The fridge

What is it that they say? Absence makes the heart grow fonder? That certainly seems to be the case with Master.

I find it totally amusing that every time I go away for a slightly extended period of time, he suddenly wants to beat me black and blue and do all sorts of norti things. Although we can be home together for 10 days or so over Christmas with nothing to do but watch the flies butting their heads against the window screens, and I was never any more than a few steps away from him, beatings and norti things didn’t really seem to be on the menu. But once I’m out of his reach on the other side of the country, he suddenly gets horny as hell and completely insatiable.

On the phone the other night, I was lounging back on the bed (which is actually my mum’s bed that she allows me the use of while I’m staying) with my mum sitting at the computer about 1 meter away from me:

“You want a release?”

“Mmmm! That would be nice.”

“Okay, well go to your bedroom, get naked…”

“Ummm…well I can’t do that right now.”

“Yes, you can…now go…get naked…”

“No, I really can’t.”

Master was in the mood for a bit of long-distance ravishing and I was finding it hard to explain to him the situation with my mum in ear-shot.

“You just tell him you can’t have phone sex now!” said my mum, highly amused and determined to pass the level of Jewel Quest she was currently on without her daughter doing unspeakable acts on her bed behind her. So I dutifully passed the message on and Master was forced to live without a long-distance ravishing and without a breathy ‘Master, can I cum?’ at the end of it.

I guess it’s like the thing where a married man with a ring on his finger is much more enticing than a single man roaming the world freely or how the need for a release increases exponentially with the inability to have one. We always want what we can’t have and it seems that even Masters aren’t immune to it.

It actually seems almost fitting as Master refused to let me use any of my remaining 18 or so releases while I’m away. He claimed that because I wasn’t able to ‘mark them off as I used them on the sheet hanging on the fridge’ then it wasn’t acceptable. I countered that I could take the sheet with me and do it, to which he replied “Ahhh, but then it wouldn’t be hanging on *the fridge* and therefore isn’t what we agreed on.” ( I just love being owned by a TC man.) So if I can’t have my releases then it seems only fair that he can’t have his little fun either. That’s not to say that he has cut me off from releases all together. A couple of times he had asked if I wanted one and I’ve just been too sick to take up the offer recently.

But it is highly comforting to know that there is justice in the world after all (^v^)


Happy Australia Day

You know you’re Australian if …

1. You know the meaning of the word “girt”.

2. You believe that stubbies can be either drunk or worn.

3. You think it’s normal to have a leader called Kevin.

4. You waddle when you walk due to the 53 expired petrol discount vouchers stuffed in your wallet or purse.

5. You’ve made a bong out of your garden hose rather than use it for something illegal such as watering the garden.

6. You believe it is appropriate to put a rubber in your son’s pencil case when he first attends school.

7. When you hear that an American “roots for his team” you wonder how often and with whom.

8. You understand that the phrase “a group of women wearing black thongs” refers to footwear and may be less alluring than it sounds.

9. You pronounce Melbourne as “Mel-bin”.

10. You pronounce Penrith as “Pen-riff”.

11. You believe the “l” in the word “Australia” is optional.

12. You can translate: “Dazza and Shazza played Acca Dacca on the way to Maccas.”

13. You believe it makes perfect sense for a nation to decorate its highways with large fibreglass bananas, prawns and sheep.

14. You call your best friend “a total bastard” but someone you really, truly despise is just “a bit of a bastard”.

15. You think “Woolloomooloo” is a perfectly reasonable name for a place.

16. You’re secretly proud of our killer wildlife.

17. You believe it makes sense for a country to have a $1 coin that’s twice as big as its $2 coin.

18. You understand that “Wagga Wagga” can be abbreviated to “Wagga” but “Woy Woy” can’t be called “Woy”.

19. You believe that cooked-down axlegrease makes a good breakfast spread.

20. You believe all famous Kiwis are actually Australian, until they stuff up, at which point they again become Kiwis.

21. Hamburger. Beetroot. Of course.

22. You know that certain words must, by law, be shouted out during any rendition of the Angels’ song Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again.

23. You believe, as an article of faith, that the confectionary known as the Wagon Wheel has become smaller with every passing year.

24. You still don’t get why the “Labor” in “Australian Labor Party” is not spelt with a “u”.

25. You wear ugh boots outside the house.

26. You believe, as an article of faith, that every important discovery in the world was made by an Australian but then sold off to the Yanks for a pittance.

27. You believe that the more you shorten someone’s name the more you like them.

28. Whatever your linguistic skills, you find yourself able to order takeaway fluently in every Asian language.

29. You understand that “excuse me” can sound rude, while “scuse me” is always polite.

30. You know what it’s like to swallow a fly, on occasion via your nose.

31. You understand that “you” has a plural and that it’s “youse”.

32. You know it’s not summer until the steering wheel is too hot to handle.

33. Your biggest family argument over the summer concerned the rules for beach cricket.

34. You shake your head in horror when companies try to market what they call “Anzac cookies”.

35. You still think of Kylie as “that girl off Neighbours“.

36. When returning home from overseas, you expect to be brutally strip-searched by Customs – just in case you’re trying to sneak in fruit.

37. You believe the phrase “smart casual” refers to a pair of black tracky-daks, suitably laundered.

38. You understand that all train timetables are works of fiction.

39. When working on a bar, you understand male customers will feel the need to offer an excuse whenever they order low-alcohol beer.

40. You get choked up with emotion by the first verse of the national anthem and then have trouble remembering the second.

41. You find yourself ignorant of nearly all the facts deemed essential in the government’s new test for migrants.

42. You know, whatever the tourist books say, that no one says “cobber”.

43. And you will immediately forward this list to other Australians, here and overseas, realising that only they will understand.

Happy Australia Day. (pilferred from The Sydney Morning Herald)

So, what are you going to do?

Questions, questions, questions. Questions to the left of me, questions to the right of me and the most common question of late is:

‘So, what are you going to do?’

I have a huge problem answering this one because without knowing my ‘real’ role in life, I sound like nothing more than a well-educated hobo. A job here, some study there, moves from state to state and a couple of failed tests. Even though I’ve made leaps and bounds in the ‘other’ part of my life, people are more interested in the visible and outward side that goes on resumes and makes for polite dinner conversation.

I think that’s why I’m not very motivated to turn to the next page in my visible and outward life – it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, while the ‘real’ life is on the up and up. Not only have I been broken, but I’ve accepted what and who I am and now everything else seems like a ‘fill in’ at best, and a waste of time at worst.

I can imagine how people locked into marriages and tied down with children must feel. The desire to leave it all and be who they really are must be incredibly intense. To not be able to achieve what they want would be so soul-draining. I couldn’t do it. I don’t think I could ‘play’ at happy families with the fire in my belly burning brightly.

Walking through town today I came across the local talent quest with $2000 up for grabs as first prize. Amongst the country music crooners I thought that a pole dancer would make an interesting addition to the line up (although I’m not quite sure about the logistics of setting up a pole in the K-Mart plaza.) I saw the Australian Pole Dancer of 2007 at Sexpo last year and she was very talented indeed. Master keeps telling me I need some skills for when he ships me out to Kalgoorlie to make him some money – something to go on the ‘slave resume’ – and pole dancing seems to be a popular choice. Although, I do believe that people would be more inclined to give me money *not* to dance and *not* to take my clothes off.

I feel very comforted by the fact that Master isn’t heckling me to get a job. I am thankful that he’s not another person asking me, “So what are you going to do?” (I swear if I hear that question one more time I will poke someone with a very sharp stick!) I think he wants me to be happy and to be happy doing something that I want to do. While he would be happy just to take me to work with him and chain me under his desk, he also understands that I have a need to feel productive and that there are practicality issues involved…i.e. he would need to release me so I could get his cappucinos and that just wouldn’t be acceptable because I’m not free…..ever  (^v^)

Occupational Health and Safety

I find it amusing that no matter when I come home, it’s cold and miserable. Weather like this reminds me why I don’t want to live here – along with the whole ‘I-don’t-wanna-live-in-a-hole’ thing. I come home in winter and it’s cold and raining; I come home in summer and it’s cold and raining. I really can’t win.

So I went to the chiropractor today (another thing to mark off the check list for my grease and oil change) and as usual we had the collar conversation:

“Does this thing come off?”

“Ummm…no, remember we went through that last time?”

“It’s so dangerous. You could get something hooked on it or anything.”

“Well, I don’t really use a lot of heavy machinery, you know.”

“When you come again next week I’ll saw it off with an angle grinder.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“You work that one out…..What does your mum think?”

“She’s cool about it.”

“Well, I’m cool about it too. I’m not saying it doesn’t look good…”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just the OH&S aspect.”

He makes me laugh. Considering I’m a grown thirty one year old woman and he’s asking me what my mum thinks about my ‘jewellery’ choices.

I was reading a newspaper online the other day and there was an article about a goth girl who had been thrown off a bus for being leashed to her finace. The bus driver claims it was an OH&S issue that if the bus braked suddenly and something happened then it would be his fault. Interestingly enough you can leash your kids but not your girlfriend it seems. It looks like BDSM hasn’t escaped the dreaded OH&S revolution that is sweeping the planet. Be careful now with those spiked cuffs or they’ll poke someone’s eyes out.

Home on the northern tablelands

Greetings from the deep, dark east!It took me nearly four days to get a dial-up internet connection working (no thanks to @#%$ Telstra- which is another company that deserves to die a slow, painful death along with Qantas) so here I am, larger than life and twice as bored! My net addiction is definitely something that needsto be fed on a regular basis and 96 hours without net was making my eyes glaze over.

Fourteen hours, two planes, some lost luggage and an inflight ‘dinner’ of chicken korma curry at 4:30am later, I arrived in the place of my birth. It was a long painful trip that made me wish that I lived a bit closer. My luggage also arrived 7hrs after I did, which, under the circumstances of massive flight delays, was not too bad.

I apparently had my 3 seconds of fame when my picture was flashed up on the evening national news on Sunday, being one of the hundreds that were caught up in the airline delays. I was camped out on the floor of the terminal with my pillow and laptop watching Sex and the City dvds at the time. One lady suggested that I charge people $5/head for the privilege of watching over my shoulder. I didn’t see the news story but Master told me he’d seen me on the news and I immediately wanted to die in shame. I hope I wasn’t drooling or flashing some bodily part at the time.

Master called tonight. I’ve been calling him through the day and he calls me at night once he’s back in the motel after work. We banter about the mundane (which passes for major news in my life at the moment) and generally just make a reconnection. He told me tonight about dropping his iPod at work and the dreaded white screen which won’t disappear. It’s sad and I hope it can be fixed. There isn’t something that has given him so much joy since the cane entered his life through a momentary lapse in reason on my part.

Generally when I come home, I have a ‘grease and oil change’ – visiting doctors and dentists and all sorts of other health care professionals. While I could of course do all these things in Perth, I find it easier to go to people I’ve dealt with for years and years.Unfortunately the doctor shortage in the country has meant that I can’t get an appointment at a doctor here for the entire duration of my two week stay. I was planning on having my pap smear done here that I’ve been putting off and putting off for the past six months. Something about cunt jewellery makes me all bashful and I’ve been pondering who to shock. I also thought that my regular GP might be the best person to see considering that he previously discovered a heart murmur and a breast lump that other doctors had missed. Along with those thoughts is also the fear of just how ouchie a speculum and a wand up my hole will be considering that inserting an uber mini tampon during plague time hurts. Mmmm…the joys of having a special cunt.

My nanna is sitting here nodding off and perks up every now and then to check the tennis score in the Australian Open taking place at the moment in Melbourne that we are watching on tv. She is nearly 85 and in the last 15 years has survived two heart attacks, Gillian Barre syndrome, shingles, a prolapse, a broken wrist, numerous falls and the amputation of several toes. It’s quite interesting when the family gets together and there are four generations of us together. I find it absolutely mind-blowing to think that such a super woman has changed dirty nappies on all of us. They just don’t make people like her any more.

After chatting with my nanna until 1am about the good ol’ days and how things have changed I finally went to bed. She talked of steam trains and war time, even recalling the ‘wonderful’ hat shops and frock shops that used to be on main street and the boarding houses and grand old hotels. I like to get her talking when she’s in the mood and soak up her memories and experiences. It’s these kind of talks that require cups of tea and long moon-filled nights and that you can’t have over the phone while you’re 4000kms away.


I’m a slave without rights and choices….

….at least that’s the correct answer in my interrogation sessions with Master. Along with the ‘What are you?’s and the ‘What are you for?’s there are also the ‘What don’t you have?’s – the answer to the latter of course being ‘rights and choices’. But just because I don’t have any rights or choices doesn’t make things any easier. In fact, my choice not to have choices and the right to not have any rights causes me as much angst as having to make choices and exercise my rights. Like everyone else I have that gnawing fear of, ‘Did I make the right decision?’

Sitting here staring at my screen under much duress to ‘do a pre-departure blog or else’ (I’m heading home for a couple of weeks, in case I haven’t mentioned it) I had a look at a comment on a recent entry:

‘…it does make interesting reading, all this neurosis about your choice and so on, I dunno. I am a bit obsessed with power relations outside of the context of sexuality (political and social philosophy) and I never really thought to consider the whole BDSM scene in that context until I stumbled on this site, or indeed, it has to be said power relations in wider society in the context of BDSM.’

Reading over it five or ten times, after which I think I finally got the gist, the phrases that jumped out at me were ‘neurosis about your choice’ and ‘power relations in wider society in the context of bdsm’. Being the hard-up-for-a-topic-slave that I am and wanting to push my belief (once again!) that bdsm is not a cure-all for people with fucked-up lives, I’ve pilfered the thoughts and now I’m going to run with them.

‘Did I make the right decision?’ is a question I ask myself nearly every minute of the day. Each decision I make breeds ten more decisions that have to be made and after I suffer through the making of each, I then like to drag mysef over the hot coals for a while longer and have a debate with myself about whether I made the ‘right’ decision or not. This procedure is the same whether I’m picking toast or cereal or breakfast or slavery or freedom for another day. And in the case of slavery or freedom, every act of submission is another choice in favour of slavery that is angsted about on the basis of whether it was right or not. Just because I decided to become a slave on June 6th, 2005 doesn’t mean that the deal was locked in as my ‘final answer’. I have to keep making that choice over and over again and each time I do it, I have that littlegnawing ‘Did I make the right decision?’ follow-up to deal with. Along with that comes the whole, ‘What the fuck am I doing?’, ‘What do my friends/ my family/ strangers on the street think of me?’, ‘Am I going to die alone without family/friends?’ etc. whirlpool that threatens to suck me under. But the interesting thing about that is that it would be the same scenario even if I was free. Even if I was free and married with ten kids, I’d still be asking, ‘Did I make the right decision?’.

This is where it comes back to bdsm is not a band-aid for your life. It doesn’t make anything easier- it’s just a different decision that people make in terms of what sort of relationship they will have. Similarly, gay people who ‘come out’ don’t magically find their problems fixed. Life is hard and making a choice about how you want to live your life is only the first step. Some people find god, some people find alcohol and some of us find bdsm. None of these things fix your life, though. Only you can.

Now, the other bit: power relations outside of the context of sexuality.

Hmmmm….personally….I don’t think the power exchanged in bdsm is anything but sexual power. While there may not necessarily be sex involved per se, the power exchanged will still give you a hard on. Mowing your Mistress’s lawn is masturbation material for some people, as much as licking clean a toilet bowl is for others. In essence, bdsm is about doing things that turn us on in one way or another. While the act itself is not something that we necessarily have to enjoy, sexual pleasure will be gained through the performance of the act -whether by submitting/enduring/physical sensation/feelings of control/pleasing and so on. 

Power doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Power exists through relationships and unlike a 9-5 job that pays you to kow-tow to your boss, bdsm pays you by getting you warm and moist. No matter what some people say, they don’t exist ‘only to serve their master’ – they exist only to experience the hard on they get from serving their master. We give nothing without requiring to receive something in return and that, in essence, is how bdsm and in fact, society as a whole works. 

Bdsm to me is the quintessential example of sexual power- at least that is what the underlying motivational force is. 

Or is it just me who thinks that way?

Now my head hurts….lol. 2am and it’s time for this slave to be in bed.

Indestructo- ass

For some reason on Sunday afternoon my ‘beat-me-until-I’m-black-and-blue-please!’ window opened and I was in the mood for some serious attention. Master, being the kind and obliging soul that he is, dived head-first through my wide open window with a leather paddle, suede flogger and a cane. Isn’t he sweet?

The last couple of times that he has beaten me, I’ve taken a surreptitious look over my shoulder as he was in the midst of pulling his chosen instrument of torture back in preparation for some implement-on-ass action and I have to say one thing….he looks like a mean mother-fucker!

It’s not so much that he has a maniacal look on his face or is foaming at the mouth or anything, just more the fact that he looks so cool and clinical and that he’s swinging back like he’s got a driver in his hand and he’s on the back nine at St. Andrews.

It reminded me of that classic scene in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels when Michael Caine is trying to expose Steve Martin as a phony in a wheelchair with everything numb form the waist down by caning the shit out of his legs. In a final attempt to make him ‘feel something’ Michael Caine takes a run-up from the next room and lands a cracker across Steve Martin’s shins. Teary-eyed and desperately holding back a, ‘FFFFUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKK!’ Steve Martin reiterates that he felt ‘nothing, not a thing’. 

I’m not saying that Master canes me anything like that, but on Sunday he was definitely putting his back into it. Unfortunately, all I’ve got to show for it is a tiny little bruise in the centre of my butt cheeks. I think Master was disappointed when I told him over the phone promising,

“Next time, slut,  I’ll use the tawse so we get some real bruises.”

When I’m in indestruco-ass mode, it’s not that the pain feels any less ouchie or I get all floaty and shit, I just get tougher. Instead of dancing across the bed and going, ‘OOOWWWWWW….FFFUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK!’ I somehow manage to suck it up better and kneel there grinding my teeth and stuff. Master says I get this playful look in my eyes or something and he knows that I’m asking for it. All I’d like now is to be informed of my schedule so I can tell exactly when my indestructo-ass will be paying me a visit and I can prepare accordingly- by dusting the tawse and removing the cobwebs from the crops. Lol…

One thing I’ve decided though is that we need a thicker cane. That stingy, omfg-that-hurts pain of the current cane is not something that I can cope with at any time. Hit me with a 2 x 4 plank of wood or something, but that sliver of wood that makes up the cane just ain’t fun. I don’t know what it is about the ass-to-implement ratio that makes canes so fucking stingy (something about the smaller surface area increasing the sting exponentially or some crap) but they are notsomething that even indestructo-ass can cope with. Hmmmm…it’s Master’s birthday soon….looks like I have something to surprise him with.

P.S Thanks for the birthday well-wishes everyone!

P.P.S Master sent me some beautiful flowers….awwww….

Life is like a cock…

 …when it gets hard, fuck it!

I’d just like to thank the lovely soul who posted that profound peace of advice on his profile. Unfortunately, while the wit was sharp, the picture of his dick that accompanied it wasn’t.

I’m fascinated about what brings a person to put a picture of their dick on their profile page on ‘adult friend-finding’ sites This, afterall, is what your prospective partner is going to receive as their first impression of you and I don’t know if I speak for the entire female species here or not, but personally, a slightly-out-of-focus picture of a hairy cock is not going to have me breaking down your door to get to know you. Just my two cents.

So…anyway…it’s plague week and I’m very ho-hum and to top it all off I got the lovely letter in the mail today that I had been waiting for for the last 10 weeks that informed me that I had once again failed the translation accreditation test that I’ve taken for the past two years running. Considering that I was employed as a translator, had my own translation business in Japan and have won various Japanese prizes and scholarships, I’m not feeling too good about myself. It kind of makes me think that I wasn’t as good as I thought I was and maybe I was doing shit translations for people for years. Being the sensitive soul that I am, it has kind of shaken me to the core. 

I’ve translated some bizarro things in my time from profiles of Hello Kitty to horse riding therapeutic massage machines to dress patterns for barbie dolls.  Everything and anything gets thrown your way generally with very short deadlines and when you’re getting paid by the Japanese character, it’s in your best interests to have a large network of people who can advise you on the best way to describe the to-and-fro motion of a horse while avoiding the word ‘humping’ so you don’t get stuck on it for hours.

I had a chat with Master about the mechanics of translation the other day. I can’t exactly remember how the conversation started, but I think we were talking about crap instruction manuals. I said that it often was the fault of the engineers who wrote the manuals and not the translators. Basically I told him that translation wasn’t rocket science. You take a word or a phrase and put it into another language, taking into consideration the context, tone and register. You don’t add or detract from the original language in any way. Many of the engineers who write manuals are just a little bit to close to their ‘babies’ – products that they may have spent months or years working on- and they tend not to write things from the perspective of a person who is using the product for the first time. Therefore simply translating something into the target language doesn’t necessarily mean that it will be *understandable*. Just my two cents….again.

I think my third topic for today will be BONDAGE! Is everyone awake now????

Like the engineers with their instruction manuals, I find it hard to explain my ‘baby’ bondage. To someone who has never done it or never enjoyed it like I do, it must be an alien concept. Master, while graciously consenting to tying me up on occasion, doesn’t have a real love for it and in the classic words of Edward Lewis:

 If they love it,they will always love it.
 If they don’t, they may learn to appreciate it,
 but it will never become part of their soul.

(yes, along with Sex and City, Pretty Woman is one of my favourite dvds and I’m not ashamed to say it!)

Bondage for me is very sacred and it’s part of my soul. It’s steeped in ritual, it’s highly aesthetic and it’s effect on me is hypnotic – it’s 100% guaranteed  to make me sleepy. I don’t know why, but once I get immobile, I just want to curl up and sleep.

Master will generally tie me up and go and blog or chat or something. Of course he’s always within ear’s reach and checks me often, but something about him being absent detracts from the whole experience. Admittedly, yes, I will close my eyes and generally be quiet when I’m trussed up, but there’s something about that whole scenario that makes me feel like he’s saying, ‘Yep, I’ve done my bit, now I’m off in search of my own entertainments.’ 

I mentioned that to Master the other night and he said, “But I like to leave you there and know you’re not going anywhere.” Now, I don’t know about you, but that sounded to me like a classic, “Get out of this tricky conversation scott free card.” I know bondage doesn’t ‘do it’ for him and I suppose on the flip side boots don’t ‘do it’ for me like they do for him either. That’s the thing about kinks I guess. Your kink doesn’t necessarily mean my kink.

When I bondage myself I don’t let myself get comfortable. If something gets comfortable, I rev it up a bit and shorten a chain here or add a predicament there. In fact, it’s my version of “(Wo)man vs the wild (rope)” …without the bugs and animals….lol. It’s no fun if it isn’t a challenge and that’s what you’ve got to do to keep things interesting when there’s only you and the surreptitious slip knot so you can free yourself.  I think if I was going to tie someone up I’d play with them a bit, tease them, make it an interactive thing. That’s the beauty of having two people there, you can do things that you can’t do by yourself. Even though most needs can be meet by taking matters into your own hands, there are just some things that you need another soul for. After all, if men could give themselves blowjobs, women wouldn’t be allowed out of the kitchen now would they? (^v^)

The First Release of 2008

‘Is that all you’ve used???’

The disbelief in my friend’s voice was palpable as she looked at my release chart hanging from the fridge. She had noticed that since she’d last been here in early December that I’d only crossed off two more releases and 2008 hadn’t even made it’s debut!

‘Yeah, well….what can I say?’

So last night I took matters into my own hands and decided to put 2008 on the chart. 

I wasn’t in the mood for anything elaborate so a pair of handcuffs, a couple of D-clips and the clover clamps were the only things I brought to the orgasm party. In about a minute I was attached to the bed head and cuffed with nipple clamps doing their thing. It was short and sweet and over very quickly.

It’s always fascinating how those moments when you’re building up to an orgasm are a total pain blocker. I pulled and pulled on those clamps and could barely feel a thing. Maybe next time I get pierced I need to be in that state- not sure how the mechanics of it would work with me on my side with a hand shoved up between my legs and the need for spread-eagled-ness and piercing clamps, but it’s a good thought. You put those clamps on me at any other time and I’ll tell you to turn your head while you breathe so the ‘added weight’ of air doesn’t make them any tighter.

I remember an episode of Sex and the City (yes, I have the full set of dvds and watch them on a regular basis….lol) where Charlotte is over the moon about Harry’s change in attitude about her needing to be a Jew. Of course, she’d asked him about it while they were having sex and the next day he totally reneges saying, ‘Just before I cum, I can’t even remember my own name!’

It’s a bit like that for me in those few brief seconds before I tip over the edge. You could be branding me with a hot iron and I wouldn’t feel a thing (don’t even think about it Master….lol)  See, that’s why I like my pain with a side of release. It’s just such a good combination like cheese and onion chips and chocolate or ice cream and hot custard.

Bondage and pain is a tricky combination. I prefer pain to come with a side of bondage, but bondage to come without a side of pain. I mean, if I’m going to be beaten, I’d rather be tied up for the occasion because that somehow makes it more bearable. Tied to a St Andrew’s Cross with nowhere to go makes me more ‘beating resilient’ than kneeling on the bed with everywhere to go. But bondage, on the other hand, can be just as nice on its own. 

I guess I like to add some pain when I’m having a release for the very reason that it gets blocked. I’m probably tricking myself into thinking that clover clamps are not so ouchie, or that pain can be my friend because I’m not actually feeling it. Once the release is over with though, all those ouchie things come off very, very quickly I can assure you. I really should stop trying to make myself into something I’m not and learn to live with myself as I am, shouldn’t I?

At our local chapter of bdsma (bdsm anonymous), I can hear it now,

‘Hi, I’m kitten, and I’m a wanna-be pain slut.’

‘Hi kitten!!’

No wonder I’m so fucked as a slave!

Graciously whored from 


P.S Master, there’s a meaty blog under this entry (^v^)

What Your Name Means

You are a seeker of knowledge, and you have learned many things in your life.
You are also a keeper of knowledge – meaning you don’t spill secrets or spread gossip.
People sometimes think you’re snobby or aloof, but you’re just too deep in thought to pay attention to them.

You are usually the best at everything … you strive for perfection.
You are confident, authoritative, and aggressive.
You have the classic “Type A” personality.

You are a seeker. You often find yourself restless – and you have a lot of questions about life.
You tend to travel often, to fairly random locations. You’re most comfortable when you’re far away from home.
You are quite passionate and easily tempted. Your impulses sometimes get you into trouble.

You are truly an original person. You have amazing ideas, and the power to carry them out.
Success comes rather easily for you… especially in business and academia.
Some people find you to be selfish and a bit overbearing. You’re a strong person.

You are a free spirit, and you resent anyone who tries to fence you in.
You are unpredictable, adventurous, and always a little surprising.
You may miss out by not settling down, but you’re too busy having fun to care.


Here I am, staring at my 31st birthday down the barrel and thinking, “How do other people measure my life?”

I don’t have kids and don’t intend to (fingers crossed Master never goes down that ‘breeding path’ that he likes to threaten me with from time to time and that gives me nightmares for days afterwards).

I’m not married and don’t intend to get married (…again…lol…been there once and that was sufficient thank you very much!)

I don’t have a gold-embossed career or even a job (…yet, although I would like one!)

I don’t have a car, because I don’t drive.

I don’t have a house, because it left it in Japan.

I don’t have money.

I’m a slave and that’s all. 

I don’t have any of the ‘normal’ rites of passage that people go, ‘Oh, great!’ about and that they can ask questions about and that I could talk about. I guess that’s why I’m pretty stumped for conversation when I go to parties. There are, afterall, only so many things you can say about the weather.

Before I came back to Australia, I pretty much had it all- except for the kids part…lol. I had lots of things to talk about and combined with the whole ‘exotic life in a different country’ thing, a lot of people lived vicariously through my stories and anecdotes. I think I measured up pretty well in most people’s books.

In the realm of slavery I guess I measure up pretty damn well too. I have a Master who keeps and uses me as a slave, the whole kit and caboodle of slave accoutrements- collar, cunt rings, tattoo, cage – and am basically a kept woman…lol. I suppose a lot of people read my musings in this blog and think, ‘Gee, I wish I lived like that!’ 

I’m not saying that my life is bad in any way. It’s just different and I wonder what people think. Do they think, ‘Poor girl, no kids, no hubby…’ or ‘Lucky her!’ I guess that would depend on whether they are ‘kink-friendly’ or not, but I do sometimes wonder. Living in a society where getting married and having kids is the norm, I do feel somewhat out of place.

A few months back I first talked about not wanting to have kids and thus began a tirade of comments divided into two camps of thinking. The first camp was the, ‘How-could-you-be-so-selfish-that’s-what-women-are-put-on-the-planet-for!’ and the second camp was the, ‘I-love-my-kids-but-wish-I-didn’t-have-them!’ camp. It was interesting to see the two very different ideas and the two very different ways of looking at life and women.

I know I don’t have to compare my life to anyone else’s and as long as I’m happy I shouldn’t give a toss what other people think, but sometimes, I just do stop and wonder.

Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

 As part of my pre-xmas ritual I made a ‘2007 Newsletter’ with some photos and info about my vanilla life over the past twelve months and shipped them off to friends in Japan inside cards emblazoned with sunbathing koalas and surfing santas. Over the past couple of weeks I’ve had replies filtering in through snail mail and email and it’s been interesting reading about what has happened in their lives since I’ve been gone. Tales of husbands having affairs and ripped knee cartilage have made me realise that not everything is bathed in light in the land of the rising sun.

When I left Japan in June 2005, not only was my husband surprised, but my friends were too. I remember sitting down with each of them and saying, “Yeah, the rainy season sucks and oh, and by the way, I’m leaving Japan next week.” I cited marital problems and feelings that I wanted to be closer to my family. They all nodded and made sympathetic noises, but I’d been in a relationship with my husband for the past ten years and away from my family for just as long, so I’m sure they were wondering what the cincher was that broke this slave’s back.

Little did they know that I’d met a dom on-line who was promising me the world and I was over the moon about a new future in which I didn’t have to tie myself up in secret and hide bondage tools all over the house. After I left Japan and came back to Australia, it all fell through (of course) with this ‘dom’ and so began my Australian life part two. As a result, I’ve now got several different lives:

1. Australian life Part One (living at home until 18)
2. Japan life (from 18 to 28)
3. Australian life Part Two (28 until now)
4. Slave life ( for the past 30 years, but really only for the last two years)

What is interesting about all these lives is that the players in the individual lives don’t really interact and the lives exist as wholly separate entities with different experiences and with a different ‘me’ as the protagonist. There is no crossover between them and sometimes I feel like there’s only a third of me in each because the last three lives are still continuing on parallel timelines. Are you confused yet? Lol.

I know Master must think that I sound like a broken record at times because I’m always “Japan this, Japan that” but I guess I’m trying to invite him into my ‘Japan life’. I remember also doing that with my ex-husband, trying to get him into my ‘Australian life’ because he only ever existed in Japan and spoke Japanese.When I was there it was, “Australia this, Australia that”. I wanted to share with him my whole other life and I realise now that I’m doing that with Master too. My explorations into Japanese grocery stores and restaurants and my eternal search for the elusive ‘melon bread’ are my way of trying to get the two most important of my lives to overlap.

Writing my 2007 newsletter I found that there was a huge chunk of information missing because I couldn’t write anything about my ‘Slave life’ – the life I had been living the most over the past 12 months. And when I talk to my family , I really do struggle for things to say when they ask, ‘So what have you been up to?’ While I’d love to go into details about the new pain toys I bought Master or my latest beating, I don’t really want to wave it in the faces of the couple of family members who do know. My mother and my sister know about my ‘slave life’, but talking about bdsm stuff to them is sometimes a bit like discussing your sex life – I just don’t want to go there.

I think I’m a moody soul as I can generally cry at the drop of a hat and be angry and happy in the same breath.  But in my defence I’d just like to point out that it’s because I’m spread a little bit thin over my lives in some places. Perhaps my newly christened Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde bottom is the same- sometimes it’s Japanese and wants to save face stoically in front of the crowd and sometimes it’s just Australian and wants to go down to the beach for a barbie. 

Well, that’s my theory anyway and I’m sticking to it (^v^). 


A stitch in time

I seemed to get a bit ahead of myself with the last entry, so I’ll have to go back in time a tad and talk about New Year’s Eve. 

It was a generally quiet day, but Master had said that we would go to a party at one of the best fitted-out dungeons in Perth to celebrate the new year. After moping around all day with a headache verging on a migraine and feeling none-too-motivated to go anywhere, I used one of my releases (I’ve got 19 of the original 25 left!) to perk myself up a bit, got dressed in my new red pvc boots, chain top and black skirt and off we went at about9pm. 

I always hate parties where I don’t know a lot of people. I’m an awkward kind of soul who never knows what to talk about and for some reason I get really conscious of myself speaking and there’s always one person who asks about my accent, ‘You don’t sound Australian, where are you from?’ (apparently my accent isn’t aussie enough for other aussies to recognize). But once we were there and I’d had a drink and caught up with some friends I started to chill out a bit.

We mingled and had munchies from the offerings table and checked out the dungeon ‘shed’. I believe it has every single bdsm device and toy known to man and even some that are completely unrecognizable as in, “Where the fuck does that go?” It was very impressive.

So after about 1 1/2hrs Master decided that it was time to try out the St. Andrew’s cross so off came my skirt and on came some cuffs. As he was affixing me to the cross people started filtering in with chairs and glasses of wine and were settling in to watch the show. Thank god there were no mirrors there and I couldn’t see exactly how many people were there. As Master selected toys and showed them to me some well-meaning, but slap-down-able ‘friends’ suggested that if I could smile he wasn’t hitting me hard enough and pointed out some more interesting things for him to try. Don’t you just love friends? Lol.

So I ended up being beaten from 2007 to 2008, for twenty or thirty minutes I guess and even though I wanted to keep going and my rosy red ass and back were just warming up, other people wanted to use the toys so I was released and sipped on some champagne handed out by another D/s couple. A couple of people came up to me and commented on how I must like being beaten, to which I replied that I don’t and that I only do it because Master enjoys it. Strictly speaking I do enjoy the challenge of public display and the exhibitionist in me relishes those times, but the beating is just something that down-right hurts and it ain’t erotic for me.

As I was standing there making fists and tapping toes and breathing out through my nose I was thinking about how it would suck to be a dominant in those situations. In a dungeon full of bdsm affcionados you just know they’re going to watching your techniques and how you interact with your subbie and stuff. I’ve witnessed a couple of instances where people watching have said nothing at the time and then the forum boards have been ablaze with comments the next day. Scary stuff if you ask me.

Anyways, it was good to have an audience and have my ass go into ‘slightly indestructible’ mode again. Master does spoil me.

Ho hum

 Ho hum. It’s 2008. Another year, another notch on the timeline.

So what have I got planned for 2008? Absolutely nothing. And it seems to be that thought that has me thinking all sorts of other things. Things like, ‘What the fuck am I doing?’

It’s probably not the best time to be thinking such dire thoughts, being that I’m in red plague season and suffering from a touch of subbie drop after my New Year’s beating, but I’ve come to the conclusion that bdsm is not going to solve a thing in my life. It’s not going to solve my body image issues, my intimacy issues, the lack of direction in life, my former husband guilt issues or any of the myriad of things that are eating away at my soul. While slave and salve might look like alarmingly similar concepts, slavery is not a salve that I can spread over my life and have all my problems magically disappear.

I might be wrong, but I think that a lot of people get into bdsm because they see it as some ‘solution’ to their life. They feel that something is not quite right and go out looking for an answer. There are also the folks who have a fantastic life but who just feel that something is missing. For the folks in the latter group, bdsm can be that missing thing and once they’ve found it, life is good all round. But for the folks who want the slave to be their salve, it ain’t gonna happen. In fact, I think that this is the first and foremost reason why so many of these relationships fizzle out.

We go into bdsm relationships with such high expectations – that with it our life will be complete and everything will be perfect. And in particular the pressure on the dominant to ‘make everything right’ is immense. On this point, even Master has been a victim of his own thinking. He believes that whenever a slave is ‘bad’ it’s the dominant’s fault. I, on the other hand, believe that ultimately you can never control another person’s behaviour (i.e. you can’t make someone do anything if they really don’t want to) and it takes two to tango, therefore it’s a fifty/fifty thing. The only person who can really tell you what to do is yourself and the only person who can change you is you.

Yes, I’ve often thought that it would be nice if Master dictated how I lived my life. If he controlled what I ate and where I went and what I did. Although I have to ask to have treats and drink alcohol and go out to places, Master has never said “No”, or he has said “No” and then somewhere between ten and sixty minutes later, he has said “Yes” (just to ‘exercise’ his Masterly rights) Being the slightly anal OCD bitch that I am, micro-management is something that appeals to me. But in hindsight I realise that I would only be able to cope with that if it was micro-management in the way that I liked it…lol.

So, what does all this thinking mean for me? Well, I think I have to stop relying on Master so much to ‘make me happy’ and take the bull by the horns so to speak. I know that I’m only going to be really happy if everything in my life is as I want it- if I have a job I enjoy, live in a place I like, friends to socialise with and have a healthy bdsm relationship. Having a bdsm relationship doesn’t make up for a shitty job or a shitty place to live therefore it’s all got to be good for it to work. 

Bdsm is not the holy grail, the elusive ticket to the ‘bright side of life’, life is only what you make it.