Turn, turn, turn

kitten is thinking of moving her cage into the decluttered back bedroom, l think she would like the back bedroom set up as a little playroom dedicated to her needs for bondage and pain…lol …her needs are bondage but she gets the pain from me for free.

One question I have asked Master on numerous occasions is, “Why does it have to be ouchie?” He often replies that it’s because he likes it and he finds my tears irresistible. But for a man who is, in his own words, ‘not a sadist’, I don’t understand how he could get enjoyment out of it. Often he’ll twist my nipple into the next millennium or put his hand somewhere on my cunt rings that just sends waves of pain gushing through me and my waterworks will start. It’s interesting to see his expression change and hear his breath get shallow and fast as my tears have their effect.

I often talk about being beaten or having bruises and marks, but the reality is that I don’t really like it or enjoy it. I enjoy it when it is O.V.E.R and not a milllisecond sooner. Once again it is a case of the notion being much more romantic and insatiably hotter than the reality ever could be. It’s the same as my ideas about what a slave *should* be and what slavery *should* entail. The idea of being caged in a darkened room with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company sounds divine while I’m writing this from the comfort of my bed and doona, but the reality is that having nothing to do except run your hands over the cage bars for extended periods of time is B.O.R.I.N.G. not to mention the ouchie cramps from not being able to stretch out. Immediately after I told Master of my idea about moving the cage into the back bedroom I regretted it. I mean, wtf am I going to do in there? Although I don’t feel that watching tv from my cage is particularly ‘slavey’ and I did feel quite mortified the first time that Master positioned the cage in such a way that I could watch it,  I actually appreciate the luxury of entertainment while I’m being caged. It makes the reality much more bearable.

Master and I have been together for seventeen months now and over this time I’ve seen things change. I’ve seen his appreciation for all things ouchie deepen and I’ve witnessed my own ‘No way, Jose’ attitude become stronger. I’m not sure that we are the ‘pure’ Master/slave that we once were when this all started, but we are at a place where we’re comfortable with each other. Like a lovingly worn-out book that you come back to for the comfort of the familIar story, we seek each other’s company and enjoy the togetherness.

There’s a recurring pattern that I see in bdsm relationships that burn so brightly and intensively, often for just a short time. About a third of the blog links I have on my friends list are no longer active and I’ve witnessed three or four ‘break and reassertion of roles’ cases. As I said in my blog the other day, we are constantly changing and evolving . We grow out of our relationships just like our clothes and for some reason people are surprised that that happens. Life as we know it would cease to be if everything were static, so it’s only natural that nothing is forever. And forever can in some cases mean only a few months or weeks. That’s why I feel that marriage is such an outdated concept in the world we live in. ‘Til death do us part’ is so unrealistic it’s laughable.

So I guess, by my own logic, I shouldn’t be surprised that Master has gone down the ouchie path. I’ll just keep whining that it isn’t ‘what I signed up for’ and he’ll keep having that little conversation with me:

“What are you?”

‘a slave’

“And who am I?”

‘my Owner’

“Well get with the program bitch!” 

Men and stuff

I am now, officially, the ‘Decrapper Extraordinaire’. After three days of constant pawing through boxes of crap and carting said crap out to the lawn by the postbox for city collection, I think I’m done. Well, I’m not actually done, there’s probably a lot more I’d be throwing out if I were allowed to, but Master has reached his tolerance level for parting with things so therefore we are ‘done’. 

As he is a man, I know it’s traumatic for Master to lose things. I can truly feel the heartache at seeing one’s plastic, spider-infested port-a-loo (not used since 1987) out on the verge and the multi-page scanner (bought fifteen years ago, not used for the past seven years and well and truly superseded by my new multifunction hp printer/scanner/ copier) sitting forlornly on the grass. In fact, the loss of the multipage scanner was entirely too much for Master to bear and he brought it back in again *rolls eyes skyward*.

Men and stuff.
I just don’t get it. I’m yet to meet a man who doesn’t ‘collect’ something- whether it be car parts, computer parts, or just general crap. I know a lot of men will pipe up at this point and say, ‘But what about women and shoes?’ Yes, I own a lot of shoes, but the 23 pairs of boots I wear are for Master’s boot fetish and he was the purchaser of all but 4 pairs. Maybe I’m just a practical slut or something, but I don’t understand the fascination of keeping things that you will never use and which just make cleaning the house a nightmare, and being the one that cleans the house, “We are not amused.” 
Is it a way of escaping mortality? Does surrounding yourself with things somehow make you less anxious or less fearful of death? Or is it just a way of putting notches on your belt i.e the more I have, the better I am? I really don’t get it. If someone knows, can you let me in on the secret?

Okay, now that I’ve got that off my chest, I can move on to bigger and brighter topics! Yay!

Christmas. Yes, I was a stupid fuckwit and bought Master a suede flogger and clover clamps. It was actually a good thing that I had my horny window open or things could of gotten nasty. I fessed up to Master about having already used the clover clamps on numerous occasions when I was releasing. Sitting there, gleaming in my desk drawer, they just looked too delicious to pass up, so I carefully removed them from the packaging and used those vicious clamps whenever I felt the need. I felt a bit guilty about using something that I was actually intending to give as a present, but kept repeating to myself that I was just ‘building up my tolerance so Master can have some real fun’. What I didn’t realise is that using them yourself and being able to remove them when things just got too ouchie is very,very different to being at the mercy of your domly one, who might just feel the need to tug or move them around and who is gonna leave them on there for as long as he fucking wants. My poor nipples….that’s all I can say.

I spent most of Xmas day proffering my botty for attention and receiving it various forms- hand-spanking, flogging, paddling, caning. I’m sure I could of taken over from Rudolph and led the sleigh with my glowing red botty after the good workout that Master gave it. Following that we had a lovely lunch of salmon and salad and spent the rest of our time chilling out from the heat.  Perth had its hottest Christmas on record with temperatures peaking at nearly 45 (113 fahrenheit) on the 26th. It seemed quite bizarre to see the massive snowstorms etc. in America on the news, while here breathing was enough to make you sweat.

Master bought me an iPod and various accessories, two bottles of perfume and two pairs of boots (not actually sure who they are for…lol). The gifts are all things that I really wanted, so I am one content slave girl. I gave Master some ‘nilla-ish clothes and an electronic desktop calendar. Shopping for his clothes on Christmas Eve, I was once again struck by just how hot a shirt and tie can be. Looking through the racks of ties for something to match his shirt, I actually think I was puddling. Mmm…..men’s clothes…definitely rank up with ear cleaning.

New Year’s Eve we’re heading off to a dungeon party and hopefully I’ll get beaten into the new year. Fingers crossed for me!

Shinto in the suburbs

Two sleeps from xmas and I’m about as far from the Christmas spirit as I can get. Is that wrong, or is thirty suitably old enough to no longer ‘be bothered’  to get into Christmassy stuff? Well, whichever the answer, it’s just going to be a quiet time with me and Master spent probably watching copious amounts of tv and eating too much and maybe throwing in a bit of de-crapping of the house just for fun.

Last night we went to a friend’s house to celebrate the construction of his torii gate. While his was not quite a impressive as this one in Kyoto, I’m sure you get the general idea. Being a fellow bdsm-er he constructed it as a type of whipping pole, and not to mark off the sacred from the less-than-sacred in his suburban garden – as torii are originally intended to do. He had attached eyelets in the top and bottom as anchor points for rope and his screened off garden made an ideal place for some outdoor play. He also had a photo studio, an extensive fetish wardrobe and a large kitchen/dining area that had apparently in the past been used for a putt-putt golf contest that had involved a spread-eagled subbie girl with a speculum in her cunt and some orange ping-pong balls. Isn’t having deviant friends a wonderful thing? Lol.

We had a bit of a chat about life and finding partners and his recent ‘breaking of the drought’ with a subbie woman.Listening to his fears and worries about whether she was ‘the one’ because they ‘have these things, but not these things in common and how would that work in the long term?’ I was struck once again by a commonly-held belief that every relationship we enter into has to be ‘forever and ever, ’til death do us part’. See, I don’t subscribe to that belief at all. I’m a fully-paid member of the ‘this-will-make-me-happy-now-and-who-knows-the-person-I-will-be-in-five-year’s-time, therefore-let’s-do-it-and-enjoy-it-while-I-can!’ Church of Immediate Gratification so I don’t quite understand the ‘hmmmmming’ and ‘haaaaaaring’ that is done by people with their eyes on ten or twenty years in the future. Fuck, I don’t even know what sort of person I will be in twelve months let alone ten years, so I feel that prematurely worrying about that sort of thing is a recipe for dying old and lonely.

We grow and evolve constantly. I look at myself and the changes that have occurred both internally and externally over the last 24 months and I’m a completely different person. There is no way that I could of mapped out my life in any way shape or form then, and what I like and enjoy is dramatically different now compared to then. In some ways, I have a much clearer idea of what I like and what I don’t like and what I am willing to dive into and what I need to dip a tentative toe into first.

My friend was very worried about their differing tastes in music and physical activity and while they are very compatible in the bdsm sense, their lifestyles were quite different. He was wondering if he could give up certain things and live a different way for another person. Master and I are a very good example of two people who were born nearly twenty years apart, have very different tastes in things and yet, still manage to have a great deal of enjoyment in each other’s company. Just because I’m a slave doesn’t mean that I give up everything I am and everything I like, in fact Master encourages me to surround myself with things I want and like- I just have to be ready to run and make coffee when he yells at the top of his lungs, “Cappuccino me bitch!”

Yes, I’ve had to make some compromises and be flexible and try not to complain too much about ‘fucking Edith Piaff’ blaring from the speakers, but the rewards of being together with Master more than make up for what I have conceded and I have and will give willing.

 

Windows

While this title might disturb Mac users, stir the voyeur fetishists among us into a frenzy and conjure up images of funny things in your wall that let in the light, I’m actually thinking of a slightly different window- the windows on me that give access to my emotions.

I have a lot of windows that open from time to time. Some of them stay open for several hours or days and some of them only open the smallest crack and then shut so quickly that you’re not sure they were even open in the first place. When one window opens, another one shuts and if you miss a window, you’ll never know when it will open again.

The window to my sex drive is a very fickle fellow. He seems to have a mind of his own and can quite quickly shut up shop even in themidst of things. One minute I’ll be a slippery squelchy horny hole crying out for cock, and the next I’ll be drier that the Sahara, half-asleep and asking, “Are you done yet????”

I don’t really know how it is with men. They’ve always seemed to me to have all their windows open at once- except for that firmly stuck window that provides access to “I love you’s” and emotional vulnerability. When I was younger, all I wanted was to be told that I was loved by the male figure in my life, but as I’ve gotten older, I’m actually quite happy to never have that window opened to me. I don’t want to hear the “I love you” simply because I don’t want to say it. 

As a slave, having this window issue makes things challenging. I’m not supposed to have down time or ” Hahaha! You want to put what, where?” time. I’m supposed to have all of my windows wide open 24/7. This was evidenced last night by the phone sex call I got from Master, telling me to get naked, booted, leashed to his bed and have the pink dildo firmly in hand. I was winding down for the night, thinking about what episodes of Sex and the City I was going to watch and the book that I was going to start reading in bed. My window for ‘stuff’ had been nailed firmly shut with nine-inch nails several hours ago and I began thinking that a crow bar would be needed.

Master was firmly in the mood, telling me to work the dildo, running my cunt rings up and down the shaft and embarking on an interrogation session. I was avoiding my disprin coated rings like the plague and thinking of greener pastures. He then told me to roll onto my side and release. Ten minutes later with the phone jammed against my ear and my hand gingerly cupping my cunt he wanted to know if I was close:

‘Well I would be if you’d stop talking to me!!!’

Obviously my sassy window had just opened for business and the gale force wind emanating from it whistled down the phone line. He left me then to enjoy my release and to have one more if I wanted it, but told me to be ready and waiting to do some more dildo performing when he came home Wednesday night.

So it’s Wednesday and he’ll be home in a few hours. Maybe I can call someone and have them install another window- because the other one is a lost cause and it will be my ass on the bed with the tawse coming down on it.

Am I real?

 I just spent 2 hrs as cleaning bitch scrubbing Master’s bathroom with a toothbrush and one of those wire-like deck brushes. As a result, it’s so damn clean that you could eat your dinner off it- and no, before you ask, I ain’t going to….lol. Yes, I am a slave with too much free time on her hands and a bucketful of cleaning products.

So for today’s blog I’m going to whore a topic off

 (just because I can..hehehe) and ask a very important question- am I real?

I read a few blogs and generally when I do, I take them at face value. I believe that what I am reading is a fairly accurate account of what happened in someone’s life, simply because what I am reading is a blog and not erotic fiction. While I understand that even the best of us exercise a touch of poetic license on occasion to improve on our literary leavings, I cling to my belief that a blog is a glimpse into a real and not imaginary life.

I used to get quite upset (well actually, I still do…lol) when I read about someone who is ‘better’ than me by taking a more solid beating or by being more slavey in some way. For some reason, the competitive streak in me always wants to feel that I’m much more a slave than anyone else. Of course, that’s not true in any way shape or form and I am working on stopping the ‘comparison cycle’, but I still do feel jealous.

It never really dawned on me to think that what I was reading might not be real- that it might just be someone’s little fantasy played out on the pages of lj, blogspot or wordpress. It had also never dawned on me to be anything less than brutally honest about my life here, so I assumed that everyone else was the same. It kind of feels wrong to pass something off as real that is not.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t post pictures that show fat bulges or my ‘Tom Cruise-league’ witchey nose or even my crooked index finger that is a result of breaking my finger when I was eight years old. I also don’t go into great lengths about the depth of my wussie-ness or just how sucky a slave I can be on occasion, but I also don’t parade around as ‘Miss Slavery 2007’. I try to keep things in balance and show an overall view of the realities of D/s in my life. Although I try to keep the banalities of my vanilla life to a minimum in this blog (and they have been creeping in more often recently due to me being home alone) it doesn’t mean that they don’t exist and it certainly doesn’t mean that I clean the house in a maid’s outfit and stilettos or spend twenty two hours a day cock-sucking. I have a life and D/s is but a part of it.

So am I real and was I really cleaning Master’s bathroom with a toothbrush? 

Yes. 

Because that’s the only way to remove mold from between tiles. Even Martha Stewart knows that (^v^)

Balmy Brisbane & Pissing Down with Rain Perth

So we’re back from the balmy warmth of Brisbane on the east coast to the rain and chill of Perth on the west. And although we didn’t have any hotel room play, mostly due to the fact that our schedule meant that we were absolutely stuffed everyday- getting to hotels at 1:30am and spending 14hr+ days being toured and shuttled- we had a lovely time. I managed to go to Starbucks twice and pick myself up some coffee beans, because for some reason Western Australia does not have even one franchise in its entire 2,525,500 square kilometres. Being five times the size of Texas one would imagine that they’d manage to squeeze a Starbucks in there somehow, but no way, Jose.

We cruised the Brisbane river at night and during the day, shopped and walked around the city and I even managed to drag Master to Macca’s for breakfast on Saturday. It was highly amusing as normally McDonalds is completely off-limits for me. The east coast air must of gone to his brain.

The hotel apartment that I picked while doing my travel agent bitch stint turned out to be spacious and new and in a great location. Master congratulated me on my choice and I have to say that it was a huge weight off my mind. I commented that it would be great to live in a place like that and he said he’d hope to live in something larger. I then commented that it was about twice the size of the place that my ex-hubby and I had lived in in Tokyo (that being 33 square meters) and he replied with, “Sad.” It’s not really sad, just a fact of life when you’ve got a lot of people living in a small space.

While a fantasy of living in a dirt-floored slave cell might seem great when you’re wrapped up in your doona watching tv, living in a modern apartment by the sea or a river seems great all the time. It’s another one of those ‘keep it in your head, not in your life’ scenarios.

The iPods that Master had purchased for us for Christmas arrived last Wednesday and Master was very chirpy about it, saying that he’d be able to load up some music and take it on the trip. Unfortunately, the whole battery charging and file converting and ‘How the fuck does this thing work?‘ thing took much longer than the 1 1/2 hrs we had before we needed to leave home to go to the airport, so I left mine at home but Master packed his and the wall adapter to charge it, saying that he’d be able to ‘play with it’ on the plane. He got about 45 seconds of enjoyment out of playing with after he discovered that there was nothing to do with it but set the time, so it stayed in the suitcase for the duration of the trip. 

Upon returning to Perth on Saturday, we both made a bee-line for our puters to get theiPods going. Unfortunately, it was some 24 hours later on Sunday night at about 11pm before we had Master’s iPod up and running. After numerous read/write errors and attempts at running diagnostics which all came back clear and everything, we finally figured out that his puter and the iPod didn’t get along, so I reformatted it on my laptop and then we downloaded all his music through the wireless router onto my puter and transferred it to his iPod. He has 22GB of music, so we didn’t get all of it done, but he’ll be able to get the rest of it on Wednesday. The sad thing is that now my puter has been well and truly tainted by the likes of Edith Piaf and Billie Holiday. Will I ever get it clean again???? Lol.

The whole experience made me feel like a dumbfuck. I mean, how hard can it be to use an iPod when every man and his dog has one? When trolling through the net for help I came across a forum where someone had posted about their two-year-old fixing his dad’s iPod. I experienced something akin to ‘iPod Rage’ at that stage and got totally pissed off with it. But anyway, it’s all done now, thank god!

So I’ll leave you all with what I found while I was hunting around for podcasts after my “iPod rage” had sufficiently abated. I came across this gem and it’s just too funny (totally kiddie and work safe).

A BIG, BIG thankyou also to

 for sending me my first ever virtual xmas stocking!!!! I love it *hugs*.

 

In keeping with the xmas theme…

On the fourth day of releases, the tools I used on me:
Four snazzy snap locks, 
Three clanging chains, 
Two biting binder clips, 
One lethal leather collar, 
One pinching pair of handcuffs, 
One bulbous ball gag, 
One binding blindfold,
And a bedhead ebay-ed for a nice fee.

God, I used more brain power finding words for my alliteration of xmas than I have used for ages… *sits down with a cool drink and fans the steam rising from her head. At least my cunt is all happy and smiling post release, but now I have a craving for mangoes!

All is quiet here on the home front. I’ve spent the past couple of days being Master’s travel agent bitch for our up-coming (i.e. leaving tomorrow) trip to Rockhampton/Brisbane. I’ve checked dozens of hotels on a plethora of websites, reading reviews and comparing prices, all while thinking about our frugal budget. Master was highly amused by my ‘indecision’ during the process and finally suggested that I give him a short list in order for him to ‘make a decision’. I don’t think he understands the pressure that that sort of task puts me under. What if I choose a hotel and it’s crap? What if I spend a little bit more money in the hopes of a better hotel, only to find out that it’s still crap? The potential for crapness is just too much for this slavegirlie to cope with. Better that he chooses and if it’s crap, then I can blame the ‘domly one’ …lol.

There’s been a flurry of emails sent between the company flying us there and Master, detailing all sorts of things from the ‘town tour’ we’ve been booked on, to the clothing requirements for both of us for the site visit. Apparently going to a power station requires long pants and a long-sleeved shirt – preferably in 100% cotton. So my dear readers, we all know what this means, don’t we? I’ve been given a reprieve from “Rocky Slut 2007” and can wear ‘normal clothes’ instead of slut wear, as leather, latex and boob tubes unfortunately don’t seem to qualify as ‘safety gear’. Master even sees a job interview as an opportunity to dress me in slut wear, so he was disappointed. Awwww…..

Contrary to what Master wrote in his blog about me requiring several days and music to pack, I really only need my packing ritual when there are emotional factors involved i.e. am I going home? am I going to Master’s parents’ place? Being that we’re only going away for a couple of days and I don’t have anyone to impress, I haven’t started yet, but I’ll have plenty of time tomorrow.

Master mentioned that he’d be taking his crop and some other things. I guess that is to be expected as we’ll have three nights in hotels and that presents all sorts of opportunities for ‘hotel play’. The good thing about hotel play is that you can always put the security chain across the door, preventing any inquisitive cleaning ladies or reception desk staff from entering. This differs from ‘parent’s house play’ which ofttimes requires a commando roll off the bed when said parents return earlier than expected from an outing.

So I’ll be away for a few days enjoying the rainy/overcast skies (according to the weather forecast) of Brisbane with Master. I’ll be back sometime next week. If I don’t return, someone might need to come and release me from my hotel balcony bondage. *makes mental note to stop giving Master ideas… 

The ghost of weekends past

I woke up this morning feeling nauseous and yucky (no idea why) so I’m sitting here with a cup of tea and some toast with vegemite in the hopes that it will settle my stomach. For my non-Aussie readers, vegemite (that fermented salty yeast extract) is a great little hangover and upset stomach cure that I list right up there in effectiveness with releases.

I’ve had a quiet few days, spending time with friends and quality time with Master and my sleep patterns have returned to their former midnight- nine am selves. I have to say that there is nothing better than waking up naturally when your body is ready than to the dulcet tones of an alarm clock. I’m enjoying the break from a hard year of study.

I watched Mission Impossible III last night from inside my cage. Halfway-through master announced who was the real evil guy and what was going to happen in the plot and then left the room in search of better entertainment. How he can call black and white cowboy movies entertainment and Tom Cruise struggling against handcuffs not is beyond me, but I was in the cage and he was holding the key to the door, so I thought better of eloquently expressing my views.

When the movie was finished, he told me to ‘ask nicely’ to be let out or he’d leave me there for the night. I’m not sure that, “Pretty please sweetie pumpkin Master with sugar on top can I have out?” was what he had in mind when he said that, but I scored highly on the amusing slave girlie scale so was promptly let out.

Master had scored 75 caning points from some red-hot car spotting on our Sunday afternoon drive so I offered him a piece of my booty as soon as we got home. He had other ideas though, because the 49 photos he’d taken over lunch that were sitting on his camera, were whispering softly and tantalizingly in his ear to be downloaded onto his hard drive and to be catalogued along with the other 2000-odd images of me,

“Maybe later bitch.”

So I settled down to play some WoW and it was much later when I got an honourary “One stroke in lieu of seventy five”. I was bored and wanted to be played with so I foolishly asked what had happened to the other seventy four. I then found out what had happened to them when crop met ass and I made another mental note to myself to shut the fuck up.

All up it was a nice weekend, but the bondage slut in me needs to be satiated some more so that may require a nice little Monday afternoon release session.

Communication aka Men!

On Monday we had a final get together for people in my uni class and while I was prepping myself for another one of those inspirational-makes-me-want-to-retch lectures about how we’d chosen a vocation (because teaching doesn’t pay enough to be a real job, so we’re up there with nuns and volunteers!) and how important we were in children’s lives blah,blah,blah, instead we were subjected to a video.

Normally I’m a big fan of videos, but when the title came into view,

“Fathering in the fast lane

the needle on my painful meter went straight to the max.

In a nutshell, the video was all about how fathers have to spend more time with their kids and communicate their feelings. Apparently the tenuous connection between the video and secondary teaching was the obscure reference to the importance of fathers being involved in the school lives of their children. Personally, I’m more inclined to think that the video was shown because our lecturer was in it, but anyway…lol.

So there I was sitting there in the darkened lecture hall thinking, Yeah, well, my father has never told me that he loves me, never once came to my school, never once showed the slightest interest in anything I did. And as far as ‘daddy-daughter dates’ (another recommendation of the video) are concerned, the painful dinners that I am subjected to with him everytime I go home are never intended to get him involved in my life, they are just another forum for him to go into great detail about whose priest’s wife he is fucking or his latest bodily function woe.

I switched off after about ten minutes of the drivel and pulled my mobile out and started texting Master -my safe refuge in the storm of documentary videos.

The difference between Master and any other of the male figures in my life is quite staggering. Master and I talk..we talk a lot. We chat on msn, we talk on the phone 2, 3 times a day, we banter in the car and in his bed before sleep, not to mention the interrogation component of all the ravishings and his daily, sometimes twice or thrice daily blogs which are another form of talk. As a result, there is very, very little in my life that he doesn’t know about. He knows about my friends and family, all the intricacies of WoW and even the frequency of my bowel movements. Never before has anyone wanted to know so much about me. And while sometimes the topics for banter do dry up and I’m all talked out, he still lets me know that he wants to know about me and that he’ll soak up any little tidbit of my life with care and concern. In the past sixteen months, he has learned more about me than my own father who had eighteen years of missed opportunities.

It’s quite funny. When I’ve mentioned this to Master, the fact that he’s very rare in the kingdom of men, he shrugs it off saying that he knows girlies like to talk and go places and mix with their girlie friends and go shopping and get presents. It’s almost as though he has that elusive formula of keeping a girlie happy down pat. I know about the paradox of dominant men also being pleasers, but it never ceases to amaze me that he wants to make me happy. It also makes me feel guilty at the same time because my kink is not switched on by serving and pleasing of my own accord- I have to be forced, tugged and pulled around into service before my cunt juices start flowing.

Master says that talking and knowing the intricacies of my life lets him know ‘where I’m at’ and helps him gauge my level of feralness. I suppose that’s true because it’s quite easy to give the answers that I know he wants to hear during interrogation time, but not so easy to keep that facade up all the time. By constantly talking with me and poking and prodding, he can get down to the nitty gritty and make a judgement about whether it’s time for a good beating or not…lol.

Mmmm… a good beating. Maybe santa will bring me one of those along with the ipod…if I’m a really bad girl.

 

The Twenty Five Days of Releases

 On the first day of releases, my cunt squelched out to me,
 One wet spot and a happy little trickle of pee.

My slave duty for yesterday involved the making of my release record chart as per Master’s instructions. He wanted something so that I could cross off the releases that I’d used and to make sure that I absotively posilutely didn’t have anymore than the twenty five I was allowed.

I obediently drew something up on Word using my recently honed worksheet-making skills and had the numbers from one to twenty five in boxes, the date used at the bottom of each box and added some pretty clip art. I then sent it to Master for approval.

His immediate comment on msn came back,

“lol…you cheating bitch”
“????”
“zero makes 26 releases, not the 25 you won”

“you said you wanted a ‘big, fat zero at the end'”
“yes but for the 0 at the end you don’t get a date used”
“lol…damn”
“implies you get a release for 0…it should be just 0…good try”

I wouldn’t say that I consciously tried to wring another release out of him, I was just following his instructions that he wanted the numbers to count down and a space to record the date in at the bottom of each box. Needless to say, the extra release was removed and the chart finally approved. It’s going to be hung on the fridge so that things can be properly monitored and controlled.

The chart on the fridge and everything takes away the nice little anonymity I was hoping for. The whole treat in these twenty five releases was that I didn’t have to ask permission for them and could slink away and do my thing under the cover of darkness. I guess I should of expected him to do something like this and add back a good measure of humiliation into the equation.

At seven o’clock when he called I still hadn’t had my first release.

“Haven’t you had one yet???” he quizzed, puzzled that I hadn’t raced off to have one like an addict in withdrawal.

“These things need to be planned. I haven’t decided what to do yet.”

And I hadn’t. Should I use binder clips or hang something from the regular nipple clamps? Should I stick something in my cunt or just do the clenching of the muscles thing? Hood or gag or both? Choices, choices.

I ended up with a nice rope boobie harness, leather collar attached to bed and metal collar attached to cuffs on hands, nipple clamps and gag. A hood would of been nice, but it was just too hot and I didn’t want to get claustro and freak myself out.

I won’t go into further details of the large pink thing I was riding up and down on or the little pools of drool, suffice to say that Master’s sheets now definitely need a wash. Mmmm….twenty four more to go.