place.

Sunday morning I woke up to a vase full of our gorgeous apricot roses from the garden and a freshly baked banana cake. Master had been busy while I was sleeping the morning away. Sitting here now I can smell the perfume of the roses as they sit on the table behind me and I can still taste the scrummy banana cake on my tongue and once again I’m reminded of just how lucky I am to have Master. He’d even been waiting for me to wake up so he could have breakfast, because for some reason, and I can’t for the life of me explain why, he cannot make toast without setting off the fire alarm.

Next week Master starts living down south for 4 days of the week and I’ll be spending considerable amounts of time left to my own devices. I’m not happy about it, but there is nothing that can be done about it at the moment. When he told me on Friday about the new arrangement for work, my immediate reaction was tears, but I blinked them back and put on a brave face. At least he’ll be back on the weekends and Wednesday nights so it’s not like I won’t get to see him forever and when he’s not here,  I’ll still have the roses to remind me.

Baby doll slut meets Mr. Medium

I enjoy labelling my meet and greet outfits for Master. When I hear Master’s car pull up and I do the ‘piss-bolt’ into the appropriate place with butt up and head down, I’m generally thinking of a title for that day’s outfit. He often whistles a bit as he nears the door and then the screen door opens and I hear the key rattling in the lock.

“Well, well, what have we got here?”

That’s generally my cue to reply with the appropriate label. Last night was  ‘baby doll meets slut’.

Master always brushes past me and heads into the kitchen leaving me kneeling there while he turns on puter/ opens mail/ gets undressed/ has a drink etc. I watch him upside-down from between my legs as he does ‘his thing’ and wait for some directions. Last night he told me a buttplug would ‘look lovely’ with my outfit and got his camera ready in anticipation.

It’s been a while since I had a buttplug in thanks to a combination of not-so-regular bowel movements (How can I poo if you keep pushing it back in??? …..or is that too much information???) and plague so Master took pity on me and instructed the insertion of Mr. Medium as opposed to Mr. ‘OMG’ Purple.

Sometimes when I put a buttplug in there’s a bit of discomfort and that burning sensation which finally dies down, and then there are times when it just hurts the whole time and I break into a sweat and start to get a headache. The last couple of times have definitely been the latter.

So kneeling there with buttplug insertion complete he decided that a good thorough cropping was in order so he brought out his new Mr. Triangle crop and thwacked away on both cheeks. Those out-of-the-blue croppings have a nasty habit of taking my breath away sometimes.

Then it was up onto the bed for some ravishing. I told him I wasn’t sure whether Mr. Medium would stay in or not. BIG MISTAKE. Huge. Massive mistake. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it in there for you.”

I don’t think I’ve heard a more evil statement.

My next thirty minutes resembled something like a Lamaze class with me doing super deep breathing, “In through the nose, out through the mouth” as Master pushed and twisted that lump around  in my ass. I felt like I was going to give birth to a whole new generation of little Mr. Mediums.

Fortunately I survived the attack of the Mr. Medium and baby doll slut lived to tell the tale.

The 8000

Today officially marks the day that I reached the elusive number of 8000 views on my alt profile. What an illustrious occasion! Well, it’s not really, but I’ve been saying to Master for the past two or three months that I’m ‘nearly at 8000’ so I’m sure he’ll be happy to know that I am finally there.

I’m a funny kind of person in that respect: numbers, dates, views etc are all things that mark some sort of ‘achievement’ in my ife and I generally pay fairly careful attention to them. The ‘views counter’ on this blog is something that I check at least once a day and I find myself getting depressed when the graph starts looking like a downhill slide. It shouldn’t really matter, afterall, I’m not blogging  in order to have people read what I write, I’m just blogging to get all that stuff that is in my head out of my head to give myself some breathing space.

My alt profile was one of the first things I created when I started down the path of D/s. To be exact, I’ve been a member since 4th April, 2005. That was just over a couple of years ago but soooooooo much has happened in those two years that I feel like it’s been twenty and not two. I look back over my ‘achievements’ with a certain fondness: my first and second collarings, my first caning, my first cat and single tail whippings, the 325 strokes, the piercings, my first mystery shopper, my first public ‘display’ and of course, all of that that culminated in me being broken. Part of me thinks that was a lot to ‘achieve’ before being broken and another part of me is kind of ashamed that I went down without a fight. 

Just on that public thing, when I was younger I used to do this thing where when I got nervous I’d count things out on my fingers according to how many letters there were in the word until I reached a number ending in five or zero. If it didn’t fit, I’d add things until it did. I’m not sure whether that is an indication of how bizarro I am, or something else, but I know that being in public has always and still does freak me out. I feel totally insecure by myself walking down a street and I guess that is what I’d find in the ‘Jedi Cave’ if Yoda sent me in there. As a result, I’m quite a hermit really, happier at home than anywhere else. I do feel kind of eerie though, that Master knew me well enough to know that being displayed publicly would tip me right over the edge in ‘broken-ness’. Eerie, but comforting at the same time.

Master often comments that I am constantly touching him and brushing myself up against him etc.  If he leaves the lounge while I’m watching something, even if it’s something I want to watch, I’ll go and find him after a few minutes. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but I need the constant reaffirmation of our relationship. I need to sense it, feel it, breathe it. Sometimes I may forget that I have a collar around my neck, but I don’t like to lose the sense that I’m a slave.The other night he said, 

“You need that leash, don’t you? You need to feel it there all the time.”

That’s oh-so-very true and funnily enough, one of my favourite pastimes is counting the links.

Kitten in the kitchen

So, I’m sure you all know that Master is a gourmet kinda guy. He makes all sorts of exotic things and our pantry has things like canned escargot and canned clams and that’s just on his side! (My side with the Japanese stuff only has things like pickled gourd, dried salmon flakes with green tea seasoning and mugwort flour…not funky at all.)

I’m always amazed how culturally-centred food and eating etiquette is. I learned a completely different way of eating and cooking in Japan and certain flavours and textures have a special place in my heart. I am continually torn between my white trailer park trash chips and tomato sauce roots and my oh-my-god-I-need-pickled-plums-now! adopted Japanese culture. Master, being a gourmet man, understands my needs and takes me to various shops to satisfy my cravings but the poor guy, it seems every conversation I have with him starts with “Well, in Japan….” Fortunately he’spatient with me and only sometimes threatens to send me over to Ms. B’s for the weekend to understand just how good I have things. I miss Japan in a lot of ways and even though it’s been two years since I left, it will stay a part of me forever.

But anyways, last night we had a yummy pasta that Master made and I contributed to in my own little way….by dishing it up! Lol. I really can’t xpress how liberating and wonderful it is to have a man who enjoys cooking and wants to do it all the time! It’s such a new and wonderful experience for me and I use it to my complete advantage by requesting all sorts of lovely things that Master is very happy to oblige me by cooking up.

So I was still in my meet and greet red slut outfit as I pottered around the kitchen draining pasta and grating parmesan cheese (oh, the stress of it all!) so Master took some photos– surprise, surprise! 

Bon appetit!

Why women are crueller than men

The simple answer? Because they have to be.

But perhaps some explanation is warranted.

(So just before I launch into a stupendous display of presenting an argument, let me just say that I did have a bit of a discussion with myself about whether I should be posting on this topic or not…seeing that there is a Mistress B. shopping trip in the works…lol)

But anyway, the explanation.

My thoughts on the matter are pretty much tied up in society’s taboos and expectations of the role of the sexes. In short, men are trained not to hit women, to mow the lawn and fix the car and provide flowers, romantic dinners for two and that elusive thing called ‘foreplay’. Women are trained to have a career and family, fight for equality, run at the first sign of abuse and be beautiful, demure and raunchy all at the same time. Those are pretty damn big generalizations, but sum up, quite well I think, where the sexes are in society at this point in time.

Violence is not something that is looked upon well. Especially from men. A woman might slap a man across the face for lying to her and that’s ok, but heaven forbid that a man do it- he’s then some sort of heinious woman-basher. We have two very different ideas about what is ‘ok’ for a man to do and what is ‘ok’ for a woman to do. As a result, men don’t really need to lift more than a finger to be breaking the taboos of a society, but a woman needs to do a lot more to get the same ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’.

For a man, who is not a sadist at heart, beating someone in a bdsm context is tricky. Hurting women is just something that you don’t do. Even a bit of ‘roughing up’ and a few whacks on the botty with the palm of one’s hand count as a beating – and heaven forbid if you slap a woman across the face! The SSC bloodhounds would sniff you out in a minute if you did that in public.

Most men have got a finely-tuned sense that hurting a woman is not ‘ok’ thanks to society beating it into them and therefore a certain amount of restraint is called for on their part. Women, on the other hand, don’t need to have that restraint, because they haven’t had society whispering in their ear telling them that beating a man is wrong.

There is also a certain amount of ‘making up for being a woman’ that female dominants have to do. Generally they are automatically on the back foot in terms of being the one ‘in control’ and the most ‘powerful one’ in the relationship. Therefore a fair amount of ‘more is better’ seems to be called for as far as exotic pleasures go.

I’ve often heard the comment that male subs are ‘more submissive’ than females. They get trampled, CBT, rammed up the ass with all sorts of things and still they are licking their Mistresses boots and thanking them for the opportunity to serve. This is also because I think that a lot of men really need to be treated like absolute crap in order to feel like the ‘lower one’ or the one that doesn’t have ‘the power’. It takes just that much more for them to feel submissive and the woman not having the restraint is happy to oblige with all manner of nasty things. In my case, it doesn’t take very much at all for me to feel submissive- a grope here, a look there and I know what I am. I’m not quite sure it works the same with guys.

But just to make it clear, I’m not making any judgements whatsoever here. These are all just thoughts I’ve had based on things I’ve witnessed and things people on both sides of the fence have said to me. I’m not saying that one is better than the other, just that generally in my experience, women *are* crueller.

Just my two cents.

Pink elephants

Play parties always crack me up. There is a certain element of ‘Let’s ignore the pink elephant in the room’ about them that really makes my head spin.

Take my experiences the other night for example. I was already trussed up to the cross when a couple of people I knew entered the house and came over to say hi. I looked back over my shoulder to say hi and exchanged the normal pleasantries of “How are you?”, “How’s work?” and “I’d shake your hand, but I’m a bit tied up at the moment.” Meanwhile, I was still naked and trussed up to the cross. Then in a pause in the conversation, my switch friend decided she’d try out Master’s new whip on me. Hello? I thought we were friends! Lol..

Later, dragged into the kitchen on the leash, still naked and with my hands tied behind my back on the bondage belt, some more friends struck up another conversation with me about doing community nursing etc. Now, I don’t know about you but I just wouldn’t be able to do that. For one, I wouldn’t know where to look and secondly, it’s just bizarro.

There’s also a certain ‘freedom’ at parties that I find interesting. Something along the lines of sub meat trussed up somewhere is a ‘free-for-all’. I think I had four different people beating me with different implements and then there was the incident with the heavy hardware maid:

Master had taken me into the back room for a second session on a different cross and people kept coming by, sticking their head in and having a chat. The maid dropped by and for some reason decided I needed a bit of moral support, so she came in started stroking me and running her nails up and down my back and sides, all the while whispering “Breathe, you’re such a good slave.” I was hoping that Master was going to save me from her attentions, but he said he was enjoying the whole ‘girl-on-girl’ aspect of it (typical!). She then disappeared into the kitchen to get some ice. Back she came with ice and rubbed it all over my back and botty and then did a check for cunt wetness. She then decided that some ice in my pussy would be a really good thing, so a quick insertion followed. Master found the whole thing highly amusing.

Of course, no-one did anything without Master’s consent or approval, but it was a very good lesson in objectification for me. 

Oh, I’ve added some more pics to my album for everyone’s viewing pleasure.


Something happened on Saturday night, but I’m not really sure how to describe it. There was a point where I was fighting so hard not to let go and at the same time wanting to let go desperately.Then all at once I just stopped caring about what I “should” or “shouldn’t” be doing and just did it. It’s not that I gave up- I wasn’t defeated in anyway, but instead I did something else entirely:

I actually became a slave.

Admitting that at this point in my life, after ‘living as a slave’ for the last couple of years, seems quite ludicrious. You would think that I’ve experienced slavery on a daily basis and that it would be second nature to me now, but when I really think about it, there’s never been a time when I haven’t had (felt) at least some sliver of control and I’ve been able to look at myself ‘submitting’ in a purely objectional way. Those “wtf??” moments that I often talk about are those exact times when I step outside myself and make judgements. 

Looking back at things, there had always been a ‘battle of the wills’ going on somewhere inside me whenever I was required to do something. Whether it be making a cup of coffee or piss-drinking, there was always a part of me that took the order into my brain and processed it, rolling it around until I’d made it mine, accepting it and putting on it my special seal of submission. I chose to do it. And in the choice I gained control. 

There were often times that I’d be told to do something and I’d do it- but on my terms, by doing it in my ‘own time’. I’d pause for a few breaths before launching into the action and in those few seconds I’d be busily processing and making the choice. I’d have the control the choice gave me and I was happy inside ‘controlling’ what I did.

All this talk about choice is probably confusing. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been able to say no to something. Choice is not something that I’ve ever really had. But the power of the mind is an incredible thing and it allows you to create things that aren’t ever there. I had myself believing that I had a choice and everything I did was, in some way, of my own volition. Until Saturday night that is. That night saw me do something that I would never, ever submit to and I had to be a slave in order to do it. 

I guess to put it another way, I was “broken”.

Being naked is not really a big thing in the scheme of things. I’ve been naked in front of a lot of people at various times after living in the country of the communal, and sometimes mixed bath, for years. But that is a very, very different beast to being cuffed and walked through different groups of people on a leash, entirely for the purpose of being displayed. I’ve discussed my hang-ups about my body before and alluded to issues I have with the way I look, but I don’t think I’ve conveyed just how much of a ‘fear factor’ experience being displayed is for me. If I had limits, it would beyond the level of “hard” and be well into the “over my dead body” stage. I don’t do public displays of nakedness. I’ll do anything else, but not that.

There are a lot of things about which I have a high ‘ewww’ factor towards, but they are not things that would rock me to the core if I was required to do them. For some reason, being displayed publically just absolutely horrifies me and pushes all my ‘Danger! Will Robinson! buttons’. I guess we all have our little things and that, dear readers, is mine. Interesting, isn’t it?

It was an incredibly earth-shattering thing for me to be taken to that point of absolute lack of control. I always thought that being “broken” would involve being beaten into my place or something along those lines. Instead, it was much more subtle and before I knew it, I had slipped over the edge. Part of me thinks I won’t be going back to how I was because once the ability to control is gone, it’s gone for good.

Master said to me, “That was a big thing for you, wasn’t it? You’re diffferent now.” and I didn’t really get it at the time.
I knew I was having a problem with something internally, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I’ve been feeling feral since Saturday and while it’s probably a mixture of red plagueness and sub-drop, I also have a kind of pounding churning sensation inside. After the party, I felt like I’d had too much alcohol and had been hit by a truck (even though I hadn’t had a drop) and still now I’ve got a throbbing headache and a feeling like I just want to curl up in bed. I’m guessing it’s my coping mechanism still in over-drive and it will take a few more days to settle down.

But I’m definitely not who I was. It was one of those moments that radically changes your life- a hinge that sets you off in another direction. Now I’m kind of exploring just who this ‘new’ me is. All I can say is I hope we get along.

I know what you did last night

Last night was a night of many firsts:

I can now say that 15 people have seen me naked, under harsh fluorescent lights and there were no public baths in sight.

I’ve licked boots like I was sucking cock

I’ve seen pussy lips go where no lips have gone before and have a new-found respect for body modification aficiandos.

I had quite a meaty beating and actually enjoyed it.

I’ve walked up to a McDonalds restaurant and was about two steps away from the doors before I thought to wonder what that swinging thing was around my neck. Suffice to say that I high-tailed it back to the car to remove my leash.

My ass was the object of the administrations of many people in quick succession- I almost felt like handing out numbers, “Wait your turn people!”

I’m still trying not to think about what happened in too much detail. Half of me was deliriously happy and the other half of me was totally and utterly mortified. Those who want details can pop over to Master’s blog and read his ‘kid-in-a-candy-store’ account of the evening.

So anyway, here’s some pics– hosted over at flickr.

I’m sure I’ll be blogging more on this topic over the next week or so…stay tuned.

Guess who came to dinner?

Today was the day.


The one and the only Mistress Blair day.

It would be a massive understatement to say that I was slightly nervous. The woman is evil incarnate and I’d had several ‘oh-my-god-I-can-see-dead-people!’ moments when I’d looked at myself in the mirror during the day. I was a dead woman and my ass knew it.

So what does one do when faced with an imminent Mistress Blair arrival and your stomach is waving to you as it churns round and round? You keep yourself busy by:

1. Cleaning the house- Although Martha Stewart is not my middle name, and “domestic bliss” sounds like a dirty word to me,  I managed to clean to a slightly higher than normal standard. 

2. Polishing your leather teddy- I thought this might be a very good opportunity to remove some dried cunt juices from the pussy area of my teddy considering that this was going to be my attire for the visit.

3. Talking to yourself- I’d been banned from speaking unless ‘spoken to’ so I had lots of things I needed to say to myself and get out of my system.

4. Scrubbing the floor with unusual gusto- This was to be my dining table for the evening so I wanted the ‘3 second rule’ to be as hygienic as possible.

5. Doing your usual ‘getting ready in slut’ routine but feeling absolutely ridiculous doing so- There is something wrong about being half-nekkid in booby-malfunction attire for a dinner party.

6. Brushing your teeth- After all, you need to have the Maclean’s Smile (“are your Macleans showing?”) if you’re going to be licking boots.

And that was about it. I’d successfully channelled my nervous energy and was ready just in time to attach my leash and be kneeling at the door when the bell rang.

So my interrogation sessions in the week leading up to B-Day had included some unusual ‘scripting’ of how I was to act and what I was to do during Mistress Blair’s visit. 

Firstly, the rules. There was to be no speaking unless I was spoken to. I would only refer to her as “Mistress Blair”. I would greet her at the door with some boot-licking to show my respect. I would eat my food off the floor and the big doozy of a rule, I would do whatever she said as though she was my owner.

“So if she tells you to suck her pussy, what are you going to do?” Master questioned.

“Suck her pussy,” I responded in my smallest possible voice.

To tell you the truth, that side of things hadn’t even crossed my mind. I was envisioning beatings and and lots of crawling and general humiliation, but not the other whole Pandora’s Box that was opened by submitting to a woman.

I’d never been beaten by a woman before and I’d never had to submit to one. Itwas an interesting experience. But once again, along the lines of my mystery shopper experiences, ultimately to me it doesn’t matter who is using me- I do what is required of me and focus on ‘getting through it’.

So kneeling in the hallway, I greeted Mistress Blair and licked both toe and heel of her lovely lace-up boots. Then she took my leash and lead me into the kitchen where Master was finishing up the final touches to his gourmet feast. 

When I’m nervous, I giggle. Well, it’s either giggle or talk to much and on occasion, both. So even though I was on a ‘no speaking unless spoken to’ protocol, I did copious amounts of giggling and made ditzy blonde bimbo comments. I swear, in these sort of situations, my IQ drops at least fifty points.

So anyway, the domly ones took pity on me and I was allowed to sit at the ‘big person’s table’ and eat my meal with cutlery- which, upped my enjoyment levels of the yummy food immensely. During the courses we chatted and I moved around the kitchen, acutely aware of being watched and praying that the ground would open up and swallow me before it got any worse. But the ground didn’t take pity on me and there was some cunt ring displaying, ‘juiciness testing’ and nekkid slavegirl action to follow.

Then the toys came out and it was just a long ride for me into painville.Mistress Blair had brought her crops, strap and pride of joy, the diamante bling hacking whip, aka ‘That!’ and Master had me lay out our toy collection on the lounge room floor. 

So trussed up I was and the real fun started. As soon as Master started his “How to Hit a Slave101” lecture, I dissolved into giggles….which then quickly stopped as the pain ramped up. He explained the ‘ok places’ and the ‘bad places’ to hit and then launched into angles and effects etc. It was really all quite clinical and to me, who was the lab rat side-kick, funny and at the same time not.

Then Mistress Blair was invited to ‘experiment’. It was interesting to feel the different ways that they both hit and later on when I looked at the photos, chilling to see the grins and the wicked smiles she had on her face during my trip to painville. Then she posed for a pic with her stiletto-heeled boot placed firmly on my red ass and I could tell that she was enjoying herself immensely.

‘That!’ was torture…omg…the pain that innocuous-looking thing inflicted was incredible. And the witchey one was being relentless with it- over and over again in what felt to me to be the same spot, but looking at the splay of red welts and marks I have today over both sides of my ass, obviously wasn’t. The wrap-around of that thing was OUCHIE!!! and made me want to remind the ‘kind’ folks taking the “Beating101” lecture that the lab rat ISN’T a painslut. Lol.

After the beating, the fashion parade followed. Fortunately, my outfit for Saturday’s party that Mistress Blair kindly picked out for me has COVERAGE! Yay! My long chinese dress in black and red with gloves and boots. The outfit kind of makes me want to pick up a whip and thwack some unsuspecting subbie boys…but I’m sure I’ll be able to overcome that urge.

All in all, it was a very good night and I was happy (after I had left painville) that the domly ones had enjoyed themselves. And you know what? Even during the tandem “you take this cheek, I’ll take that one” beating they didn’t manage to get their floggers in a knot! Humpf…they obviously must of learned that trick in “Tandem beating101”. It figures….(^v^)

In labour

I’ve got a post coming, it’s coming…it’s almost there…one more push…

Maybe tomorrow.

My botty hurts.

Nighty night xxx

kitten aka the giggle monster.

P.S This was just something to push that ‘latte in my lap’ photo down.