It was 10:28 on Wednesday morning and I was counting down the two minutes until I could go for my morning break. It had been a fairly standard morning of call after call of the standard mix – financially desperate people who had lost  their jobs and frustrated parents calling on behalf of their twenty-something kids who’d done nothing since leaving school but sponge off their parents and play computer games and who couldn’t even tear themselves away from their busy lives of luxury to call themselves. I’d even had one call from a very distracted young man with a lot of keyboard bashing going on in the background. When I commented in between questions about income and assets that it sounded like he was playing WoW he immediately wanted to know how I knew and I imagined him nervously scanning his bedroom for hidden government-controlled cameras.

Just as I was getting ready to log into a tea break and turn off calls to my phone for the next fifteen minutes, that fateful beep sounded and a file popped up on my screen. With a sigh of, “Here we go again…”, I put on my headset and settled in for another marathon call.

Over the next thirty minutes I heard a terrible story of eighteen years of domestic violence and abuse that even involved young children. I had a sobbing woman reveal to me how her husband regularly beat her and liked to smash their daughter’s head into the kitchen table over and over until it bled. The man would periodically abandon the family for several months to go and do who knows what, leaving them without as much as a cent to get by on and then return when he needed a fill of violence again. She said she couldn’t leave because she had no money and nowhere to go. The woman’s English was broken, but she painted a graphic-enough picture for me of her very sad life.

My heart went out to her and I tried to get some details about what sort of help she’d received. I asked her about doctors, social workers and DOCS and whether police had been involved. She said they knew all about her and could do nothing to help. She said the police had laughed at her when she’d called them. It was at this stage that I was holding back tears and wondering why I couldn’t have gone on my break two minutes earlier and remained blissfully unaware of this poor woman’s tragedy. Selfish I know, but it was what I was feeling at the time.

I told her how sorry I felt for her numerous times and reassured her that she was a very strong woman. She said her daughter had told her the same thing. I didn’t know what else to say to her. How do you comfort someone in that situation? What words can you give to someone who is obviously in so much pain? I haven’t had a seconds worth of training in how to deal with people in crisis so I did the only things I could- put through a claim for income support payments, told her to get a medical certificate and gave her the details of social workers who could give her some help with getting out. It felt so very inadequate, but it was all I could do. 

It’s not the first call I’ve had with an emotionally-scarred person on the other end. I’ve had plenty of calls from people holding everything they own in a plastic bag with a screaming child on their hip, but this particular call left me feeling very raw.

In BDSM, the word ‘abuse’ is often thrown around in a very carefree manner. Apparently, if you don’t have a safeword or a pre-defined script to work to, it’s abuse. Lol. Chrissy Hynde also tried to teach us that there is a fine line between pleasure and pain. But it’s not a fine line, it’s a chasm so deep that you know instantly the moment you cross it. 

I believe that it’s not so much what you do but why you do it that takes BDSM across the chasm. Are you intending to harm them or are you intending to fulfill a need? Are they a willing participant or there because they have no choice? Is it use or abuse? These lines never get blurry.

BDSM has participants. Abuse only has victims. 

A participant in BDSM always has a choice. They choose to participate, they label themselves as slave, submissive or whatever else they chose. An abuse victim has no choice, and is labelled as a punching bag, a hole for raping or whatever else the perpetrator decides.

It doesn’t get much clearer than that.


During ravishing mode the other night Master revealed a little entree of his plans for me:

‘You do realise that I’m going to keep violating you and breaking you down until there is nothing of ‘you’ left.’ 

For mains, he went on to instruct me to change my email address, because it has my real name in it ,and to label my occupation on Facebook as ‘slave’. Dessert was some talk about removing the last vestiges of ‘henny penny-ness’ from my wardrobe by throwing out all my non-slut wear.

I’ve learned to filter out a lot of what he says during ravishings and just nod and answer yes when it’s appropriate because I’ve come to realise that his talk during ravishings is his porn. Like the little snippets of bound, beaten and blatantly fucked girls I look at when I need a porn fix, Master likes to weave his own images through his words. Certain phrases are repeated on a constant basis, but sometimes, like the delicious morsel above that he dished out to me, his words stick in my mind. 

I think it was just after I’d written my last blog about feeling violated in a bad way that he decided to remind me that the events of that fateful party were going to be repeated. He intends to break down my pride and shame and sear it all in a fire of humiliation. I don’t so much have an issue with what he intends to do, but more with why he wants to do it. I somehow have a feeling that my slavery is lacking and that’s why he wants to ramp things up a bit, but does breaking me down in that way until there is nothing but kitten left somehow make me more submissive, or does he just enjoy the opportunity to exercise his total power over me? It’s times like this, I wish I was a mind-reader instead of just a slut-whore-fire bitch.

I’ve always found the idea of being nothing but a compliant piece of slave meat very appealing. A romantic fantasy of total submission in which I didn’t baulk at anything at all is something that has kept me warm on cold lonely nights. I haven’t reached that point by far, and I wonder if I ever will…. then I wonder if I really want to get to that point anyway. 

Then I remember that it’s not up to me to decide that anyway!

And just as an end note, I’ve written before about my feelings regarding ‘bdsm and appropriateness’. Basically I just think that you shouldn’t push your beliefs into other people’s faces- whether they be religious, fetish-inspired or otherwise. Therefore, I think that having a ‘public persona’ and a ‘private persona’ is prudent behaviour and I cringe at the implications of filling out future job applications with an email address of slutwhorefirebitch@hotmail.com. My Facebook account is something that I’ve been using to link up with friends from my present and past, and while I’m sure that Master would argue that listing your occupation as ‘slave’ is no different to listing your marital status as ‘married’, the reality is that it is quite different. In an ideal world it wouldn’t matter what you identified yourself as, but in our current very-far-from-ideal world it’s a big deal that no-one is quite ready to deal with.


Last Saturday night I think I was broken again. It’s actually taken me a week of mulling and pondering and dragging over the details in my head before I could even put fingers to keyboard to write about it. I started writing last night,  but ended up deleting what I’d written, closed the top of my laptop and went to bed. Sleep seemed a lot easier than visiting the ghosts again.

In retrospect it wasn’t something that was particularly difficult. It didn’t hurt physically and was very tame compared to some other things I’ve done in my time. But as I’ve said before, my buttons for breaking are turning out to be surprising simple – being butt naked in front of a crowd of people and the latest: inserting toys in my holes as people watched.

In order to do it, I had to not give a fuck. In order to do it, I had to throw my pride out the window. In order to do it, I had to be slave and not be me. All in all, it ranks way up there with some of the hardest things I’ve had to do. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but to kneel there under the spotlight as I lubed up each toy, spread my cheeks and lips and inserted them was such a hard thing for me to do.

I started out kneeling on the spanking bench and reaching behind to insert, but my incredible level of mortification was making my muscles contract and nothing was getting inserted anywhere.

“Is it in yet?” I heard someone behind me say.

I was laughing from the shame, attempting to stop myself from crying and it was making things worse.

“I can’t do it in this position!” I was quickly moving from thoroughly mortified, to panic verging on wanting to die.

“Well, get into a position that you can do it in!” Master didn’t even pause in his video shooting. He was making sure that every millisecond of my shame was being recorded.

I ended up kneeling on the floor, which actually gave the people watching abetter view.

“You should see what we can see from here, kitten!” The ever-helpful Mistress Blair chimed in.

I think what made things worse was that Master had had me bring the smallest of the small butt plugs and I couldn’t even get it in. The small, white butt plug is about as thick as your finger and embarrassingly tiny. Even though something bigger would have hurt, at least it would of kept intact my slave pride. If I’d had, say, Mr Purple, people would have understood my issues with inserting and I would have received some sort of praise, but the white training plug just made me want to hang my head in slave shame.

I don’t know whether Master made me bring that one on purpose  or not, but I’m more inclined to think that he brought that one in consideration of the fact that I haven’t had anything up my ass for several months. I think he was taking pity on me and trying to take things easy on me. While I appreciate the thought, I really would have preferred to have struggled with something more challenging.

After much  pushing and coaxing they were finally in and I put back on my leather bikini. The people watching wandered off in search of further entertainment and Master re-leashed me and went back to sit on the lounge and watch the next subbie boy being tormented, dragging me with him. 

I still wanted to dissolve and was fighting back tears. Emotionally I was heading for a black hole that was sucking me in fast.

We left the party soon after that and I was irrationally angry and upset. I hated that he made me do something that had me feeling like I could never show my face in public again. I’d worked hard to form a certain reputation for myself as a non-noob slave. I could take a reasonable beating without a sound and had conquered the whole naked-in-public-fear thing. I had a feeling that I’d just fallen right back to square one and I was hurt. I felt violated and dirty.

Master came home and immediately downloaded what photos and video he had taken to his iMac. Seeing the images of myself across his screen was making me physically sick. I just wanted to curl up in bed way from the world. But of course, the evening had excited him and seeing the photos had put him in the ravishing frame of mind so off to his bed I was ordered.

I had another good sob and did a bit of screaming at him about exactly how wrong the whole thing had made me feel. The fact that he didn’t give a shit also pissed me off. He didn’t think it was such a big deal, but I had gone completely over the edge and wasn’t coming back for anyone.

The next day I felt worse. The crying had made my eyes swell up and I had a splitting headache. I asked if we could postpone the bondage afternoon with a friend that had been planned. Master still seemed highly amused about how easily my buttons had been pushed but agreed to postpone it and rang our friend to explain the situation. 

It took me several more days to fully forgive Master, and a few more days before I could look at the photos and the video of the night. Emotionally I’m still a bit raw, but also feeling rather silly at my over-reaction. I don’t know exactly why the night had such a profound effect on me, but I’m beginning to think that it was the injury to my slave pride that hurt me the most. 

As a slave, without choices, rights or anything to my name, the only thing I thought I have is my pride. Without it, I’m nothing. But is it his plan to take that away from me as well? 

Is a slave nothing without pride or should a slave have nothing including pride?

Seriously BDSM

I tend to do a lot of giggling when Master and I play in public. And other than the few short moments when I’m ‘in the concentration zone’ trying with every cell of my being not to flinch or make a sound because my ‘slave pride’ is on the line, I’m a chatty, laughing slave girlie who likes to make comments like,

“Sweetie, it’s ok I didn’t really need my spleen anyway…” when Master’s flogger aim is a bit off or,

“Can someone show me the sign above my ass that says, ‘Free-for-all’ ?” when yet another random person takes aim for my ass, or my personal favourite,

“Is that the best you can do???”  coupled with maniacal laughter as I stick out my Indestructo-ass for more punishment.

I always had the image of a perfectly graceful slave as my ideal. A girl who served her Master with lowered lashes and took position without a murmur, tossing her masses of sultry hair in the air as the only indication of the pain she was enduring. In my dream there were no sounds except the forceful tones of the Master instructing the slave in what she was and what he would do to her and the sound of the lash as it cut cruelly into her flesh. There was no giggling or whining or sassy comments thrown back and forth. In fact, there was no mirth at all. My bdsm fantasy was very solemn and steeped in mystery, filled with dimmed lights and echoing chambers. In fact, it was all rather Gor-ish.

My reality is very far removed from the fantasy. People chat about the weather, munching on peanuts and sipping wine while deeply blushing slave girls apply lube and insert embarrassingly small butt plugs and pocket rockets in front of them. The said deeply blushing slave girl also whines about being cold and sleepy and having hairs in her mouth that she can’t remove while in arm binders.  She tromps around in boots instead of gliding gracefully because the balls of her feet are aching and the leash pulls heavily on her neck. Her carefully applied makeup disappeared several hours ago and her coiffed locks are ratty and unkempt. She’s about as far from the graceful slave girl dream as one can get and that is why she laughs. 

She laughs when her Master says to her, “You’re beautiful, have I told you that?” because in her mind’s eye she knows how dishevelled she looks and how far from her ideal she is. She also laughs when he tells her she’s erotic and how watching others use her drives him wild because she knows the sweat patch in the small of her back and the running mascara say different things. 

She can’t gracefully accept what he says because she’s not the perfect slavegirl that she wants to be. 

But if only she understood…. that that is exactly what He wants her to be.

Then she would really be able to laugh, not in fear and shame, but in pure joy and happiness.

My kink is your kink is my kink

I think the thing that has surprised me most in this lifestyle is not the kinks that people have but the narrow-minded judgmental people that exist across other facets of society that I didn’t expect to find in BDSM.

Mistress Blair, my friendly neighbourhood botty-beating dommely one, left this comment on a recent blog of mine and I actually have to say that I can’t agree more. More than any kinky act that I’ve seen or funky attire paraded in front of me, the thing that has amazed me the most is how quickly many members of the so-called ‘open-minded, free and easy’ kink lifestyle are wont to judge. In fact, I think many people in the lifestyle are more bitchy than a tea room full of women in a small office. And even though kink is such a personal thing, there seems to be a prevailing attitude of ‘it’s my way or the highway’ amongst people. So much so that it seems that people in the lifestyle come across as much more particular and demanding than anyone in the ‘nilla world.

‘Kink folk=closed-minded’ seems like such a wrong equation, but it seems to be adding up more and more these days.

A good example of this is what happened to recently to Mistress Blair and her pup. Pup is a fanatical foot fetishist and a lot of their play obviously involves foot worship and boot licking and so forth. At a recent party in which participation (active play) was mandatory, she was informed that they’d need to do some ‘real play’ because what they did wasn’t ‘active enough’! I laughed so hard when I heard about this. From out of the blue some imaginary hierarchy of kink play had been created where certain forms were okay and others weren’t. Who the hell has the right to decide this?

I also have a bit of an issue about the whole mandatory play thing. Yes, I understand it’s to stop voyeurs simply coming and not contributing to the group, but what if you don’t feel like playing on the night? What if you’re just not in the mood? Should you have to play just because it’s the group rule?  It’s a bit like having to get a tick on your report card to say that you’ve brought your lunchbox before you can sit down in your seat in the classroom for the lesson. I don’t see why people just can’t get together, have a bit of a chat, do what they want and then leave.

Now, I’ll have to admit that I’ve thought a few things that have been done at parties have not been….ummm….how shall we say?….’productive’. Mostly this has been due to OH&S reasons, but I’ve never openly made a comment and why should I? Obviously if a person is in danger it is up to the people there to step in to help the person involved- that’s just commonsense and good citizenship- but if something is done that is someone’s else’s kink and not mine, and that’s the only reason I didn’t feel good about it, that’s fine by me. Whatever rocks their boat is A. O. K. Free to be you and me is my policy. Why other people feel the need to have less constructive policies is beyond me.

So on that note, I’ll end rant number 1,000,0001 because working bitch girl needs her sleep.

Your call could not be connected

I’m an angsty type of person, prone to not meeting the eyes of people I pass in the street and nervously checking myself out in every window that I pass.
“Is my skirt tucked into my underwear?” No. Good. 
“Do I have a bat in my cave?” No. Bonus points. 

I guess I stress about a lot of things on a daily basis and one of the banes of my existence is making decisions. It’s not so much the *actual* decision making process that is difficult, it’s more the worrying about whether I’ve made the absotively posilutely best decision that I possibly could. And heaven help me if something turns out to be not quite as good as I imagined it when I chose it, because then I’ll be going over and over ‘where I went wrong’ for the next few days until something else comes along to distract me. 

I also get myself tangled up in all sorts of knots about lots of other things. Like for example, we have someone coming over this weekend to assist in some experiments with bondage and my propensity to faint. And while I should be worried about being naked and my bits hanging out everywhere, and don’t get me wrong, I’ve been fretting about that since I heard of Master’s plan, I’m actually more worried about whether I’ll have sufficient time to clean the house and wondering whether I should clean out the cutlery draw too. Bizarre, I know, but that’s angsty ol’ me!

One of my pet fears is talking on the telephone. I don’t know why, but I’ve hated it ever since I can remember and I distinctly remember some times when I was in Japan and my then-boyfriend-and-later-to-be-husband would call me almost every night and it was almost more than I could stand. On several occasion I’d go out of the house at the time I knew he was going to call just so I wouldn’t have to answer it. I felt guilty about being home and not answering it, so I figured that if I was ‘out’ when he called, it was a legitimate excuse…lol.

Since then I’ve gotten a little bit better with answering the phone and I’ve had a lot of extra practice since Master has been away from home on site because he calls me every night. I even take the phone into the bath with me so I can answer it when he calls instead of fobbing off and saying, “Oh, did you ring? I was in the bath! Sorry!”

Now, this little bit of background info on me becomes even more interesting when you consider that I’m working in a call centre at the moment. Every day all day from 7:50am until 3:30pm I’m taking call after call without even a chance to scratch my ass in between calls. It’s been quite a little exercise in endurance for me and I’ve still got at least another 4 weeks of this particular job to do. Interestingly enough I took this job of my own volition knowing what what was involved – perhaps not the extent of the extreme busy-ness, but knowing that I would be on the phone all day. If you hate it, why do it? I hear you ask. Well basically, it’s a push I’m giving myself to make myself a better person. It’s a gauntlet I’m throwing down to myself just to prove that it’s not beyond me. And I guess in many ways, I want to be like a ‘normal’ person who phones up their friends and family to have a quick chat whenever they fancy. I’ve never been like that and as a result have lost a lot of friends who think I don’t want to keep in touch or have snobbed them.

A lot of things in D/s serve the same purpose as the random job in the call centre- they push me to confront my fears and help me grow a little bit more. As I’ve said before, there are a lot of things I don’t want to do, in fact, really dont want to do as a slave (I’d put pain play, among other things in that category), but I know that in some way doing them will make me stronger. It’s a bit like going to the gym, you know it’s going to hurt and you drag your feet getting there, but once it’s done and over with you feel much better for having stuck it out.

So for the next month, I’ll be sitting at my desk feeling my stomach churn every time the phone rings and I have to answer it.  Perhaps my shock aversion self-therapy will make me a better person for facing my fears, or perhaps it will make me want to avoid phones even more. Perhaps more regular pain play will make me a better slave, or perhaps it will make me fear pain even more.  And while I can push a button and decide whether I want to take a call or not, I don’t have a ‘Make busy’ button for pain play. It’s completely out of my hands and quite possibly, for my own sake, that’s probably a good thing.

World’s biggest plumber’s crack

Now if that ain’t the biggest one you’ve seen, I need to know who your plumber is!

As to why I’m gardening in purple ugg boots but without anything on the lower part of my body, your guess is as good as mine.

As to why Master felt the need to snap this unfortunate shot of his unsuspecting, but hard-working slave girlie, you obviously need to google ‘humiliation’.

As to why I’m still in my nightie and have bed hair at 2pm on a Sunday afternoon, well…you know…shit happens.

As to why my ass looks like Stewie’s head from Family Guy, talk to my mother.

You’re doing it wrong!

Mmmm….it’s now just over an hour and a half before we attend this year’s most important event….

Sex and the City – The Movie!!!!!!

Can you tell I’m excited? In fact, I think I’ve got butterflies in my stomach….or is that ovulation cramps? Lol.

I hopped online last night and attempted to book gold class(private cinema with reclining seats & food and drink service) tickets. It would of been the breaking of my gold class virginity if any had been available, but alas, there seem to be masses of SatC fans and it was booked solid. I was even preparing myself to pay the $74 that it would of cost us just for the seats (as opposed to $29.50 for cattle class) by bashing my screaming inner frugal voice deftly across the head, but ’twas not to be. Ahhh well….at least we’re assured seats as I have the booked ticket printout in my hot little hands and am raring to go.

In smut news, Master has aquired a couple of Wartenberg wheels and has been having immense fun by creating angry red criss-crossing lines across every available square inch of my flesh. Can I just say….it hurts like a mother fucker! That man really needs to be suspended from ebay purchases. 

In venting news, I’m constantly amazed by the inability of people to accept my smut as my smut and their smut as theirs and to leave it at that. If I had 10 cents for everytime someone has told me that I’m not ‘submissive enough’ or ‘not suited to D/s’ or even that Master and I should be more ‘loving’ I’d be a very rich woman. I think I’ve already stated on numerous occasions that I’m not the perfect slave and that I realise I’m lacking in a lot of areas, so I really thought that I had that angle covered. And as far as Master and I are concerned, how would anyone reading his or my blog really know what sort of relationship we had? How anyone can possibly think they can judge us based on a few lines of prose thrown out into cyber space is obviously having delusions of grandeur. 

Just because I don’t write about the hand-holding while wego grocery shopping, or the masses of kisses that we exchange, or the flowers he gives me, or the meals that he makes, or the gifts that he showers me with, or the cuddles, or the stroking, or the back massages, or the mountains of care and love he shows doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Far from it in fact. And personally, I don’t think you can live with someone long term without all that stuff there in some form even if kink is what brought you together initially. 

Kink is fun but lovin’ is what keeps you together and if not, you’re doing it wrong! (^v^)