Don’t you just hate it when…

  …you settle in on a cold and rainy night to watch one of your favourite movies in the world, ‘Secretary’ only to discover that five minutes into it, the disk is faulty and won’t play?

Shesh! What does a girl have to do for some slave girlie home alone entertainment here???

Damn…now I’ve got nothing else to do but blog!

It was a strange day today. Weather-wise it was cold and rainy and so dark that it felt like I was in the twilight zone all day. Since Sunday when daylight savings officially came to a close, I’ve been all out of whack waking up earlier (which is a good thing!) and ‘sensing’ that it’s later than it actually is. I have to say that nothing is more depressing than feeling the days getting shorter and shorter and the temperature dropping. Autumn has to be one of the most depressing months simply because of the fact that the knowledge of summer is still lingering and the fear of winter is hanging in the air. Add to this the fact that most of this damn dry country has autumn leaves that change simply from green to brown  (except up in the hills, like my home town does…I think that must be it’s only redeeming feature…) so you don’t even have something pretty to soften the blow and you just have a shitty, depressing season.

The other way that today was strange was the fact that I found my cyber-twin! Strolling through blogs about Japan, I stumbled across a blog by a Canadian woman, living in Tokyo with a Japanese husband. My god, it was eerie. I felt like I was reading about my former life through the eyes of another- and it was complete with pictures! I sent the link to Master and over the next few hours we had a constant conversation on msn about the similarities between her and myself. He was ‘lol’ing it and ‘rofl’ ing it everywhere because I think he thought that I’d embellished some of my stories or that my depictions of actual married life in Japan were slightly coloured. But here was another woman, doing it tough, going to places I’d gone, cooking dishes I’d cooked, being frugal and making the effort to be better than the Japanese-iest Japanese housewife! It was great. Scary….admittedly….but great at the same time.

I lost my friend to Japan on Friday. This was the friend whom I took to Sexpo last year and turned into my ‘bitch’. The friend whom I went to uni with and outed myself to and then helped out her in return! It’s sad. I miss her already. Of course, the fact that I only have one friend doesn’t help matters! Lol. Anyway, she’s gone to Japan for a year to teach English, along with the 200,000 or so other foreigners who go to Japan every year to teach English. I’m sad and also incredibly jealous of her because I don’t think I’ve had my ‘Japan closure’ yet. I left too quickly and with too many strings dangling to say that I’d had enough and was never going back. I suppose that’s why I still talk about Japan…a lot. And why a blog about Japan will sneak in here every so often. I’ve actually been pondering setting up another blog where I can vent all that Japan stuff and get all my stories down in writing before I forget them all.

On the other hand, I’m also not the same person who left Japan nearly three years ago. There are things about my life now that I wouldn’t be comfortable about giving up and I know things wouldn’t be the same even if I did manage to go back. Sometimes I also wonder whether it’s the place or the people that I miss. I had a lot of friends and some of them I’m still very much in contact with. But if I went back, would I still be bitching and moaning like one is wont to do in Tokyo? Or would the bitching and moaning about the nitty gritty of high-density city living be replaced by the joy of being able to return? 

A lot of people talk about the ‘Japan bubble’ and the feeling of loss when it bursts. Being in Japan you are special, you’re foreign and everyone wants to be your friend and talk to you. Foreigners are cool and it does manage to pump your ego up a lot. Leave Japan and the bubble bursts. You become the average Joe Blow again and at least in Australia, living is not much cheaper or better than you thought it would be while you were still in Japan.

During an interrogation session the other night I was laying there thinking about Master and me in Japan. Of course, I was pondering all the banal stuff like whether we’d be able to smuggle our toys into the country (wouldn’t they look funny on the x-ray at airport security!) being that Japan is funny about sex stuff. I mean they will confiscate naked pics of women showing pubic hair, because that is apparently ‘not acceptable’. (I won’t mention bukkake or shibari or love hotels with sex toy vending machines or any of that other stuff that originated in Japan….) And although Master says he would like to visit Japan, I really can’t see a man who gets stressed with the ‘crowds’ doing the morning shopping at the local supermarket in Perth surviving there for more than 10 minutes. Although, I never thought my family would survive there either, but survive for a week they did and they still rave about it.

Master says I’m no longer the person that I was and that is true to some extent. But I don’t think that part of me has been erased- it has just been pushed down below the surface a bit.I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I felt a lot more ‘useful’ in Japan, as me. But as kittten, I feel a lot more ‘useful’ here because that type of use just wouldn’t happen, couldn’t happen in Japan. I think to be *really* happy, I need a balance of both types of use. I’m not saying that I’m not happy now, just that I haven’t really had closure and still feel the tug of Nippon.


The Look and Living in Fear

Master and my gym instructor share something in common. They are both on the receiving end of something so devilish, so dripping with venom and something so cunning you could brush your teeth with it (yes, I love Blackadder!)

It’s the look. 

The look of absolute hate and loathing. The look you give when something hurts so much you can barely breathe and your first instinct is to curl up and die quietly (after slapping them about the face and adding a few kicks to the shins for good measure, of course.)

I like to give my instructor that look when they say, ‘Sixteen more reps people! Only sixteen to go, then we’re done!’ then as you count down silently in your head, gritting your teeth with the pain and convinced that you can’t do one more they say, ‘Ok, now sixteen more!’ God I hate that.

I like to give Master that look when he says, ‘Ask nicely’ to a request I’ve made which obviously didn’t include the pre-requisite kisses or perhaps did, but there weren’t enough of them. I also like to give him that look when he asks, “Who do you love?” after he has caned me until I cried and between the tears and snot trails, I want nothing more than to be as far away from this man as humanly possibly.

On both occasions, the look seems to be the most appropriate response I can give- because unfortunately murder is still illegal in this country and the truly sad thing is that looks can’t kill.

Now, if I was Super Slave, it would be an entirely different story.  I’m sure that one of my secret powers would be the “Laser Eyes of Instant Death” and then those nasty gym instructors and domly ones would really have something to fear.

But speaking of fear, I’m living in it at the moment. About an hour ago Master told me that he wanted me in my black leather teddy, leashed to the bed and to have the buttplug ‘ready and waiting’ for when he called tonight. I was fine until the ‘b word’ was mentioned and then I lost it a bit. Leash and black teddy I can handle, buttplugs I can’t. And I’m in red plague!!! Why me??!!??

It’s quite amusing. It’s just like old times when Master was here and I was waaaaay over on the east coast and we’d do stuff over the phone. I remember a lot of frigid mornings where I’d be rudely awoken from deep slumber by a phone call (have I mentioned there is a two hour time difference?) and would be promptly out of bed, kneeling, head to floor as I listened to the morning ‘sermon’. I think there was even a self-administering of a wooden spoon beating over the phone once. Ahhhh….the things we do in a long-distance relationship. The things we had to do because that’s all there was. It is very tough when you’ve not together all the time, but there is an upside to it. I like to think that our time apart gives my ass time to recover. And even when Master is not here, that evil gym instructor takes over the pain-giving role quite nicely.

‘Does it hurt? Does it? I can’t hear you! Thirty two more reps! Now people!’ 


Happy 10,000 blog viewings to me! 

Happy 10,000 blog viewings to me!

Happy 10,000 blog viewings to me-e!

Happy 10,000 blog viewings to me!

But seriously, I’ve been writing this blog for two and a half years now! What does a girl have to do to get some serious numbers of blog viewings?

Naked pictures?

Tried ’em.

Stories of smut?

Tried ’em.

Delicious tales of bondage and discipline?

Tried ’em.

Obviously I need to play the movie quote game more! 

So in honour of this auspicious occasion, I have decided once again to change the look of my blog. And no, I think I’m actually a bit too old to be a “harajuku lover” but the kanji , which says ‘Harajuku’ made me a bit homesick, so choose it I did. And yes, I have a HP laptop and love it.

The House of Gaman

Master is watching “Letters from Iwo Jima” so I thought I’d sneak away for a while and write some more drivel across a cyber page (it’s either that or I go and play WoW…I’m not sure which is more productive! Lol.) . Although the movie is mostly in Japanese and I generally jump at the chance to watch or listen to anything in Japanese (including the incredibly boring telecasts of NHK news which are the only regular thing we get here in Australia), it’s still ‘war-shit’ so ten minutes is about my limit. Give me some mindless Japanese  ‘variety show’ (funny/crazy show) or ‘wide show’ (celebrity scandal) any day.

There seems to be a lot of fuss about Japanese tv outside Japan, especially recently. I’m not whether it is that the internet and in particular youtube that has increased our exposure to it, or whether there is just general interest in other tv since the anime boom began, but I see little excerpts here and there- mostly poorly dubbed with annoying English voice overs or so old that the people are wearing legwarmers and have Seiko haircuts- but more nonetheless.

Generally you find that the fuss is about how crazy it is, but what you’ve got to understand that their tv world is very different from ours. For starters there are ‘Owarai talent’ and regular ‘talent’. Owarai talent are the people paid to do crazy, dangerous stuff and regular talent are your normal singers, actors and glamour models etc. Game shows are also different because the contestants are usually made up of ‘Owarai talent’ and not your general person off the street. This ensures that the shows are interesting and you don’t have “Sally the pre-school teacher who collects cabbage patch dolls” and “Bob the avid golfer” filling the screen for more than is absolutely necessary.

TV is all about entertainment and information in Japan. I’ve never been more relaxed or learned so much while watching tv than I did in Japan. In some cases it’s almost like going to school because you get incredibly well-researched, 1 hr shows that teach you everything from party tricks to the health benefits of fruit and vegetables. And I mean that you don’t just get told that such and such is good for you, you get 3D animated models of the inside of your body and what happens. 

There are only something like 6 major free-to-air channels for 140 million people in Japan so each has a massive audience and when most people don’t get home until well after 9pm, primetime starts from 9pm and the 11pm news is what everyone watches. After a long, busy day of conforming, bowing, talking while not actually saying anything and nightmarish commutes, you want something more than Jerry beads and Ellen dances.

So why am I talking about tv in Japan and what the hell does that have to do with this slavegirlie? Well, I mostly wanted to point out that I enjoyed the crazy shows so much because they revolve around the principle of ‘gaman (endurance)’ and I think that ‘gaman’ is also what I get off on the most in my slavery- gaman of things ouchie and icky.

I like my comforts and being spoiled and hell, given the choice, I’d much rather have a nice pain-free time than a shitty ouchie time, but for some reason, when there’s not enough gaman called for in my life, I get antzy. When I’m cruising along and everything is looking rosey, I’m busily searching for a challenge that requires gaman. I’m not sure why. It might be a chemical imbalance, or it might be a deep-seated need for something that makes me feel alive more than anything else, I don’t know but I think that’s why I am a slave more than any other reason. The challenge of being ‘lower than dirt’ while functioning in an egalitarian, ‘freedom and choice for all!’  society is a complex one indeed.

Some people like to go on their rollercoasters to feel ‘alive’ and while I like to scream out my lungs with the best of them, I also like my gaman to require something a little more personal, a little more cutting to the core, something a little out of the ordinary. Of course, I’ll crave this cutting stroke of aliveness like no-one’s business and then bitch and moan about it for the next couple of days because it actually was done! Lol. Well, I didn’t say that the gaman thing was a one-way street as I’m pretty sure I hear Master moaning and bitching about his ‘slack-ass-mother-fucker-bitch’ of a slave and what he has to put up with on a regular basis too. 

Welcome to D/s…the house of gaman.

Clarity in insanity

Sweetie can you pass me the remote please?

Ummm, sweetie….do I have rings in my cunt?


Do I have a slave tattoo on my ass?


Do I have a collar around my neck?


So all those things make you a….?


And that makes me your….?


Well, there’s your answer then.

Even something as simple as asking for the remote can turn into an interrogation session! Shesh!


Master tried out two of his birthday present canes today and can I just say, Why oh why on occasions such as this, can’t my beating window be open??? I’d spent the two previous hours in the cage in wrist and leg cuffs so it was a lot more of a ‘warm up’ than what usually precedes a caning i.e. nothing…lol…but unfortunately it wasn’t enough to get me into the ‘indestructo- ass’ zone.

I bought Master a thicker rattan cane (13mm) and a polyethylene ”drumstick” (half-size) in an attempt to find something that was more thuddy than stingy, and while the polyethylene gives you a nice afterburn, I think Master summed it up quite nicely when he described the new canes as “exactly the bloody same as the old one” ! Too funny.

Nothing annoys me more than when he’s given me a beating that results in tears flowing and anger seething and then he asks that question:

“Who do you love?”

I’m not sure whether it’s his interpretation of aftercare or whether it’s the D/s equivalent of not going to bed angry, but I find it really, really difficult to answer that question at those particular moments. I can’t honestly say I love him for hurting me. I can’t smile and think that he’s doing it for his pleasure. At that exact moment when my bum’s afire and tears are pooling on the sheets, there’s nobody I hate more.
It’s only much later when the burning subsides and the cuffs are off, when I revel in the fact that I’ve just been used and have just given pleasure.

What’s worse is he lays there looking at me, smiling at me, almost challenging me to say, ‘Go fuck yourself!’ but he knows that I won’t. He lays there smiling, secure in the knowledge that no matter what he does to me, I’ll keep crawling back for more because I do love him and and I know where my place is. 

I squirmed around on the bed while he caned me. Twisting my ass this way and that, attempting to get the strokes to land just a little bit apart. It’s always the right cheek that cops the brunt of any beating (*makes mental note again to find an ambidextrous owner in future) and I swear they seem to fall in exactly the same spot over and over again. He had a dangerous note in his voice as he warned me that moving would only make it longer and harder.

But move I did and then he decided to grab my hair, pull me into position and hold me down with a hand. With head mashed into the mattress and my ass almost seeming to extend itself towards its fate, more strokes fell until apparently my squeals and crying reaching an acceptable level of ‘in pain-ness’ and he was satiated.

While it hurt like a mother-fucker, it was also incredibly hot. I love being held down, being pulled into position or made immobile in bondage. Some might say that having to hold position of your own accord by standing/kneeling/groveling there patiently while he does his things shows somehow a deeper level of submission, but all I feel like is a dumb fuck for actually holding myself there in such a situation! I mean you want to present your naked ass to someone with a big mother stick in their handwhen they say, ‘Come’??? Are you insane?

But insane I apparently am most of the time. He’s the Master and I’m the slave. When he clicks his fingers I come running….and not too often in the opposite direction to the pain toys 😉

In keeping with the holiday mood…

…the return of the movie quote game (this will probably be the last one because I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel for movies I like!)

Rule recap:
– no googling!
– first person to correctly guess the name of the movie will be credited

**Update- all done! Thanks everyone who participated!

1. Oh, so you don’t know you won a trip to Fhloston Paradise for two for 10 days? And I suppose you’ll I was in labor for days, and this is how you repay me? I should’ve just gotten a robot. The Fifth Element-


– How do you know?
– I know because…
– How do you know?
– I know because….
– How do you know?
– I know because I never loved him the way that I love you!


3. Chow Bobo. Me not da tarment of HER existence. In dis house, de tarment is everywhere and de Ja-MEEEEEEEE-can woman tarment me fa certain as much as me tarment her. Clara’s Heart-

4. But they showed no corrections of any kind. Not one. He had simply written down music already finished in his head. Page after page of it as if he were just taking dictation. And music, finished as no music is ever finished. Displace one note and there would be diminishment. Displace one phrase and the structure would fall. Amadeus-


  5. This gun of the hand is for the taking of human life. We believe it is wrong to take a life. That is only for God. Many times wars have come and people have said to us: you must fight, you must kill, it is theonly way to preserve the good. But Samuel, there’s never only one way. Remember that. Would you kill another man? Witness-

6. Only a man whose heart is pure can wield the knife, and only a man whose ass is narrow can get down these steps. And if mine’s is such an ass, then I shall have it. The Golden Child-

7. Now look. There is nothing in the world to get uptight about. We are two summa cum laudes. We can handle one little baby for eight hours. Baby Boom-


8. I… had an experience… I can’t prove it, I can’t even explain it, but everything that I know as a human being, everything that I am tells me that it was real! I was given something wonderful, something that changed me forever… A vision of the universe, that tells us, undeniably, how tiny, and insignificant and how… rare, and precious we all are! A vision that tells us that we belong to something that is greater then ourselves, that we are *not*, that none of us are alone! I wish… I… could share that… I wish, that everybody, if only for one… moment, could feel… that awe, and humility, and hope. But… That continues to be my wish.  Contact –

9. We began to recognize in them a strange obsession. After all, they are emotionally inexperienced, with only a few years in which to store up the experiences which you and I take for granted. If we gift them with a past, we create a cushion or a pillow for their emotions, and consequently, we can control them better. Blade Runner-


  10. Anyway, like I was sayin’, shrimp is the fruit of the sea. You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, saute it. Dey’s uh, shrimp-kabobs, shrimp creole, shrimp gumbo. Pan fried, deep fried, stir-fried. There’s pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, shrimp soup, shrimp stew, shrimp salad, shrimp and potatoes, shrimp burger, shrimp sandwich. That- that’s about it. Forrest Gump-

11. Oh I’m sorry, am I being a little graphic? I’m sorry. Well, I hope you’re up for a little competition. She’s got a power tool in the bedroom, dear. It’s her own personal jackhammer. She could break sidewalk with that thing. She uses it and the lights dim, it’s like a prison movie. Amazed she hasn’t chipped her teeth. Mrs Doubtfire-


 12. How come *you* don’t have a laser, Woody?
It’s not a laser. It’s a little light bulb that blinks.
What’s wrong with him?
Laser envy.
Toy Story-


13. I really don’t think that’s a variable. We’re in the same city now, I’ve indicated that I’m receptive to an offer, I’ve cleared the month of June… and I am, after all, me. Working Girl- Sadiste

14. Look, Doc, I spent last Tuesday watching fibers on my carpet. And the whole time I was watching my carpet, I was worrying that I, I might vomit. And thewhole time, I was thinking, “I’m a grown man. I should know what goes on my head.” And the more I thought about it… the more I realized that I should just blow my brains out and end it all. But then I thought, well, if I thought more about blowing my brains out… I start worrying about what that was going to do to my goddamn carpet. Okay, so, ah-he, that was a GOOD day, Doc. And, and I just want you to give me some pills and let me get on with my life. Matchstick Men-


15. Now, you understand I can’t just give you new irises. Because if I do, the retinal scans will read the scar tissue, alarms will go off, and large men with guns will appear. Minority Report-


– I’m pond scum. Well, lower actually. I’m like the fungus that feeds on pond scum. 
– Lower. The pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum. On the other hand, thank you for loving me that much, that way. It’s pretty flattering.
My Best Friend’s Wedding-


17. Raymond, you NEVER! NEVER touch the steering wheel when I’m driving. Do you hear me? Do you hear me? Rain Man-


18. WHAT? You went over my helmet? Space Balls-


19. You’re everyone’s problem. That’s because every time you go up in the air, you’re unsafe. I don’t like you because you’re dangerous. Top Gun-


 20. I just want to begin by saying to Roosevelt E. Roosevelt, what it is, what it shall be, what it was. The weather out there today is hot and shitty with continued hot and shitty in the afternoon. Tomorrow a chance of continued crappy with a pissy weather front coming down from the north. Basically, it’s hotter than a snake’s ass in a wagon rut. Good Morning Vietnam-

Kink in the City

“Flash me your boobies.” 

Sitting in the partially full train carriage heading out of the city, I smiled sweetly at my insane owner sitting across from me and filed that particular order in my ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ folder. As I took mental note of how bulgingly full the folder was getting, again the order came,

“Flash me your boobies, bitch.”

The inflection on the ‘bitch’ at the end showed me that he was being serious, but there was no way I was flashing anything on a train with other people and closed circuit video cameras everywhere.

Then, before I knew it Master leaned over and ripped down my boob tube and out they flopped. I scurried to put them back in behind closed doors while dying with shame and at the same time trying to avoid eye-contact with the other people sitting behind Master who had obviously gotten an eye-full.

“Hahaha…you’ve gone red as a beetroot.”

The pulling down of the boob tube was to be repeated later on when I met him in the hallway on my way to the toilet. I’d barely managed to turn around and scoot off in the opposite direction using the old ‘hand over the offending boobies’ technique when his Dad came around the corner wanting to talk to one of us.

It’s moments like these when I think he really is a sick puppy- these and the wooden salad spoon beating he gave me at his parents house when they’d gone out to the doctor’s or somewhere. Apparently my tears need to be soaked into the bedsheets of all the places we stay at.

There hasn’t been a lot of kink on the menu of late. Mostly due to the fact that it’s been too hot to breathe and because Master is away. I’ve also had a waning need for things of an ouchie factor and even looking at the clover clamps I’d selected for a release session yesterday brought tears to my eyes. But use them I did and that combined with the meaty dildo in my cunt and purple latex strap on vibrator firmly locked onto my clit gave me a possible….orgasm??

I don’t know to tell you the truth whether it was one or not. There wasn’t the usual intense release that I get by using my internal muscles, but there was definitely a build up and then it went away. Preceding this was also a gush of clear liquid that made me think I’d peed myself but it was clear and odourless (or was it pee and I’ve just been drinking healthy amounts of water?? lol…) 

So there you have it for those of you who like just a little too much information. I’m thinking that the up-coming Easter long weekend might be a great time for Master to try out some of his new toys and have a nice juicy session. Of course, it doesn’t help matters that my beating window is open right this moment and will probably be firmly shut by the time we get around to it. But I do have an itch that needs to be scratched before it gets totally out of hand.

Meanwhile, the tally on the release lolly jar is down to 13 and it looks like I’m going to have to win a bet soon to replenish my stocks or a release drought will be on the forecast.

BDSM is the kinky icing on a vanilla relationship cake

We’re back from Melbourne and a good time was had by all. 

A couple of things I really felt on this trip though were that one, I’m getting too old to stay in places where I can’t do ‘my thing’ and two, flying is getting worse and worse for me. My low-carb-no-red-meat regime went down an absolute treat with everyone we came across and by the end of the week I was pretty well fed-up with the eye-rolling and people telling me I was insane. On the flying side of things, I’ve never felt more like I wanted someone to put me out of my misery with a long sharp knife. I used to be able to semi-cope with flying but now I’m really starting to fear just how staggeringly awful it makes me feel. But we’re back home now and I’m surrounded by my soy protein isolate and there isn’t an aircraft to be seen, so all is good.

I was responding to a comment left on an earlier blog today and a thought came to me: BDSM is the kinky icing on a vanilla relationship cake. That’s all it is and nothing more. 

I think we’d all like it to be more. I think we’d like to know that bdsm relationships are somehow more intense or more ‘real’, requiring ‘deeper trust’ and loyalty yada yada yada. But you know, they ain’t and I think we’ve got to get off our high horses and smell the roses. I’ve been a bit guilty of this myself too- I had a tendency  to think that I was somehow better because I had a relationship that had evolved to a higher level requiring more trust, more commitment. Shesh! Looking back now I almost want to vomit.

In any type of relationship you’ve got have your cake and it’s got to be a well-made cake at that. Too crumbly, too moist, sagging in the middle or overcooked and your cake isn’t going to be ready to be iced. Some people also like to enjoy their cake without the icing and that’s just fine too. What isn’t different is the need to have a good stable cake- and I’d like to point out here that the cake is always, always vanilla flavour because that is how it is. Like it or not, the vanilla cake is the corner stone of being a member of society. Now whether you have icing with just a hint of flavour or icing of the dark, rich 100% chocolate variety is up to you. It’s your cake, you ice it how you want to.

The icing or frosting (for my readers in the US of A) is kink. It’s the little things you do that add to the cake; be they sitting on the floor or licking boots or whipping your slave or whatever. The important thing to remember is that they are all part of the icing, they have nothing to do with the cake. For some cakes, the icing might be kinky sex or it might be a latex fetish. But as I said before, icing doesn’t add or detract from the cake and some cakes are just damn fine without it.

It was very refreshing to finally come to that realisation. All these months and years that I’ve been angsting over the deeper meaning of D/s and the answer was there staring me in the face all along.

Now if only I wasn’t doing low carb – then I could have my cake and the icing too (^v^)


I’m very particular about language. I think it is such a beautiful tool that we often abuse and while it would be very easy to go off on a tirade about the decline in language levels, which appears to be a world-wide phenomenon by the way, I’ll refrain. After all, this is the journal of a slut slave whore linguaphile and not the musings of a sad-ass henny penny former English teacher chick.

I have to say that one of my biggest frustrations to date (not counting the abortive former owner experience…lol) was living in a place where I didn’t have total control over the language, and by that I mean not being able to fully enjoy it down to the minutest detail. Unless you are born bilingual, you never really get that extra level of enjoyment- not totally anyway. I missed being able to play with language and while I had an appreciation for humour in the other culture, it just didn’t quite hit my funny bone on many occasions. 

With Master I really do have amusing lingual moments. Some of them intentionally arising from his wit and others spewing out of his mouth through a wormhole connected to some parallel universe where that sort of stuff makes sense. 

Let’s take a look at some examples of domly-one-ese:

” I don’t make messes, I provide you with opportunities to serve.” (highly amusing..although I sometimes struggle to see it in that light)

“If you’re worth $1102 in bed then it’s because I’ve upped your value. I mean, I was the one who gave you the cunt’s slave.” (also highly amusing)

“Who’s your Owner now?”  (said in the vein of ‘Who’s your daddy now?’ and it just cracks me up)

So anyways, while I’ll leave you to ruminate over those gems, we’re off to Melbourne to celebrate the 50th birthday of Master. You probably won’t notice if I’m gone for a week or so because my daily blog has slipped into a twice weekly blog and is quickly gathering momentum to roll right into a weekly blog. But I just thought I’d let you know in case.

I’ve already handed over some of his presents and revealed to him that his birthday is being presented by the letter ‘C’. He guessed the cuffs and canes, and there were chocolate crackles and a clean cunt, but he hasn’t guessed the remaining 3 presents that are coming from far-flung parts of the world courtesy of ebay. I managed to limit the amount of paintoys I bought him this time, but there is always the anniversary and Christmas later on in the year to provide ample amounts of paintoys. (Actually I’m already regretting the purchase of the 13mm rattan and the ‘polyethylene pulveriser’ and I haven’t even felt them on my botty yet! Why, why do I do this??)

Sitting next to me and in total holiday mode, Master is busily playing with his new iMac and every now and then turns to smirk at the ‘sappy pc user on her laptop’. He is looking very geekish with two computers and his pda, external drive, iPod, digital camera and about 3 flash drives plugged into various outlets. When I whined to him that I was going to become a ‘mac widow’ he informed me that I wouldn’t because for the next week I’d be the ‘melbourne pc bitch’.

Adios amigos! Until we meet again at the same bat time, same bat channel.


What thou shalt not know, thou shalt not need to know

(Just delving into some past experiences while plague/ Master’s absence and general blog topic drought continues…)

My first bdsm experiences were…in a word…regrettable. A short flurry of fun and games in a very brief honeymoon period and then nothing. Days and weeks of nothing.

I remember driving myself crazy at one stage trying to figure out my former owner’s ‘grand design’ for me. I used to think that there had to be a reason he was ignoring me and didn’t seem to give a toss about our relationship. Was he testing me? Was this some grand scheme for me to prove how committed I was to him?  His seeming lack of interest in play and sex and everything else that I’d gotten into that relationship for had to be for a purpose, right? 

I’d cycle wildly through conflicting emotions of guilt that I wasn’t doing enough and therefore wasn’t seen to be ‘suitable’ or ‘valuable’ enough to be used, and seething anger that my situation was nobetter than before. I’d given up everything to be with him and for what? But was I the one at fault? Was I not slavey enough or attractive enough for him? Was he disappointed in me? Did he want to get rid of me but couldn’t? Doubts and more doubts bubbled to the surface.

I wrote some things in my blog, but I never really reproached him for what he did or didn’t do. I assumed that it wasn’t my place to say stuff. I also felt that saying negative things might also relegate me from tenaciously ground to plunging down the cliff face. I hadn’t done anything bad that I knew of, but it always felt like I was being punished.

Life in general also made me angry. He stayed home, I went out to do shiftwork.  Every weekend we would have his kids. Cycling home on weekdays I’d be imagining all the things that we could be doing with our time together because I knew that once the weekend came, there would be kids everywhere. But days of nothing went by and before I knew it, it was the weekend again. I actually started getting angrier and more jealous with the kids. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do or buy for them, yet there wasn’t a thing he would do for me. Money that we didn’t have was spent on buying mountains of dvds for them and toys. After working 14hr days and getting home at 1am, I’d arrive home to see that he’d cooked a baked dinner and had dessert with the kids. All that would be left for me were the empty, dirty dishes and crap all over the house. I’d open up another can of baked beans in the dark house and seethe. Then I’d feel guilty because I was the slave and anything he gave me was a privilege and I shouldn’t be expecting things.

It was much, much later when I learned the very important distinction between ‘use’ and being ‘used’.

All of this was a long time ago and now my life is incomparable. The sad thing is that the whole experience scarred me in a lot of ways and changed me into who I am today- a soul who is a lot more insecure and who was constantly waiting for the honeymoon to be ‘over’. I went a bit psycho when I first moved here to be with Master, more than anything due to the permanent markings that were surreptitiously put onto me and that made me wonder, ‘What the fuck am I going to do with them once he gets sick of me and tosses me aside?’ Master often jabs me about it saying, “So you really thought I’d get sick of you, did you? Eighteen months and counting now…” 

I was the one who ended up asking for my metal collar to be removed in my first relationship. I’d stewed and stewed and sat up in bed one morning and asked him, “What is your grand plan?” He said he didn’t know. I asked him if he wanted things to work between us. He said yes. Then I asked him to take it off so I could think. That particular collar never went back onto my neck.

An incident of collar removal here about two weeks after I’d first arrived because I’d freaked and said that I ‘can’t do it’ seriously gave me deja vu. Master had removed my collar because he thought that that was what I wanted, but what I really wanted was the security of it and the sense that there was no backing out. To know that it could come off so ‘easily’ made me even more insecure. I felt that he really didn’t want it to be on there in the first place- I mean, if you can take it off within the space of a few breaths, how much do you really want it to stay on there? Fortunately it’s been securely on there ever since and I don’t even have any idea where the allen key is.

What thou shalt not know, thou shalt not need to know.