Teetotaler kitten

Ever since I’ve been with Master he’s had a strict ‘no alcohol without permission’ policy. I’m not exactly sure why, but for some reason he thinks that without an alcohol restriction I’m a bit of a piss-pot. Now, in the past I may have been known to chugg back more than my fair share of alcoholic beverages, but I was young and silly and that’s what you did when you were stuck in snow country in a foreign country. Since my year or so of spending most of my monthly paycheck on chuuhai (the Japanese equivalent of girlie drinks) and karaoke oh-so-many years ago, I’ve rarely touched more than a drop. In fact, other than the glass of wine I had with my friend over lunch yesterday, I can’t remember the last time I had a drink.

Waiting for me on the answering machine when I got home from gym last night was a Masterly message:

“I got your text message about being tipsy, but for some reason, I don’t seem to remember giving you permission to drink at all…”

A more ominous message, I can’t recall ever hearing.

I hadn’t intended on having a drink at all, but somewhere between the sushi and dim sum, there was suddenly talk of getting a bottle.  I managed to talk her into getting glasses instead, but the damage had already been done. I’d drunk without permission and Master wouldn’t be pleased.

Somewhere inside of me I resented the fact that he didn’t ‘trust’ me enough to handle my own alcohol consumption. I had the idea that he thought I was a closet drunk bordering on the cliff-face of alcoholism who needed someone to regulate their habit. Jokingly he’d often call me an ‘alcoholic’ after I confessed about my sordid past and it just seemed like he thought I couldn’t control myself. That’s why I thought he’d started the ‘no alcohol without permission’ procedure.

But since reading his blog today I’ve learned that he’s actually doing it to reinforce my slavery to me. Apparently he thinks that having a very natural act in adult society denied to me, will reinforce the fact that I’m not like everyone else in adult society, that I’m not free and don’t have the right to do as other’s do without thought.

Every now and then I have one of these ‘misinterpretation’ moments where I’ve thought he does something for a particular reason, but the reality is that he has his own motivations. Often these moments come when we’re bantering and I’m asking for clarification, but also they sometimes come very innocently through a nonchalantly placed sentence in his blog. That’s why I appreciate his words so much and the fact that he takes the time to read and write on both of our blogs. Without it, I’d been scratching around in the dirt looking for answers like I did before. Thank you sweetie pumpkin Master! xxx
 

Once a slave, always a slave

 I had an interesting comment the other day on my blog:

‘bdsm is for simps’

Now I’m guessing that the anonymous soul was saying that people who are into bdsm are simpletons (I’m not 100% sure though because, you know, the young folk and their vernacular these days…lol….) but actually the comment didn’t bother me in the slightest.  I’m rather quite proud to say that I am a ‘simp’ who likes things nice and simple. Nothing is better for me than to have just one answer and one direction. While having options x, y and z is occasionally comforting, it’s so much nicer to have an order for ‘bdsm’ and that is what you serve up. There is no need to weigh up the pros and cons of x, y or z  because bdsm is the only thing on the menu. I find that bdsm takes away all the complicated bullshit of life and breaks it down into a common denominator that I can cope with – Master and I.

I am a simp who can’t multi-task. I can’t be pulled in several different directions all at once and still be required to carry out each role equally as well. Seeing that my personality quiz results show that I am conscientious but neurotic kitten (Gotta get the string, gotta get the string, but what if I pull it and something falls on me?) I get super stressed when I can’t do every role I’m given to perfection. Thus came the decision for me not to work, but to stay home and concentrate on my slavery. I knew that my slavery would suffer if I was out there working 9-5 and I didn’t want it to be something that got pushed aside in the crush of other things.  As Master says, ‘You’re not fit to be anything but a slave.’

I don’t see Master’s frequent observation that I am ‘not fit to be anything but a slave’ as negative in the slightest. He knows what I am, I know what I am, there’s no point denying the fact that I am a slave and slavery is what I do. Being what I am keeps things nice and simple for this simp.

Once upon a time I believed that you had to beowned in order to call yourself a slave. By my previous way of thinking you were a sub or a dom until you were owner and property and then you became Master and slave. But now I’m thinking that if you’re a slave, you’re always a slave- owned or not. I think if the seed of slavery is planted within yourself at any time, there’s nothing you can do to stop it taking root. It might die back from time to time or be choked by weeds, but it’s always there. 

My subby friend who abandoned me for Japan about a month ago told me the other night when we were chatting that she had deleted her blog. She was worried about someone finding ‘inappropriate material’ about her on the web and so had chosen to delete it. After I assured her that no-one would recognize her and she had thought about it some more, she decided to reinstate it. The minute she clicked to activate it again, she said she felt relieved. I said that that was a side of her that wasn’t likely to go away. The seed has been planted and now it won’t go away.

Perhaps ‘slave sans owner’ and ‘Master sans property’ would be good titles for those folk who have yet to make a property transaction. 

Yeah, ok…I took the damn test

My Personality

Neuroticism
79
Extraversion
1
Openness to Experience
15
Agreeableness
21
Conscientiousness
64
You rarely get angry and it takes a lot to make you angry, however you are sensitive about what others think of you. Your concern about rejection and ridicule cause you to feel shy and uncomfortable around others. You are easily embarrassed and often feel ashamed. Your fears that others will criticize or make fun of you are exaggerated and unrealistic, but your awkwardness and discomfort may make these fears a self-fulfilling prophecy. People generally perceive you as distant and reserved, and you do not usually reach out to others. You prefer familiar routines and for things to stay the same. You can tend to feel uncomfortable with change. You do not enjoy confrontation, but you will stand up for yourself or push your point if you feel it is important, however you generally see others as selfish, devious, and sometimes potentially dangerous. You take your time when making decisions and will deliberate on all the possible consequences and alternatives.

Take a Personality Test now or view the full Personality Report

One fine Friday

So what does one do when one has a grumpy Master? One does a blog post. As I’m assuming that will cheer him up and if not, it will give him some early morning drivel to drag his eyes across. In response to my question of,  “Are you ok?”  I think I’ve gotten more answers of, “Fine” in the last few hours than I would get from asking a weatherman in the Sahara what the weather was like. I’m guessing it’s a combination of shit happening at work and paint fumes that are making him less than his usual chirpy self, but just in case, I’m sure a blog can’t harm.

Well, I started my day with good intentions; plans of doing work in the garden and setting the house back to order were bubbling away, but when I got out of my bed and was ordered straight back to bed- Master’s bed, that is- my enthusiasm for tedious housework went right out the window. Clothes came off and boots went on then some ravishing ensued. It was something like 10:30 before I finally peeled back the covers to go and make brekky- eggs, tomatoes and cheese on toast with a coffee for Master and a spinach and bean sprout omelette with some rooibos tea for me.

Some pics of my fading bottie bruises from Saturday night were then added to the album and I sat down to read the paper online and do my rounds of blogs. In between I had some text messages from my sister telling me that she is getting her new tattoo done on Saturday afternoon. She said she was worried about the pain. I told her that she’s gone through childbirth twice and has had her bits waxed for years so she should have absolutely nothing to worry about. By noon, I decided that it was time to actually go and do something and went off to clean my bathroom and put everything back into my new vanity. Interestingly enough, Master’s vanity in his bathroom looks all bare and empty with his stuff in it and mine looks filled to overflowing. In fact, I have four times as much stuff as Master to go in exactly the same-sized vanity in my bathroom. He wanted to know why I needed so much stuff. All I can say in response to that is that I don’t wake up looking this naturally slutty- it takes products and copious amounts at that to get me looking this way…lol.

After lunch Master was watching war shit on tv so I headed off to play ‘a little’ bit of WoW and that was when I got sucked into the blackhole of WoW time. The ‘simple’ quest that I wanted to complete ended up taking me about 3 hrs and by then it was starting to get dark so the gardening thing was out of the question. Master appeared in the kitchen to start making a seafood curry for dinner and I finished up my questing. It had been ages since I had eaten anything that Master had cooked so it was a real treat for me. We used to have “Master-cooked”  food every night, but since he’s been working on site and I’ve been doing my funky diet, we’ve pretty much had separate meals even if we are home together.

While the curry was cooking I decided it was time to try out my new exercise bike that we picked up last night. I had it on what I thought was the 2nd strongest setting and in no time at all I had sweat beading down my face and was huffing and puffing away. I was actually quite horrified to think that I was that unfit considering I’ve been at the gym every night for months now so I grabbed the instruction manual and pored over it, as I am wont to do, and it was then that I discovered that I actually had it on the 6th strongest setting (with a maximum of eight settings)… I am a silly moo sometimes…30mins later the curry and I were both well-done so it was chow time. And scrummy it was too.

After dinner Master started working on the video he is making for his friend’s 50th birthday that we are going to Melbourne next week to celebrate. He is a very creative soul when the mood grabs him and had put on his ‘Indiana Jones’ hat and black shirt to suit the part of the secret agent narrator he was playing. I helped out by putting up a screen behind him to block out the kitchen background and grabbed the bedside light from my bedroom to create some mysterious lighting. Hopefully the video should be completed by this weekend ready to present next weekend.

I had a craving for something sweet and after checking the cupboards and finding nothing and then pondering whether to break into the stash of Japanese goodies I was sent by a friend (but if I opened them, the goodies would be gone!) so I decided to break out the emergency 85% cocoa Lindt extra fine dark chocolate. Ever tried that stuff? It’s pure chocolate with the teensiest touch of sugar in it. In fact, the amount of sugar is so teensy that it tastes like you have a mouth full of cocoa powder, but when you’re on a low GI diet, you’ve got to take what you can get so I sucked on little bites and swirled around mouthfuls of tea and it gave me the fix I needed.

About an hour ago Master disappeared and I assumed he was going to the toilet but when he didn’t come back I went in search of him only to find him curled up in bed snoring away.

“Are you ok sweetie pumpkin?”

“Fine.”

So apparently he’s still fine and now that my toes are suitably frozen into ice blocks I’m fine enough to go to bed too.

The good, the bad and the very sore

Saturday night was party night. I’d spent my day making endless cups of tea for the guy installing our new bathroom vanities, going shopping with Master for the weekly food supplies, moving and restacking the bookshelf, tidying the kitchen and at around 6:30pm started getting ready to go out. A whole chunk of time was lost somewhere in the afternooon during while I’d hoped to be able to ‘get myself in the mood’ for the party. I still don’t know where the time went and I’m not exactly sure what I was planning to do to ‘get myself in the mood’ but by 9pm when we headed out the door I felt woefully unprepared.

After approximately two and a half hours of boot lacing, bathing, applying makeup and corsetting I looked like this:

Obviously, it take me a lot longer to squeeze my ‘larger than life’ legs into boots so putting these suckers on took a good 30 minutes:

Five minutes after arriving at the venue I barely had time to say hello to the host and take a quick glance around the house before Master was pulling out the pony head harness, strapping me in and parading me around the room. Apparently no-one else had started playing yet and so the crowds started gathering. There is little wonder that we have now earned ourselves the nickname of, ‘last to arrive, first to play’

After a cursory trot around the room, Master summarily placed me on one of the St. Andrew’s crosses in the room and went to work playing his little “What implement is this?” game.

In no time at all Master had used nearly every single implement in the room and I’d managed to guess about three quarters of them. A failure to guess meant anotherten strokes or so until I did guess. My ass was warmed up nicely and it wasn’t long before you could of used it to fry yourself an egg.

After botty-beating session number one, Master released me from the head harness, cuffed my hands behind my back and allowed me to go and socialise. It’s kind of awkward to strike up conversations with people when you’re sitting there with all your bits hanging out and when they’ve seen your ass being beaten long before you’ve exchanged even a ‘hello’. It was during the socialisation time that Mistress Blair and pup arrived and it was great to see them again. We exchanged some light banter about men who are crap hoarders and decorating dramas.

Then it was time for botty-beating session number two. This time Master hooked me up to the other St. Andrew’s cross in the room and handed the reins over to another dom, R, who I knew as the ‘scary cane man’. First of all I just thought R was going to warm me up and then Master was going to take over, but after a really solid and I mean solid spanking (that man feels like he has planks of wood for hands!) Master suggested he continue with whatever implements he wanted.

Now, I’ve seen this guy in action on

. I also know what sort of things he has in his toy bag. When Master suggested he continue, I was so terrified that if I ‘d been wearing underwear I would have crapped myself. He started out by removing his leather belt and whallopping the bejesus out of me. Then he progressed through a series of canes of different thickness from thin twiggy ones up to the 13mm and a birch. He covered my ass from top to bottom and side to side with strokes and headed well down my thighs for good measure. Then he tried out some ‘bacon cuts’ which are vertical strokes that slice downwards.

It hurt. Bad. Really bad.

But I didn’t make a sound. There were copious amounts of lip-biting, foot tapping and breath-sucking in but I didn’t move and I have to say I was proud of myself. It really is a pride thing for me when I’m up there. I’d be mortified to ‘shame’ Master and myself in front of a room full of people. R said numerous times that I was ‘very well-trained’ which really made me laugh on the inside. I mean, you really don’t want to be openly laughing at a guy with a cane in his hand while you’re strapped to a cross now do you?

I was just getting to the point when I thought that I was going to keel over that Master stepped in and ‘saved’ me. I had that feeling that I get every now and then which I think is a bit like a sensory overload. I wonder how he knew I’d reached my point….Was I grimacing more than before? But fortunately, a few minutes later I’d recovered and snuck off to the kitchen for nibblies and a drink of water. I felt great. Sore. Really sore. But great.

In the kitchen I was treated to a display of pup’s bottom (I just love humiliating other subbies!) and then Mistress Blair took pup off for a cropping and returned later with a naked pup for some boot licking and face-slapping. Obviously the flashing light was stuck on “Evil” for most of her night. We stayed until about 2am and then snuck off home where Master ravished me and I collapsed into bed. I think a good night was had by all. 

On Sunday my botty and thighs were looking like this.

I’m feeling it literally everytime I move. I don’t know implement caused what marks (other than the obvious cane strokes of course!) or who did what, but they’re all pretty trophies for me.

P.S Thank you Master for giving me the opportunity to experience other types of play with other people! I know how hard it is for you not to be the one tormenting my botty (^v^)

Party time

End of week two of the house painting saga and I suppose the chaos in the house is a good thing -it’s distracting me from thinking about the play party we are going to tomorrow evening. I had kind of hoped that things would have been finished and back to normal before the weekend so that I could of gotten into the ‘mood’ a bit more but they’re not and the weather hasn’t been cooperating, being cold and wet – just the sort of weather where you want to curl up in bed with a cup of coffee and some Sex and the City instead of tromping out half-naked somewhere for a botty work-out.

So this is what I’m wearing to the party:

You may think that there seems to be something missing underneath- between the bottom of the corset and the boots. I, of course, also thought there was something missing and asked Master about it:

‘So what am I wearing…you know…down there?’

‘Nothing. Why would you expect to be?’

‘I just thought it might be a bit drafty down there that’s all….’

‘I’m sure you’ll be warm enough down there when I’m finished with you.’

And that, dear readers, was that. I’m just praying for the weather to warm up so I don’t have a case of clitoral-nipple erectus.

I’m actually going to have to see if I can locate my outfit for the party. It’s probably buried beneath mounds of things like everything else is at the moment. If I were in a hotel I’d be living out of a suitcase, but since I’m at home, life is being lived very much off the floor, and off the table, and off every other available surface -which is what happens when you have to pull everything off and out of every shelf in the place. You really don’t realise how much stuff you (i.e. Master) have until you pull it all out and spread it around you.

I’ve been playing ‘musical kink’ with our toys for the past few weeks. Since nothing is sacrosanct, including the closets, as every nook and cranny of this place is being painted, I’ve had to move them from place to place and even resorted to hiding them in Master’s bed one particular day hoping that the tell-tale lumps wouldn’t be too suspicious. The smaller toys are fine but the long spreader bars, pony whips and canes are a challenge to hide. I suppose I could just put them out in the garage and be done with it, but I want to keep them clean and spider-free, so I think the inside of the house is best at this point (although, with all the sanding and stuff, the inside of the house isn’t particularly clean at this point either!)

Perhaps the ouchie toys will be ‘lost’ between now and Saturday. I mean, sometimes, things are just beyond anyone’s control (^v^)
 

Basic Instincts

I’ve been spending the last few days pondering window treatments and colour schemes. I even took a trip to the new and improved IKEA store to look at their panel curtains and curtain rods. I have a grand vision for the house when its finished, but generally that vision involves throwing out a lot more things and spending a lot more money than Master is comfortable with. 

I’m not sure whether it’s just me or not but I tend to ‘nest’ when I move into a place. I rearrange things, declutter and talk of furniture dreams and painting schemes. I’ve lived with three men in my time and while that is not a huge sample to base a generalisation on, I’ll do it anyway- men are crap hoarders and dust collectors! (Ah…that feels much better now I’ve got that off my chest…lol.) And redecorating is one of those things that I find exceptionally hard to do as a slave.

At one point over the weekend we exchanged words over a manky, dust-encrusted plastic sports drink bottle that emerged from the very back of the cupboard:

“I’m going to throw it out, ok?”

“No, you’re not. It’s insulated! We can use it. Don’t you throw that out at all.”

“No-one has used it for years. It’s dirty and gross.”

“It’s fine! Put it back in the cupboard!”

It’s at this point that if I wasn’t a slave, I’d say, ‘You’re fucking crazy it’s going in the bin’ or I’d at least throw it away while he wasn’t looking, but unfortunately I can’t. Master beats slave everytime in the rock, scissors, paper of  D/s and therefore the crap levels of our cupboards tend to crescendo.

Interestingly enough, this is not even my house- partially or otherwise. I’ve never contributed anything financially to it and therefore really have no right to call the shots about how it looks or what does or doesn’t stay in it. I keep trying to remind myself that this is Master’s house, filled with his stuff and therefore it has nothing to do with me, but my nesting instincts are very difficult to ignore. Is that just the woman in the me or the controlling bitch-slut who just needs a good kick up the ass?

Master told me yesterday that Ms. B (our dommely friend and his partner in crime) had decided to purchase new furniture for the house she is setting up with her pup boy. She has also apparently spent the last few weeks de-crapping and prepping the place and the new furniture will be the icing on her vision. Interestingly enough this seems to suggest that the nesting instinct is more a ‘woman’ thing than a domly one/slave thing. Do women have it in their DNA to make their nest as aesthetically pleasing as possible? Men might be happy with a few twigs and a bit of fluff here and there, but women seem to need feature walls and matching fittings.

Hmmm…must go and put some sealer on some tiles to bring out the shine in Master’s nest.

In Pursuit of Climax-ness

A week into re-painting hell and I’ve finally got a moment to myself. For the past week the painter has arrived everyday just after 7am and has left somewhere between 3 and 4pm. That gives me something like a whole hour to myself before it’s time to leave for gym. After gym it’s make dinner, talk to Master then go to bed and get up and do it all over again. Admittedly, I’m not the one up on the ladder dealing with paint application, but instead, I’m the one on the ground hauling stuff from room to room, washing windows, cleaning rooms and organizing other things to happen. I’m exhausted.

When I informed Master of the progress of the painting and that it would continue well into next week, his comment was:

‘Well, guess I’ll have to cancel the mystery shopper who was scheduled to come on Sunday.’

My response?

‘Aww..sweetie…’ (on the outside)

‘Sweet fucking jesus, thank god!’ (on the inside)

I tried to wheedle some more information out of Master and asked whether it was a repeat mystery shopper or someone new (I’m guessing it was the guy who cancelled before) but Master has remained mute saying that it was ‘none of my business’. Yeah, admittedly I’m the slave and blah, blah, blah, but the guy’s going to be fucking me among other things so don’t I at least deserve some info??

Today I have a reprieve from ‘no privacy central’ because the painter has gone off to finish another site. He won’t be back until Monday and I’ve got the whole day today to spend looking for curtains and blinds and then the weekend to spend with Master. Admitedly, the weekend will be filled with moving back furniture and hauling stuff from it’s existing location to a new location so he can start painting the back bedrooms next week, but it will still be nice. 

After the painter left yesterday I thought it would be the perfect time for a little nap, but instead a few twinges from my nether regions informed me that it would be the perfect time for a little release. So I hauled out the porn…..mmm…those guys over at kink have been nice and busy….and set about the task of putting myself in the mood.

Ten minutes or so of looking at women deliciously tied up and fucked later, I thought it might be time to challenge the vibrator again. I spent the next twenty minutes trying to locate the nipple clamps, cuffs, gag and the hitachi vibrator (the basic necessities) from amongst the painting apocalypse and then settled down to get to work.

Every time I bring out the hitachi I think to myself that we need more attachments, something smaller that I can just fit on my clit withoutgetting any of the rings involved because nothing is going to get me further away from a climax than screaming pain from my labia rings, which is what normally happens if you put that big ball of a head down there. With one hand I tried to get my rings out of the way and with the other hand carefully applied said vibrator – which is not so easy when you’ve got your hands cuffed together, believe you me!

I’ve used the hitachi before with no success but this time I was on a mission for the pursuit of climax-ness so I mounted that sucker good and hard, pushing down with the full weight of my body and yanking the clover clamps with my other hand until I thought my nipples were going to be ripped off. It was yummy. Later when I talked to Master he said that I sounded much chirpier. Yep. A release is almost guaranteed to chirp me up. Although, when I crossed off another box from the release chart on the fridge and watched my remaining release supply dwindle, it was a sombre moment.

I’d be uber glad when all this painting and shit is over. Although it’s fun being interior decorator bitch and seeing my masterpiece come together, I think I need a holiday or perhaps a good beating and some cage time will suffice. 

P.S Just as a disclaimer to aspiring domly ones, I’d just like to point out that it’s only when you have pain and pleasure in perfect equilibrium that you can do shit like that with clover clamps. Putting them on and yanking them about without some serious stimulation down-stairs is a good way to get yourself kicked in the teeth. Just so you know….lol.

Out of exile

For the past two months I’ve been in voluntary exile from most of my comfort foods. Bread, dairy, and basically anything other than meat protein and a handful of select vegies has not passed these lips and it’s been tough. But today I came out of exile and started adding back small amounts of those yummy things called ‘carbs’. 

I started my morning with a decaf cappuccino! OMG….milk froth has never tasted so good! Later on in the week I’ll be having some fruit and maybe a few spoonfuls of yoghurt. The trick is to introduce things back into your diet slowly so as to not upset your body too much. Which got me thinking, when you’ve been away from play for a while, is it better to build things up slowly or just to dive in their head first?

I always used to think that a slow but steady reintroduction to pain was a good thing. I would always complain to Master that I’d ‘gone back to zero’ if a few weeks without play had passed and that we’d need to build up my tolerance again (I think he must have selective hearing though, because things would always start on the same level of intensity, regardless of how long it had been since he had beaten me last.) But I don’t know whether that really is the case. I think for me, things hurt whether I’ve been beaten every day for the last week, or haven’t been beaten for a month. What matters most is whether my ‘beating window’ is open or not. 

I really don’t know whether my ‘window’ is what you would call a slave mind set or what it is. I can only describe it as a sense of readiness. It’s almost like I strut around ‘daring’ him to do his worst. I feel strong, invincible and generally have an ‘indestructo-ass’, making me able to take much more that I usually do. 

In the scheme of things, I’m a wuss. On a good day, ten or fifteen strokes of the cane will send me jumping around the bed, ramp it up a bit more and I’ll soon be blubbering like a baby. What’s more,  Master generally doesn’t hit hard. Unless he is really pissed off with me or uberly in the mood, he’ll give me light strokes that probably won’t be visible 5 minutes afterwards. Sad, isn’t it? I haven’t had what I’d call a solid beating since the party we went to in November last year. My window was wide open that night and I couldn’t stop laughing (which is my way of insinuating, “Is that the best you can do?”).

On April 19th we are supposed to be going to another dungeon party. When I found out about it, I immediately said to Master, ‘Well, you’d better start getting my ass into shape!’ and now I’m beginning to understand the futility of those words. The ‘wonderfully’ evil Ms. B has also indicated that she is looking forward to ‘seeing’ me there. I’m thinking that she actually means that she looking forward to *beating* me there.

Fingers crossed a brisk breeze blows through and opens my window between now and then.

Black comedy

Hmmm…seems Master didn’t get the joke in my April Fool’s post. He’s a sensitive guy and it’s always a fine line that one- the one between truth and humour.

Of course, there were some elements of both in my last post. The truth being that I don’t get enough bondage (and that’s basically because I probably never could get enough bondage even if it was happening 24/7) and the humour being that I didn’t need a Master and was ready to pack up and go. Sprinkled in amongst all that was a revenge ribbing to Master about the ‘other guy’ who apparently fancies me and a little bit of a vent about a lack of variety in our play.

But more than anything I was trying to point out the fact that while a lack of use (i.e bondage) in my previous relationship was grounds enough for me to leave, it’s not this time because I have a real connection with Master. My need for bondage is something I’m willing to put aside for the other wonderful things we have.  

I’m a fairly impatient bottler and when I want things I want them now and when I don’t get them I simmer away inside like a pressure cooker with the lid not on quite right. I can be absolutely fine on the surface, until one day ‘Bang!’ and the lid shoots off across the room, nearly taking out someone’s eye in the process. Although I try to channel my energies into other things like gym or pandora bracelets ( I really have to stop that last one…) I generally have to scratch my itch myself before things really get out of hand and more people start losing eyes.

Before, I guess, I had super high expectations and still had my head up in the clouds. I imagined that we or more precisely he *should* be doing kinky stuff all day every day and when it didn’t happen that way first, I got into the self-doubt cycle and then I quickly escalated into pressure cooker mode. But I’m a little bit older and wiser now. I know that’s not how things happen and whereas before if a month went by without play I’d be climbing the walls, I’m now just accepting, albeit, a little bit disappointed. In fact, I’d describe it now as though I’m ‘in control’ of my addiction.

It’s tough when you don’t share the same kink. I suppose inevitably you always feel like your significant other is pandering to your wishes. Take for example last weekend when Master asked me, “How’d you like some bondage?” The man *asked* me for pete’s sake! And I also know at the time he wasn’t feeling the best…how does he think I’m going to respond in that situation? I’d rather bondage was taken right off the menu in those situations rather than have it tossed out there half-heartedly in front of me.

Master is into boots, interrogation sessions and canes.That’s his kink and that’s cool but I wonder if he gets sick of the same thing. I mean, I’ve been eating jalapeno omelettes for breakfast for nearly two months now and I’m about at that stage where I’d like achange. I’m sure he’ll say he never gets sick of boots, but, I don’t know, perhaps if we tried other things, he’d also find something else that he liked ( and maybe it would be something I liked too?? (^v^)

Master describes me as ‘precious’ to him, but ultimately I am his slave and nothing more. That’s fine by me. I don’t want a ‘relationship’ and I don’t want to be a ‘couple’. I don’t tell Master that I love him and I’m not sure how he feels about that. Sometimes I have the feeling that he is fishing for me to say something like that to him. I guess if the situation was reversed, I’d want to hear those magic three words too, but I can’t. I find it hard to explain exactly how I feel about him, but I know it’s not as simple as ‘love’. I can’t seem to put him on the same rank as say, chocolate or my family. He’s got an entirely different different rank of his own and I don’t have a label for it. Precious I guess, as being one of my favourite words, might have to do for a label at this time.

So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that while shit may happen I ain’t going anywhere. How does that hit your funny bone?

New beginnings

After I finished blogging last night I decided to go back through my old entries as a trip down memory lane. I’d cleaned up my slave cell (i.e my room full of crap) earlier in the day and while going through papers and uni notes I stumbled across a few blog entries I’d handwritten in 2005. I started out with a slave journal that I was required to write in every day and then when I got a bit more blog-savvy I started writing here and typed up most of the old entries- most- but not all. I’ve been saying to myself that I’d get around to it one day, and two years on I still haven’t.

I have to say that most of my earlier entries are crap. While there’s still the familiar thread of angsting and bitching about anything and everything, I really didn’t have the blogging mojo. There was also so much gushing about ‘Master this…’., ..’Master that…’ that the whole exercise of re-reading it almost made me puke. Fuck I was stupid.

But one interesting thing that did come through was the same sense of needing bondage and not getting enough of it. I guess in retrospect I was getting a reasonable amount of play and in some cases it’s more than I’m getting now. I’d say that the ‘variety’ of use I used to get was larger and there was definitely more of the ‘down and dirty’ stuff.

My former owner and I had very little in the way of a ‘connection’. We didn’t talk a lot and mostly that was because he was a boy (hahahaha) and I was a slave who was trying to play the role of a ‘put up and shut up’ bitch. He wasn’t very interested in me as a person and while we talked about work ,because we ended up being employed in the same place, and WoW, because we both played it, that was about the extent of it. I never knew much about his family and he knew next to nothing about mine. To all extents and purposes we were just two people sharing the same space and doing some kinky stuff every now and then.

I left Japan in early June, 2005 and went to live with ‘that guy who shall remain nameless’ by the end of June the same year. By September I knew things were wrong, and by January I was no longer wearing his collar. The months rolled by as I tried to salvage things and made numerous attempts at starting again, but when my grandmother had her first heartattack in June of 2006 and needed someone to be with her, it seemed like the perfect time to go. And go I did. Stating that he ‘didn’t use me enough’ as my biggest reason for going.

So, nearly two years later I’m here with Master and still not getting enough use. Life is ironic isn’t it??

This whole Japan-in-my-face thing has really made me just want to pack my things and go. I mean, if I’m just going to be getting my bondage fix through masturbating and stuff I do to myself then I did that just fine in Japan and can do it again. I’m sure I could play at wearing a collar and take it off at those times when I’d really like to- like in the pool or at the gym, that I can’t now- and things would be sweet.

Who needs a Master anyway? Just someone who bosses you around and fucks with your mind.

And if I can’t get to Japan, there is this other guy who lives in Perth that I’ve kept contact with over the time I’ve been here. Master was suspicious of him from the start, and still ribs me about it now saying that this guy wants to put my notch on his belt. He asked me to be a model for his photography and I liked that we shared similar interests (Shibari!!!) and the fact that he never wanted a slave, just someone to play with. Hmmm…I might just give him a call. …

Turning a new leaf and starting a new life at the beginning of a new month seems a wonderful thing to do for me. Now…if only everyone remembers the date today…