Take on me

Trite though it is, I’ll mention that film, Secretary; one key-scene as a case-in-point, however caricatured… In order to prove that she really wants to be his property, she is made to wait and wait and wait. I think, kitten, you would have got the hump, said ‘fuck you!’, and left. 
                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Master Dee

One of my main purposes in blogging that is right up there next to venting slave steam and publicly humiliating myself, is getting other people’s views on D/s. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and for every take on D/s, there is an equally opposite take on D/s. But I’m usually very careful not to call other people ‘wrong’ in what they think; I like to call them ‘different’. There is no right or wrong in something as stylistic and personal as D/s and what I may interpret as being ‘wrong’ may actually be just someone else holding up a mirror to me.  I may not be able to see myself unless I’m reflected through another’s eyes.

My gut reaction when I read Master Dee’s comment above was to think how ‘wrong’ it was. God, how many times have I said in here that my big kink is endurance? Having to ‘wait and wait and wait’ would be something that I’d love to do! I’d revel in the opportunity to ‘prove once and for all’ my ability to stick it out and do what needed to be done. But then I thought…would I be doing it for him or me?

I think the spirit of the gesture, as shown in the movie, is to not only show her commitment to the idea of being property by doing explicitly what he wants, but to also sacrifice herself-her comfort, her needs-to show him that his wants and needs are the only ones that matter. Sitting in his chair in the rumpled wedding dress with her hands glued to his desk by her will-power alone, she doesn’t care about the urine trickling down her leg from a bladder that can wait no more. She has more important things to focus on.

I thought about myself in that situation. I’d leave my hands on the desk until I keeled over and died if he told me to. Of course, I wouldn’t be so gracious about it and there would be copious amounts of swearing and plotting Master’s painful death, but I would do it. As a matter of pride, for me, I would do it. If I didn’t do it, if I didn’t endure, I’d be a loser. Not a loser to Master, but a loser to me. And I don’t like to lose to anyone- especially myself.

But am I wrong to think like this? As a slave, shouldn’t it be all about him with me sacrificing myself for his wishes? I’m thinking I am wrong because as things stand now, I’m still in control, I’m still ‘giving’ him the right to order me around, and ultimately, the one I answer to is not Master, but myself.

The other night in bed during a ravishing/interrogation he had both my wrists held down above my head in one hand, his body pinning me down with his and his other hand was busily pinching and twisting that sensitive spot between my cunt and back hole. I was attempting to twist out of his grip and shrieking like a fishwife, but he held firm and kept pinching like a vice:

‘Who do you love?

‘….(shrieking, moaning and muffled screams)…’


‘….( more shrieking, moaning and muffled screams)….’

‘Don’t fight me. I won’t ask you again.Who do you love?’

‘…(after more screaming and twisting)….you…’

‘You what?’


I fought the Master and the Master won. 

It was another one of those quiet moments where realisation cuts through you like a knife. I had been fighting him, gritting my teeth, not wanting to give into the pain, not ‘allowing’ him to have control of what I said. I tried so hard to keep control, to keep myself intact, not wanting to admit anything….but he won anyway.

There are times I want to say to Master, ‘Fuck you…fuck you for making me do that.’ Those are generally the times when my eyes flash like sharp daggers and Master enjoys it so much. He watches the infinitesimal little struggle going on inside me with amusement, because he knows from the beginning that he has already won and what goes on is merely wasted energy on my part.

But for me, it’s important that I do struggle, that control only goes from me when it’s ripped out of my hands. I don’t know why, I don’t really understand whatgoes through my mind most of the time. But I do know for a fact that three days later I’d still be sitting in the wedding dress, in a pool of my own wee if he told me to ‘stay’. 

If I was saying ‘Fuck him!’ under my breath as I waited….would that be wrong?

Life long learning

One of the hardest parts for me about being a slave is having my programme re-written. It’s hard to unlearn years of second-nature behaviours and have them replaced with things so different to my norm that they only used to exist in the realm of my fantasies. Having me let go of the old me and embrace the new kitten seems to be Master’s new theme for interrogation times and this weekend really was a  *learning* experience.

In the two years we’ve been together Master has asked me a bazillion times, ‘What are you?’ Now, my brain knows the answer to this question. My mouth knows the answer to this question. But my heart has never really *known* the answer to this question. To all extents and purposes, in my heart I still am the same person that I was two years ago, but through Master’s eyes I am a very different person. In fact, through his eyes I’m not even a person at all; I’m his piece of slavemeat and nothing more.

When do you really *know* the answer to a question? And when can you accept something so completely different to what you know that it’s the same as calling day, ‘night’ or black, ‘white’. When exactly is it that you can overcome what you have learned and accept what you know?

In retrospect, ‘What are you?’ has turned into a very tough question for me to answer. I guess more than anything because it requires me to accept the new me. It requires me to break down the walls that I’ve erected around the last vestiges of ‘me’ , allowing  the tide to come in and wash the slate clean and start from scratch again. But this time, I will not be something of my making, I will be something of his making.
Funnily enough, I’ve said to Master many, many times that I am ‘your slave’, but I guess I haven’t really meant it. I’ve said it as the ‘correct answer’ to his question, but I’ve never really felt it in my heart. I’ve held that last little tight ball of me so very close, with my hand curled around it in a death-grip. I don’t want to let it go because it’s me, it’s all I have left. It’s a bit like my slave pride that rears its ugly head every now and then- the one that puts out the challenge that I’ll be damned to lose.

Master says that he can see very clearly the two personalities inside me- the old and the new. He often says to me, ‘That’s not kitten talking’ when I’m not being very ‘slavey’. My knee-jerk reaction to everything that scares me or puts me out of my comfort zone is to bring the old me to the foreground. I use her to deal with everything that I don’t like, and among other things she’s my self-flaggellation post and my shame cushion. In fact, she’s there for so much bad stuff that she has come to epitomize everything that I hate. As a result she’s something that I don’t like and don’t want to be….but she’s still my refuge in times of need.

I don’t want to be a slave. I need to be a slave. Only by being a slave can I get the security and the infinitely close bond that I crave. Now, I can’t be the old me, but I’m not comfortable enough in the skin of my new me either. So I continue with the process of learning to be the new me.

But who’s to say that the new me will be someone I will be able to live with?

I can hear Master now…’That’s not kitten talking’.

But it’s me, kitten. Both old and new. Learning to live who I am.

It’s baaaaaack!

In a shameless effort to increase comments on my blog, because, let’s face it, I’m a comment whore, I’ve decided to bring back the movie quote game- with a slight twist.

This time, I’ve chosen 25 of my favourite quotes from Sex and the City (no quotes from the movie). I need you to tell me who said each quote and as much of the context as possible e.g. what was happening in the episode. Bonus points for anyone who can actually name the episode!

– no googling
– the person with the most correct information will be named (not necessarily the person who guesses the quickest

Sex and the City Quote Game

1. I will not be judged by you or society. I will wear whatever—and blow whomever—I want as long as I can breathe and kneel!

2. You men have no idea what we’re dealing with down there. Teeth placement, and jaw stress, and suction, and gag reflex, and all the while bobbing up and down, moaning and trying to breathe through our noses. Easy? Honey, they don’t call it a job for nothin’.

3. If you’re tired of New York you take a napa, you don’t move to Napa!

4. They were supposed to say I’m sorry, I love you’ not ‘You’re dead, let’s disco!

5. Front, back, who cares? A hole is a hole.

6. Ma’am, can you undo your cuffs so we can use ours? 

7. It’s tits on toast, but you make it work.

8. I’m dating a guy with the funkiest tasting spunk. 

9. You’re breaking up with me while you’re still inside of me.

10. That night Charlotte came harder than she ever had before; that is until Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Friday, Friday…that night Charlotte saw God seven times. For a lapsed Episcopalian, it was a Very Good Friday.

11. There’s a woman in there breastfeeding a child who can chew steak.

12. That’s the thing about the Brazilian. It makes you do crazy things. You have to be very careful who you invite to Brazil.

13. The reality was, the only thing that went down with any regularity on Charlotte’s dates was a Gold American Express card.

14. You have a lot of nerve telling me to get a wax. If you were in Aruba the natives could bead your back.

15. Miranda went out with an overeater and he overate her.

16. Now, maybe in the Dominican Republic, people like to share vibrators, but this is America—the land of the plenty!

17. Elizabeth Taylor got gang-banged in the park?

18. It’s a dog! What are you going to do, run around looking for a teeny tiny tampon? 

19. Excuse me, do you have cancer or Tourette’s? 

20. I said no white, no ivory, no nothing that says virgin. I have a child. The jig is up.

21. He did something to me that was so perverse! Okay, I’m just going to say it. He tried to hold my hand.

22. Honey, you’re not listening. She only wants him to be in and out of her.

23. Oh, honey, wake up and smell the KY.

24. Fuck me badly once, shame on you. Fuck me badly twice, shame on me.

25. That one actually works against you. If we wanted to work that hard, we’d get us a man, am I right? 

The clock is ticking!

Bubble, boil, toil and trouble

I went to bed angry, woke up angry and spent most of the day angry. In fact, I’m still angry. Not ‘I-want-to-smash-your-face-in’ angry, just a slow simmer with bubbles that break the surface sometimes and result in me muttering angrily to myself when no-one is looking.

Yes, I’m red plaging, which is normally in itself the cause of massive fits of anger, but I’m also angry with the whole ‘I’m-the-slave-so-I-have-to-do-what-he-wants’ situation. It sucks when I’m feeling like this because it’s so hard to swallow the retorts and the biting remarks and accept the fact that I’m always wrong, because well, I’m the slave and that’s the way it is.

Last night I was punished for not wearing the butt plug for an hour each night like I was told to. Thirty percent of the reason I wasn’t doing it was because I hate butt plugs with a passion, twenty percent of the reason is because I just don’t have time and the remaining fifty percent was because I think it’s stupid to have to do things when he’s not here and it doesn’t matter whether I’ve done them or not anyway. When he told me during the punishment that he’d only set the rule for ‘my benefit’ because I was going to have to wear a pony girl tail at the next party and he wanted me to be ‘comfortable’, my ‘stupid task needle’ shot up into the red zone and I started to seethe. It was like, WTF??? I’m going to be feeling fucking uncomfortable no matter how much ‘preparation’ I do because things just aren’t supposed to be shoved up the butt to begin with and instead of just having one night of discomfort for the party, every night for the next fucking month or so is going to be uncomfortable. That to me seems pretty sucky. I just about collapse into bed the minute I get home from work as it is and he knows that. It just really pissed me off that he wanted to add more discomfort to my already painful life. I already suffer from sore-cunt-itis every fucking day for him, do I really need more pain on a daily basis????

*sprinkles some water on her flames of anger and takes a deep breath*

In my defense, to be honest, I didn’t think he was serious about me doing it to begin with; I thought it was just another one of his mind-fucks, so I hadn’t given it much thought and had really forgotten all about it until half way through the week. But when I got in the car yesterday and he told me that I had a beating coming my way for not doing what I was told with that mean-assed, “I-don’t-give-a-toss-for-you-you-piece-of-slave-meat-scum” look in his eye, things were not looking good. I had kind of hoped that he would let it slide. He hadn’t said a word about it for the last week or so I thought it must of been added to the growing pile of ‘one of these days’ things, but alas ’twas not to be.

So he caned my butt and I cried and he followed it up with a good hour of interrogation about what I was and what was expected of me. After droning, “I’m your slave. I’m for your use and pleasure. I must be obedient” enough times I guess he thought I was sufficiently brain-washed and he let me go to bed. Today I seethed for most of the day, had to resist the urge to tell some rude and pushy people at work  to ‘get fucked’ then came home and did what was required. After I squeezed the butt plug out after the prescribed time of insertion I wish he had been here so I could of screamed at him,


For some reason it’s just not the same screaming it in your head to no-one. And that’s almost as sucky as being a slave at times like this.

I know:
– I’m the slave and doing what I’m told is my lot in life 
– I should be grateful for his leniency 
– Butt plug wearing is not a difficult thing in the scheme of things 
– I should be happy for the use
– I’m a sucky slave at times
– I moan and bitch too much
– Everything else that people reading this are thinking…

…but I really do find that it really is little things like this that put a bee in my bonnet. And just to set the record straight, I’m not complaining or saying that what Master did was wrong or anything like that, I just wanted to get it off my chest because I’m so angry!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Strangely enough, I don’t feel any better.

The Lolly Jar

Last night the unspeakable happened….I emptied out the last remaining release in my self-pleasure lolly jar. What once had been brimming with hours of self-inflicted orgasms, is now devoid of life and pleasure. And as I crossed off the last release from the tally sheet on the fridge this morning, I was flooded with memories of each and every tantalising explosion of sexual energy that had taken place over the last eight months…all twenty five of them.

In November last year when I won a bet with Master and was graciously granted the gift of 25 releases to use ‘however and whenever’ I liked, I almost thought that I’d never use them all up. Until that point, everytime I was horny, permission for a release was needed from the big M- whether it be by me creeping into his bedroom at 2am to beg for one because I ‘couldn’t sleep’ or by a late afternoon phonecall to his office. The only condition attached to the self-pleasure lolly jar, was that I had to faithfully record when I dipped my hand in by crossing it off the tally sheet, and writing the date.

In the beginning I was adventurous and sucked hard on each lolly, rolling it around repeated in my mouth while I planned afternoon self-bondage sessions. Ropes, belts, gags and hoods were all used and each session ended with me releasing myself, both from my bonds and from my unrelenting horniness. Once the weather turned colder and I became home renovation project manager bitch and then working bitch, the releases became simpler, usually involving my favourite porn clips, some nipple clamps and a well-positioned thigh in the foetal position.

I was humming along averaging about 2 releases a month until I started reading the erotic fiction novel I bought at the book & CD clearance last year-then my horniness engine went into overdrive and my release mileage went straight out the window. Five nights of reading before bed resulted in 5 releases being used. Last night I used my last release and I still have one third of the book to go! What is a slavegirl supposed to do????

I dragged Master to the book clearance at the exhibition centre and while he managed to buy about twenty CDs full of ‘noise’, I was really hard pressed to buy something, until I found three books with the delightful titles of: “The Carrot and the Stick”, “The Devils’s Surrogate” and “Dr. Casswell’s Plaything”. All three books have girlies in equal states of undress on the covers and leather, canes and chains as props (obviously why I was attracted to the books in the first place!) After lining up and blushing ten shades of red to buy them, they promptly went into the bookshelf where I’d forgotten about them for several months…until last week when I got bored and wanted something to read.

Come to think of it, erotic fiction is what got me started down this slave path to begin with. I remember feeling horny and going online to look for something to read (why I didn’t go looking for porn I’ll never know!) That was when I found the site literotica and after reading story after delicious story of slavegirlies and their Masters, got myself hitched up to an online Dom. Needless to say it didn’t last, but from there I went to other sites like collar me and alt and then my slavegirl career started in earnest.

The book that has given me the lolly-jar problems is Dr Casswell’s Plaything and while it’s not ground-breaking adult fiction, it’s got all the elements that make me wet and juicy – beatings, public humiliation, dark basements, rough fucking and forced use. Of course, these are all things that are much more fun to read about than to actually experience and while I’m tucked up in my warm bed spending another night as slavegirlie home alone, it’s a way to pass the chilly nights.

Fortunately, my dear, dear sweetie pumpkin Master graced me with the gift of five more extra special reserve releases for being a good girl a couple of weeks ago. So even though the lolly jar is officially empty, I’ve got a few still up my sleeve. The only problem is that I’m terrified of actually using them all up and by the prospect of what I will have to do to get more. At the moment I’m wondering whether I should finish off the book and take my chances or just put the book back on the shelf and forget I even started reading it- but will I be able to sleep wondering whether Dr. Casswell will hand over his slave Sarah as payment for access to the information that he desperately wants or will he forgo his life’s work and whisk her back to London so that they can live out their life as Master and slave together????

Those last 30 pages are just too tempting.

I’ve been a bit wordy of late…

….so I’ve decided to post some pics! I’ve also just recently become able to look at these pics from our last party a few weeks ago i.e. being able to look without cringing away in absolute horror, so yay for me. Lol.

Anyway, without further ado, here they are.

In the hands of a madman

This is ‘R’ the bacon-slicing, cane-loving, spanking-devotee.

Over the spanking bench

This bench can take up to 5 subbie girls all at once!

Inserting things where things shouldn't go

One hand for butt plug, one hand for pocket rocket. The laughing gallery of people behind me is just out of shot.

Lick those boots bitch

The delightful Mistress B enjoys clean boots.

Tongue action

Slavegirl tongue

The eye of the storm

There’s a bit of a conundrum that surrounds the whole submission/dominance thing for me. I mean, I’m not a willing slave and I don’t go down the path of submission without a fight. In fact, I scratch and claw before I’m being put in my place, while I am being put in my place and for several hours/days after I’ve been put in my place. I don’t like the fight, the feeling of humiliation nor being made to swallow my pride and quite frankly it hurts me emotionally. I often find myself left feeling very raw and vulnerable. Of course, on the surface I’m trying to be a good obedient girl. I don’t say no, or pull away, but you’d only have to look at my eyes to see the whirlwind of emotion circling inside. 

While I don’t enjoy all the messy stuff that accompanies the emotional storm,  I do enjoy the feeling of resignation and helplessness I am left with after the storm has passed. I like to tug on the bonds to know they’re not coming loose. I like to know that I’m mounted and no amount of squirming on my part is going to let me get away. I like to know that I’m there existing completely on the whims of my owner, as nothing more than a piece of property. It’s very calming being there in the eye of the storm, but the journey to get there and then exiting back out through the storm again are tough.

Master loves it when I’m obedient and also when I fight. He enjoys seeing me present my ass without a murmur, but also loves to see me struggle. Nothing turns him on more than when he sees the storm in my eyes. Of course, when he gets hot and horny, he pushes me more and the storm gets bigger. Emotionally, the calming eye where I’m resigned to accepting my fate moves father away and I spend more time in the storm….which he sees in my eyes and it gets him hornier….and the storm gets bigger…and well….you get the point, I’m sure. Therein lies the conundrum. Seeing me struggle to submit makes him horny, which makes him want to see me struggle more. He pushes me to see me struggle more and I can’t help myself but take the bait. I respond with the ‘defiant tone’ and ‘the eyes’ and my standard answer to his mindfuck questions of, “Shall I beat you/strip you naked and take you shopping/make you wear your leash to work etc.?” becomes “You can do whatever you wish.” In those situations, I can do nothing but wait for him to exhaust himself or pray that he decides to flip his horniness off/on switch himself. If I try to do anything, it just makes him horny again. Lol.

I think I spent about 4hrs being ravished/interrogated today. It was long, and his mindfuck question of choice was, “Shall I make you wear your butt plug and vibe out shopping?” I mean, seriously, how is a girl supposed to answer a question like that? Say no and you’re fucked, say yes and you’re still fucked. It annoys me that he asks those type of questions and waits for an answer knowing full-well that I can’t give him one. That’s generally when the eyes flash and the words that come out of my mouth are, “You can do whatever you wish.” He of course, then gets horny and decides to ramp it up by adding uber slut wear and my tallest stiletto boots to the equation.

Four hours of interrogation with his fist curled tightly around my hair, a finger through the O-ring of my collar pulling my face to within an inch of his face, both arms pinned down to the bed and rapidly losing bloodflow and all the while he’s asking question after brain-washing question about my status as slave meat. He punctuates my answers with kisses, nipple-tweaking, pinching and fingering. Every now and then he pulls my leg over his thigh and spanks my ass hard and fast. Sometimes I cry and it makes him do it more. But throughout it all there is the rapid staccato of questions, questions and more questions. In a different century, I’m sure he would have earned a place with the Spanish Inquisition’s best.

He feeds off my pain and fear like a drug to a junkie. I give him my struggle and storm to feed his addiction. He can’t stop taking and I can’t stop giving; and so continues the cycle of Master and slave.

Slave to the money

One thing I really hate about being employed in anything other than the gainful pursuit of slavery is the fact that I expend so much time and energy in pleasing people who mean absolutely nothing to me. 

Master laughingly calls me an ‘A+ personality’ because I always want to do everything well and unfortunately that also extends to everything I do outside of my slavery as well. Meanwhile, I believe that other people call my personality ‘anal beyond belief’. Some part of me just won’t let me do things in a half-assed way. Even if I don’t give a shit about what I’m doing, I absolutely have to do it to the best of my ability. Sometimes the results aren’t always the best, but I’m definitely always trying my best.

In my slavery, that’s a great thing. I can focus on directly pleasing Master and there’s a ‘purpose’ behind what I’m doing. In everything outside of my slavery, even though it may be indirectly pleasing Master in some way,  I feel like I’m wasting my time because there isn’t a direct connection with Master. I feel like everything else is getting in the way of my ‘real job’ i.e slavery, but still, I can’t bring myself to ‘cut corners’ or do ‘half a job’. Doing that would be the equivalent of the universe collapsing in upon itself i.e. the end of this kitten as you know her.

In terms of the job I’m doing at the moment, Master doesn’t give a shit whether I do it or not. The only thing it’s doing for either of us, is putting some funds into my bank account so that I can pay for the slave necessities of trips home to see family, pain toys for birthdays, anniversaries and xmas presents and pay for the all-important slave maintenance- someone’s gotta pay for all those brazillian waxes! He said the choice to work was entirely up to me and that he wouldn’t force me to do anything. In theory that’s great because I don’t feel like I’ve been coerced into doing something against my will, but a part of me would also really like the direction or instruction of doing something because ‘Master wanted it’. I’d like to know that by working I’m pleasing him, but the sad reality is that it’s detracting more from my slavery than it’s putting in.

I know in the bigger sense that everything I do pleases him… yada yada…*insert slavery rainbow and fluffy clouds here*….but really… it doesn’t. If what I’m doing ain’t got boots and nakedness involved, he couldn’t give a shit. Lol. And although I’ve been wearing boots to work everyday for 9 weeks now, he’s only seen me on maybe four occasions and because sex kitten boots really aren’t safe for work, all he has seen on the few occasions he has seen me in my work clothes have been ‘nice day boots’ making him even less pleased. It’s just all so meaningless!! AHHHHHHHH.

The temp assignment I’ve been doing since May has now been extended for at least another month, so it’s another month of 6am-freeze-your-butt-off-in-the-dark-of-winter wakeups, another month of mind-numbing repetitive work and another month of straining with every fibre of my being to be a ‘good little girl’ for someone other than my Master.

It’s sad, but at the moment I’m a slave to the money.

Slavely slut or slutty slave?

Master and his ‘word porn’ are constant sources of pondering material for me. Sometimes I just wish I had a voice recorder to take it all down so I could dissect what he says and process it a bit better. As it is, my sieve-like memory only leaves me with disjointed fragments and scraps of his ‘word porn’ that disappear all too quickly. I guess that’s why I like his ‘thoughtful’ blogs like this one and this one. They give me a chance to chew over his quirks in my own time.

I’m always trying to figure him out- work out what makes him tick and understand why he is the way he is. Although he’s less of an enigma to me compared to when I first arrived, I still have an endless fascination with his interest in me and his desires to do what he does. His word porn has revealed to me on occasions a scary amount of stuff about me that I thought no-one but me knew or understood, so I’d like to be able to relax back and leaf through him like a book too. 

A topic that popped up in the other night’s session was the fact that I am a slave to whomever owns me. He pointed out to me the fact that I do the things I do because I am a slave and not because I specifically have any feelings for him. He said it wouldn’t matter who I was owned by, I would do what was required by the person who owned me, regardless of whatever else was happening outside the owner/property dimension of the relationship. In effect, he was saying that I was ‘slavely slutty’.

When he said that to me I was immediately taken back to the time a couple of years ago when I’d just left my first owner and was wandering around feeling very lost. I remember vividly wanting someone, anyone to take up my leash. I’m not sure that I would of run off to join the first person who offered me a collar (like I mistakenly did the first time), but I do remember a feeling of desperate ‘useless-ness’.

Another fact that brought home to me the truth in what Master said about me being ‘slavely slutty’ was what happened with my former owner. Although he emotionally starved me on a lot of levels, I stubbornly carried out my duties as a slave. I continued on with the tasks and meaningless gestures, even while I knew he didn’t give a shit, all because he was my owner and I was his slave. I was getting nothing out of the relationship, but the fact was that I needed to be a slave, in whatever capacity- even if it was in name only.

The relationship outside the owner/property dynamic between the two people sharing a life together is a minefield alive with loaded emotional ammunition. I wasn’t quite ready for the feelings I developed for my first owner so I was hit very hard when things broke down. I had expected the relationship to remain an emotionally-void exchange of power in which he was master and I was slave and things would be nice and simple. Needless to say, the feelings towards him that I ended up with made me stay many more months than I should have even after the whole owner/property dynamic had broken down.

But I didn’t want a relationship. I wanted to be a piece of property with an owner and when my emotional wounds had scabbed over enough for me to feel ready to start into another owner/property relationship, I was determined not to let feelings get in the way again. One of the biggest reasons I chose to come to live with Master was because he had a reputation for being a ‘hard-assed dom’. All our conversations had been very firmly focussed on what was required of me as a slave and I had a sense that things would be very clear and I wouldn’t need to be picking my way through the emotional minefield again. I was prepared to be a slave and do what was required to whomever could give me the environment to do it in. Master seemed to be the one who could do it, so yes, in a sense I was a slutty slave- ready to give her all to the person who could take up her leash.

The ‘me slave, you master’ thing worked for a time, but as Master correctly pointed out in another ‘word porn’ session, I need the emotion, the affection and the cuddles and kisses. Master says now that I’m a lot more relaxed, that I’ve found my sense of humour. Well, I can say that that’s mostly due to the fact that I’ve let my guard down. Originally I didn’t want to invest emotionally in my slave term deposit, but after I did, the dividends are definitely paying off.

Yes, I’m picking my way through the minefield again and occasionally I misjudge my steps and the whole thing blows up big time, but the surrounding grass makes for a nice soft landing. At the end of day, I may be slavely slutty but a slutty slave is what Master wants and I’m happy to oblige.

There’s a cicada in the lounge room

I announced to Master the other night that I was thinking about applying for the permanent positions that they are offering at work. In a momentary lapse of reason brought about by a couple of days where I actually enjoyed work I had been thinking that it wouldn’t be too bad to continue doing my job with better pay and better conditions on a full-time basis. 

Master’s reaction was, on the surface at least, the reaction that he always gives me in relation to decisions that I make:

“Well, if that’s what you want to do sweetie…”

But his tone was saying something different. In fact, the message he was giving me under the surface was much closer to:

“What the fuck are you saying, slave?”

Over the past couple of weeks Master had said to me on a few separate occasions that he was looking forward to me finishing work so that I wouldn’t be out at all hours in the cold and wouldn’t have to deal with people telling me to get fucked on a regular basis. But over the past week his worry about me being out had transmuted into a wish for me to be back to full-time slavedom. I know for a fact that he still worries about me while I’m taking public transport at night etc. but for some reason he had begun voicing his angst about my departure from slave girlie land and my arrival into office bitch land.

In a recent blog he said he felt protective towards me. I can understand that. Personally, I think it has been encoded into the DNA of most men to be protective of their possessions ever since they realised that they didn’t have a door on their cave. And speaking from the perspective of a woman who likes to be dragged back to the cave by her man, I enjoy a healthy level of possessiveness in my owner. But it did amuse me to think that he had encouraged me to find work, had sent me the info that lead me to getting this job and in many ways had been instrumental in creating the situation that was now giving him angst. I realise that owners are just as infallible as their slaves,  but it is funny to watch them dig their own holes.

The slave-life balance is just as tricky to maintain as the work-life balance. At the moment, Master and I have swung way out to the edge of work with the tiniest sliver of life and slavery barely balancing the see-saw. With Master away for most of the week and me crashing in bed at senior citizen hours even when he is home, there hasn’t been a lot of Master-slave stuff. Of course he has always managed to squeeze in his ‘word-porn’ interrogation sessions. But I do wonder whether he really wants to do them all the time or whether he feels the pressure to do something domly with me and they are the easiest things to do that include all the necessary elements of a good use session – boots, kissing, collar-pulling, inner-thigh slapping and repeated stating of roles and duties bordering on brain-washing.

“I’ll be glad when you finish up and can be back at home doing slave things like cleaning out your cage.”

The main reason I was thinking about the permanent positions was because I have enjoyed the ‘normality’ of the past few weeks. I’ve enjoyed being back behind the wheel of my life, being useful and experiencing autonomy once more. In many ways over the few months that I’d been slave 24/7 before I began temping, I had worried abut whether I could ever be ‘normal’ again. I’d even angsted about how I’d mix with people again- what would I talk about? would they think I’m strange. It has been comforting to validate my place in society once more. But as I’m writing this I can hear exactly what Master will be saying in response to it:

“But you’re not a member of society. You’re my slave…my property. It doesn’t matter what you do outside the house, it’s what you do inside that matters. You live to please me. You have no rights, no choices.The only thing you need to worry about is being obedient.”

Actually, the only thing I’m worried about at this moment is the cicada that’s somewhere in the lounge room that I must have brought in with the wood for the fire. Roasted cicada anyone???