Dearly beloved…

You like it when you’re treated like you’re worthless. You think you’re not worth anything – that you’re a slave, a piece of property and nothing else. You don’t deserve anything. You’re worth nothing and have nothing.

So went the script to my morning ravishing session. Normally I enjoy Master’s verbal pearls of wisdom about me and my thoughts, but every now and then he’ll say something that I can’t shake from my mind and I’ll lay there composing a blog as he does his thing.

That’s what happened this morning and thusthere is blog.

I’ve thought in the past that knowing that I was the lowliest of the low – thinking that I was the scum on the shoes of the scum on the shoes of the scum’s amoeba was a good head space for a slave to be in. It seemed the right thing to think. I mean, if you’re property without rights and choices and have to be obedient to your owner 100% of the time, you’re on the same level as that amoeba scum. I think in the past that my fantasy mantra was ‘I’m not worthy’ and part of me longed to be the one crawling around on the floor at the feet of my owner because that was my ‘place’. That’s what I thought I should be feeling. That’s what I wanted to feel because….. I guess……I felt I should be.

But the reality is, as I lay there this morning I thought I don’t want to be owned because I’m worthless, I want to be owned because I’m precious. I’m not something that can be tied up and beaten because I’m the scum of the earth and deserve no better, I’m something that needs to be locked up and never freed simply because I’m too valuable to let go.

I’ve talked before about the security that a D/s relationship gives me.  To me, the beatings and the bondage and all the other stuff involved is a manifestation of the love, the lust and the importance of the other person to you. The more there is, the more secure I feel, the more valuable I think I am and ultimately the more I want.  So while I don’t think anymore that I’m ‘not worthy’, I do think that I’m worthy of a beating or two or three.

Maybe that’s what wrong with me, why I don’t come across as the easily pliable slave, always smiling, always happy, no matter how much or how little use there is. Maybe that’s why I bitch and moan and complain about everything all the time. Maybe I think too much of my self and have positioned myself way above where I really should be.

And after all that pondering I return to what Master thinks of me. He has said to me before on numerous occasions that while I am ‘very special’ to him, I am and will always only ever be his slave. He has drummed into me the fact that that is all he wants me to be and all he wants out of our relationship.

But what does that really mean?

Does that mean that he thinks of me as his lowly slave who is lucky to have him or as his valuable slave who he is lucky to have?

Perhaps in some ways I’m both.  Lucky to have and to hold; from this day forward until death do us part.

I am.

The Master that called slave

I’ve had a thought buzzing around my head for the last few days…

Does Master enjoy the fact that he can do anything he wants to me, or does he actually enjoy doing anything he wants to me?

The reason I’ve been thinking about this is probably due to his habit of mind-fucking the hell out of me and then doing nothing. A recent blog of his is a good case in point. He goes into great detail about all the nasty thoughts he has about doing things to me, but then discounts each nefarious plan due to one reason or another. He’ll also often tell me to go to his bed for a beating, but what he will actually do is tap my botty once or twice with the cane and then ravish me.

To go with this pondering I had an interesting moment when we went and did our normal weekly grocery shop at the supermarket. Along with the items on our list he made a huge case of buying two boxes of long matches. When I inquired as to what they were for, he responded that he needed them for his camping cookers because they needed to be lit manually. I asked why he needed two boxes (a total of 100 matches). He said because he had two cookers. Of course, how could I be so stupid.???

In the two years I’ve been here, I’ve seen him drag out those spider-infested cookers once. Just one time when they were having a soup day at his work and he offered to bring them down. I won’t even mention the fact that it’s the dead of winter, he has no camping trips planned for the next five years and we already have 3/4 of a box of matches for the wood heater in the lounge room.

He is a man who likes to be prepared….for eventualities that may or may not occur in his lifetime.  I could cite numerous examples of his preparedness, for example:
The dozens of flashlights he has around the house –  ‘you’ll be glad we have them when there’s a blackout’
The dozens of tins of food in the pantry  – ‘you’ll be glad we have them when there’s a flood’
The garage full of every imaginable tool, screw, nut, bolt – ‘you’ll be glad we have them when I need to make something’

The point is that I think he feels comfortable that he has these things. He likes to know they are there if and when he gets in the mood to drag them out and use them. I’m wondering if he thinks about me like that. I wonder if he feels comforted by the fact that I’m there, ready, available for use whenever he needs me. I’m beginning to think that just the *idea* of having me is enough for him – the knowledge that I am there satiates him on lots of levels.

At the supermarket when I suggested that perhaps he didn’t need the matches, the look in his eyes was dangerous. Like an animal possessively protecting its property, the air was crackling with animosity directed towards me. Similarly, whenever I get an unsolicited email from a guy in fetlife/collarme/alt suggesting that we have a chat/meet/play he’ll jump on them like a cat on a rat. Anyone threatening his property will get pounced upon. Like the boxes of matches that will sit in the cupboard and gather dust, I remain at his beck and call. When either of us will get used, who can say?

This probably reads like I’m complaining about not being used. I’m not. Afterall, it’s up to him how and when he wants to use his property. I just wonder sometimes what goes through his mind. I wonder what I ‘do’ for him and what purpose I serve when I’m not seeming to serve a purpose. As I’ve said, I’ve had to broaden my definition of use beyond beating and bondage and I’m beginning to think that just *being* his slave is also another type of use in his book.

Short stories

The internet has ears

Well, after my bazillionth call to tech support over our continuing internet connection issue, people will be dispatched to the exchange to check our phone line on Monday. Ironically though, it seems the adsl connection listened in and finally realised that its life was in danger. As a result we’ve had connected internet for more than 2mins! Yay! Perhaps I’ve beaten it into submission???

I hate it when things do that – refuse to work for you, no matter what you do, but the moment there’s a whiff of a mechanic, technician or person with a toolbox coming within 10 feet, work perfectly normally. Because I’m tempted to throw said devices out the windows in fits of rage, I like to think of it as the universe’s twisted sense of humour and appreciate its sick and twisted mind.

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Soul-selling

It was supposed to be my last day of work on Friday. It would of been nice to pack up my things and return to the life of a full-time house bitch. Unfortunately, I sold my soul for another 6mth contract. When I was deciding what to do I had lots of searching moments where I was considering my sanity, my hopes and my needs. As I signed on the bottom line of the pages that would define my life for the next six months, it felt like I was signing away my slavery dream.

The reality is however, that it’s money, Master’s not home for much of the week anyway, and what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. I’m also of the opinion that if it gets too much and I feel that my brain/mind/soul is suffering irreversible damage, I could always quit.

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I’m a spoiled kitten

I came home on Friday nigh and Master was waiting with a scrummy Master-cooked meal and there on the fridge was a pristine new release chart labelled  ‘kitten’s call centre releases’. After mind-fucking me for the past week by saying, 

 ‘Girlie, you ain’t getting no releases for……………………………………………………………………………………………..ever!’

Master finally confessed that he felt that I would need the new release allowance in order to survive my job. So ladies and gentlemen, I now have 25 new lollies in my lolly jar simply crying out for use. My previous release chart was filled quite quickly near the end thanks to the appearance of the amazing gonzo attachment for my hitachi wand. For some reason, I’ve found that a gonzo followed by a traditional makes the most divine combination, so using two at once can make quite a dent in the release balance. I’ll have to be a bit more frugal this time.

What is the sound of one slave slapping?

In a blinding moment of clarity, I think I’ve finally put my finger on what it is that I enjoy about being a slave.

I guess a lot of people reading my musings wonder whether I enjoy being a slave at all and to be frankly honest, I often wonder myself. I wonder if I did the right thing in leaving my husband. I wonder if this is really what I want to do. And in those quiet moments at the end of the day when I listen to the silence of the house, I wonder what will happen down the track when I’m old and alone.

But let’s not get all side-tracked and melancholy. I’m supposed to be writing about the moment when the square pegs fit in the square holes without the need for a bloody big mallet and everything is right with the universe – those moments when I finally *understand*.

Earlier on I was reading yet another blog about a slave/submissive/*insert your own title here* who was doing nasty things to herself to please their owner when the thought came to me…..The essence of slavery is pain, and feeling pain allows me to experience the essence of slavery.

I have questioned in the past whether there is slavery without ouchieness. Being a person who doesn’t like the ouchieness, I was wondering whether there was some way for me to be a slave without all the implements and associated pain. I believe that Master’s answer to my query at the time was, "But you’re the one wearing the shiny thing". Of course, how stupid of me.

There are times when I really shy away from all things ouchie. When my ass is as fragile as glass and I just can’t cope with anything on any level. Those times are when I wish that there was some other way for me to feel my slavery, some other way for Master to demonstrate his Mastery over me. Ironically, in some cruel twist of fate, it’s also those times, the times when Master takes pity on me and leaves me alone, that the resultant ‘void’ causes me more stress than the ouchieness ever did.

If too long a period elapses without me feeling theessence of my slavery, I get antsy. That’s generally when I start pro-offering my ass to Master and suggesting that any infringement on my part should incur a beating. You didn’t get enough froth on your cappuccino? Oh, here’s my ass to beat. Five minutes has elasped since the washing machine finished and I haven’t hung the clothes out yet? Oh, I’ll strip and drape myself over the lounge chair, shall I?

When I’m too far gone and slipping into the edges of meltdown, drastic times like this require a hand spanking. A simple one-on-one connection of ass and hand. It’s direct, it’s immediate. It’s pure. There’s nothing between me and Master. And if I can get into the zone, it’s like an injection of joy.

Of course, I don’t want a beating per se. I don’t really want to feel the ouchieness, I just want to feel the zen. I want to be one with my slavery. And the only way I seem to get there is through pain, through suffering and by enduring it all. I guess it’s like people who go ‘for the burn’ or climb the mountain because it’s there – when there’s nothing else but you and your cause, it’s magical.

All the other bullshit of life just fades away.

Blah

You know when you’re in a state of blah that’s so bad you don’t know whether you want to be beaten or cuddled?

Yeah, well that’s where I am at the moment.

After wrestling all week with coding issues, socket errors and random freezing episodes with my work computer, I came home to discover that our internet connection was cactus. I NEED internet. It’s a non-negotiable necessity in my life, and when I can’t connect, I get panicky. In related news, I’m also plaguing.

No internet + plague = scary fucking dragon bitch kitten

I won’t go into the nitty gritty of what the problem was and how it finally (sort of) got solved, suffice to say that 6 or 7 different tech support dudes were involved in various countries, a new $179 modem router was purchased (which may or may not have been an unnecessary expenditure) and I got so stressed that I could feel the creation of new life inside me -an ulcer.

But anyways, after all that we have a sort-of-functioning Belkin modem router that has FOUR LIGHTS…but sometimes when I network with my laptop it really has FIVE LIGHTS. And if you find that reference to lights hilarious, you and I need to chat about the delights of Jean Luc.

So in my last post I asked about Danny Kaye. My supervisor was chatting about him for some reason and suddenly across the pods came the question,
 
"Kathy, you know who Danny Kaye is, don’t you?"

Apparently she thought I was of an age where I should know who the hell he is and she was stunned when I had no idea. And when I say stunned, she was acting like I’d never heard of Adolf Hitler. My worry when I found out who he was, was that I must be *really* looking like a hag if she thought I’d know an entertainer of the 50’s.

Master was also a bit stressed when he found out I didn’t know the infamous Danny Kaye. I gently reminded him that I was a child of the 80’s who came of age in the Alf, Cosby Show, Webster and Family Ties era. My known icons included Michael J. Fox and furry things from out of space. It’s hard sometimes when there’s almost a 20 year gap between slave and Master.

In smut news, Master purchased me a pair of thumbcuffs. It was funny because I have exceptionally small wrists and fingers (why can’t my ass be small and I have chunky fingers and wrists?) so when the cuffs went on, I quickly wriggled out of them and gave Master the thumbs up:

‘Sweetie…’ (gesticulating wildly, but not rudely, with free thumbs)

So they ended up being tightened to the point that my thumbs quickly turned purple. I’ve never had thumbcuffs on before so it was interesting. I felt a bit like I was playing ‘yubizumo’ with myself. I don’t know what we call that game in English, but it’s the one where you lock fingers and try to squish the other person’s thumb with yours.

The good thing about thumbcuffs is that you can still scoot your ass out of the way of a quickly falling cane that wants to impact with it. Maybe Master needs some ass-cuffs to rectify that situation.

random thoughts

My feet smell…it’s time to wash my ugh boots.

Plague time sucks.

The poodle is supposed to warn me when Master pulls up outside. That way I have time to strip and hit the deck for a proper slave greeting. Instead I saw the headlights, slipped my boots on over my trackie dacks and made a dive for the floor.

The poodle followed much later.

What the hell was that big mother windows update all about??? And why won’t Internet Explorer work now?

Mmmmm…thumbcuffs.

Waking up at 6am when my shift times change again is really going to suck.

On the flip side, finishing work at 4pm instead of 5:20pm will mean I can go to my favourite gym class again.

The lack of a phonecall from the recruiter can only mean one thing…I didn’t get my part-time office bitch dream job.

Did I mention that plague time sucks?

I don’t know how I’m going to find time to study for my translation accreditation test (TAKE 3!!!!) if I’m working like I am. Should I even bother to take it again? Based on the pattern of my previous attempts, this time I’m going to fail dismally.

Who the hell is Danny Kay? (is that even how you spell his name?)

I wonder what mineral make up is like? I’m just about out of the foundation and powder passed onto me from my sister because it made her look like a goth so I need something.

Could I survive taking Master makeup shopping? Or should I keep my ass intact by having him drop me off and come collect me 3hrs later?

I’m 31 and considering Botox because I’m starting to look like a hag.

My supervisor told me today she thinks I’m an absolute pleasure as an employee…I wonder if she knows I used to think she was a mega bitch?

Plague time still sucks.

I can’t understand how the man who got me firewood so I’d be warm, bought me frugal milk and English muffins, made me a baked dinner for when I got home and plans his weekend around taking me cheesecake/carrot muffin hunting can also twist the bejesus out of my nipple, break the skin and leave me with scabs all week. I don’t get him!!?!!

Must remember to brush and floss religiously in the 2 weeks leading up to my impending dentist visit.

Must make an optometrist appointment because I’m becoming old and (more) blind.

Why do 18-year-old gay guys feel the need to have a rant about working in the coming summer months and how they’ll cope with the "sweat-inducing" 4 minute walk from the train station to the office?

Is every guy who works in a call centre gay?

Canned minestrone soup isn’t a patch on Master’s classic beans and shit soup. For starters, there’s hardly any beans or shit in it!

I’m surrounded by bogans who would rather have dominos pizza for our farewell lunch than sushi.

Spending some quality Masterslave time with Master on the weekend will be nice. Hopefully, I won’t be too dragon-bitch-esque due to plague.

Is it Friday yet?

Do I have too many random thoughts in my head?

Weapons of slave destruction

I think I’m going for some sort of record here…three blogs in three days??? Holy unbelievable blogging frequency Batman!

I’m actually sort of enjoying these nightly outpourings of ideas before I hit the sack. It was really getting depressing there to be finally getting home, to be collapsing into bed within two hours of arriving home and then getting up to do it all over again. I needed a little routine ‘wind down’ to stop my days all coalescing into one big mass of call centre blah… How long my blogging motivation will last for is another question though….lol.

For tonight’s topic, I’ve been pondering the most destructive force in my life as a slave and while ‘lack of trust’ ranks up there pretty highly I think I’m going to have to go with ‘lack of use’. Both are equally null and voiding, but while one makes me incredibly angry, one makes me doubt myself to the core.

Two years I’ve been together with Master and during that time there has been the inevitable ‘domination of real life’ and the ‘slowing down of the play’. It happens with everyone. You get comfy with each other, you work out the ‘rules’ and all of a sudden you can’t remember the last time you had a bruise that you didn’t inflict upon yourself. If we were a vanilla couple, this would be the stage in the relationship where I’d be sobbing to my best friend,  ‘He never says ‘I love you’ anymore!!!’ As it is, I’m trying to remember when we had a more than a playful session that wasn’t at a party…nope…I can’t for the life of me remember.

The last time I had a next-to-nil quota of play in my life, I looked inside me for the cause. I went through everything that I could possibly  equate with why he wouldn’t want to play with me: I wasn’t attractive enough, I wasn’t submissive enough, I wasn’t pleasing enough. Everything pointed to the same conclusion- the reason our play was lacking was because I was lacking.

Since then I’ve wisened up a bit and come to realise that 24/7 slavery doesn’t equate to 24/7 play. I’ve also learned that just because he’s not spanking me the minute he comes in the door, doesn’t mean that I’m not good enough for him. I’d come to expect a certain level of intensity/ouchieness in things for them to register with my brain as ‘use’ and somewhere along the line the subtle ways he used me needed to be programmed in as equally valid types of ‘use’. While sitting on the floor at his feet to eat my dinner doesn’t rate up there with being chained to a post and whipped senseless, they’re both types of use. One he always enjoys and the other he may do on the very rare occasion that the mood takes him. While I waited with bated breath for the rattle of chains and searched endlessly for clues as to why I wasn’t good enough to be hoisted up, the place at his feet was always waiting for slave ‘use’.

Similarly there isn’t a night that he’s home where there isn’t some boot action and ravishing. I never really listed those as ‘use’ but they are. Well, to be honest, I never really counted anything that didn’t involve bondage as use, so I’m sure you can see why I was so stressed with weeks going by and not having any ‘use’. From Master’s side of the fence, he has used me exactly as he wanted to and therefore his mission as Master was complete.

It has been a hard lesson to learn.  But the lesson has caused me much less angst than the angsting I was doing about not being good enough.

I think if you really want intense play, you’re better off not living together. Weekend play and fuck fests are much more satisfying when you’ve got a specific and purpose-created play date and nothing to do but play and fuck. It’s even more preferable when it takes place in some hotel room somewhere that you don’t have to clean up once you’re done. All Australia needs now are love hotels…I wonder if there is a niche market there waiting to be exploited??? Holy untapped market opportunity Batman!

You cannot change the laws of semantics

aka Part II of my rant about slaves…

So, we all like to give ourselves little labels. One or two or even three on occasion. In some circles I’d define myself as a frugality-obsessed Japanoholic gym-junkie. People hearing that might then want to ask me about frugal shopping tips or my favourite Japanese foods.

In other circles I’d define myself as a slave. People hearing that should have all the information that they need to know about me in that compact little word of five letters. That definitive label, in one foul swoop, answers all the questions that a person should ever want to ask me. I’m a slave, that’s what I am, that’s what I do.

I’m always interested when people ask me at parties, ‘So, do you like pain?’ and when I say, "No" they seem puzzled. Perhaps they’re thinking about the last 40mins of my life when I’ve bitten so hard into my lip that it’s almost bleeding in an attempt to stifle the moans and groans as I was beaten. Do they wonder why I’m doing it if I don’t enjoy it? Probably. And my answer to that is,

"Because I’m a slave"

It doesn’t matter what I want or what I like. I do what I’m told and get what I’m given. I don’t have safewords, I don’t have limits. I don’t have a contract or a pretty little out clause. I’m a slave.

I think a lot of people have romantic ideas about what a slave is. I think they’ve been reading too many juicy pieces of erotica or watching too many harem girl movies. The word ‘slave’ itself also has some lovely connotations of damsels in distress and Carrie Fishers in metal bikinis. The word ‘slave’ sounds better as it rolls off your tongue and it’s perceived as being better on the bdsm hierarchy. That is why I think so many people want to be called a slave- whether they actually are or not is a different story.

In BDSM we call the person with the power a Dominant (yes, it’s both a noun and an adjective!) We call the person wielding the whip a Top. A bottom is on the receiving end of the whip.The owner of a slave is a Master or Mistress. A submissive submits or yields power. A slave….just is.

The difference between a submissive and a slave? The right to choose. If you have the power to control in any way how you are kept or treated, you are a submissive. If you don’t, you’re a slave. It’s as simple as that.

Of course, as Master’s slave he has given me the freedom to ask for things, to beg for things, to request dispensation. It doesn’t mean that they will be automatically granted, just that I can ask. He is the only one with the power to choose whether I will get them or what will happen to me. He could also take away my freedom to ask for things if he so chose. He chooses how I live, he grants me what I have. As a slave and only a slave, I have only what he gives me. I can’t/don’t submit because I don’t have any power to yield to begin with.

As a slave, you could be kept in a myriad of different ways depending on what your Master chooses. You could be kept as a precious harem girl or as an expendable work slave in a potato sack. You might have a job or not be allowed one step out of the house. What you do or your conditions don’t make you a slave. Whether you have a choice about it or not does.

This brings me back to what I was saying in my previous entry. To add to it, a slave can be a sexual slave if that’s how their Master wants to keep them, but a slave can’t be a sexual slave because that’s what they want to be. The laws of semantics cannot be changed; a slave is property, chattel, a slave doesn’t choose what becomes of them – their Master does.

It’s a slave Jim, but not as we know it.

I’m a little bit confused…what exactly is a sex slave in a bdsm sense? I see profiles of people wanting to be a ‘sex slave’ on fetlife and other places and often see in chatrooms that incomprehensible line, "I wanna be ur sex slave". Is a sex slave a slave with the added bonus of sex (rofl!) or are they just a slave in a sexual sense i.e. they play the role during sex and only sex and therefore they can tell you to get fucked when you order them to scrub the floor?

"Sex slave" to me points to those victims of human trafficking who are forced into prostitution to pay off debts or something similar. I don’t see it being a definition for a person who wants to play kinky sex games. I can’t for the life of me see how you can be a *insert category here* slave. I mean, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of calling yourself a slave? A slave by definition has no rights or choices, therefore, how can they limit the scope of their service by saying, "I’m a sex slave" or "I’m a service slave" or something similar? How can you call yourself a slave and then specify the ways that you can be used????

I can understand someone saying, "I’m a slave who enjoys service" or "I’m a slave who enjoys bondage", but defining themselves as a ‘service slave’ or a ‘bondage slave’ seems like an oxymoron. If you’re a slave then you can’t choose the ways that you will be used, you can’t say to your owner, ‘That falls outside the scope of me being your xxx slave, therefore I won’t do it’. If you say you’re a slave, then you’re a slave. You do what your owner tells you to do. If you enjoy it, bonus; if you don’t, suck it up.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a ‘service-orientated slave’. I generally don’t enjoy cleaning, cooking, keeping house, or the myriad of other duties outside the bedroom that I do. If anything, I’m a slave who enjoys sexual use and bondage. Sending Master off to work in a neatly pressed shirt does nothing for me, but the sense of satisfaction I get when I know I’ve made him come is amazing. When I hear his breathing quicken and there’s that moment when time just seems to hang in the air right before he tips over the edge, I can’t help but smile. It’s that moment when I know I’ve ‘done good’. I feel incredibly useful and everything is just so right with the world.

Unfortunately I’m also not a "pain-orientated slave" or a "humiliation-orientated slave", but that doesn’t mean that when Master pulls out the cane or says to me, "Bark like the bitch you are" that I have the right to say:

"But, I’m a sexual slave!!!!"

…and expect to get out of it (nice though it would be sometimes!)

Slave is slave. A sexual slave is a ‘submissive into kinky sex’. A service slave is ‘a submissive who likes domestic duties’. There ain’t no such thing as a ‘gardening slave’, a ‘painslut slave’ or any of the myriad of other types of ‘slaves’. Slaves can’t choose how they will be slaves. The only choice they have is whether to be a slave or not. And some of us might argue that we don’t even have that choice.

I’ve mentioned before that I don’t see a lot of difference between my married life in Japan and life as a slave in Australia. I’m not an equal in either relationship and what I do on the home front is exactly the same (except I had the added bonus of managing all the finances in Japan). I guess the only difference is that as a slave I’ve chosen to be the inferior one. I’ve chosen to walk the step behind and take on the domestic role. In that sense, it’s easier because there’s no feeling of discrimination, no feeling of having to be the submissive one. There’s a world of difference between the freedom of giving up the right to choose and the indignation of never having the right to choose in the first place.

I wonder if these people who proclaim themselves to be ‘sex slaves’  and who are seeking an owner to carry them off to Never-neverland  think about how difficult it is to juggle their work and their life now, and how much more difficult it will be when they’ve got the added difficulty of juggling bdsm amongst it all.

I wonder also if they realise that after the hot sex on their knees, they’re still going to be on their knees…. scrubbing the floor with a toothbrush.

No place like home

Blogging for me is a bit like what I imagine childbirth to be – squeezing a big squishy mass into a small space. Often I leave the blogging world utterly exhausted and feeling like a truck has run over me….which has then reversed back….and gone forwards again….over me….several times. I guess it’s all that wrestling to put my thoughts into words and baring of the soul that leaves its mark.  And while it’s sometimes cathartic, it also manages to suck out the last remaining vestiges of my brainpower. In short, it makes me tired, so that’s why I don’t do it a lot….in case you were wondering. And if not, just skip down to the second paragraph…lol.

I had a job interview today that required me to leave work at 11am and skip out into the merry world of Perth CBD. I had a nice friendly chat with a Japanese recruitment agent who not only told me that I was more than qualified for the job I had applied for, but then tried to head-hunt me for their soon-to-be-opening Perth recruitment office.

At various times during the interview he kept asking me,

"So, you’re sure you only want to work part time?"

It was as though there was something terribly wrong in me not working all day ,every day. It may have been the ‘work-’til-you-drop’ Japanese gene in him that kept bringing him back to querying my preferred work hours, but as he pored over my resume and talked about my language skills and education, I got the distinct impression that he felt that 12hrs a week of me playing office reception chick would somehow be a waste.

As Yamaguchi-san spun glorious tales of what would be required of me if I were to work for them – organizing study programmes at local English schools and training colleges, dealing with migration and visa applications, recruiting Japanese speakers for local Japanese businesses, cultural inductions etc., I was over-awed. I’d always imagined myself as the power suit-wearing career-woman and here he was detailing a list of things that I would love to do.

Of course, the cynical part of me was recalling what it was like to be in a ‘Japanese work environment’ aka having no life outside work and pondering the realities of a low base salary with ‘incentives’. At the same time the little girl part of me was also panicking and nearly shitting herself at the thought of ‘sales targets’ and being out in the big bad corporate world.

In the end I reiterated to him that at this stage after my full-time work experiences at Centrelink, I was only looking for part time work and that I wanted to use the other time to hone my translation skills etc. I said that I also said that I was finding it hard to do ‘runthe household’ while working . Naturally, I didn’t tell him the real truth – that I actually only wanted a little bit of work because my main career as slavebitch had already been decided and full-time work just fucked up my slave head space in a big way. But it would be nice if we could say that, wouldn’t it?

After the interview I regretted playing myself down. I thought that I’d missed a fantastic opportunity that will probably never come knocking again and when I sat back down at my desk at precisely 1:10pm to take another fucking call, I was kicking myself. I’ve come to the conclusion that I am utterly and totally torn between wanting a blazing career that would see me do something meaningful with ‘all my skills’, and wanting to be a slave bitch and nothing more. God, it’s so fifty-fifty at the moment that I can’t for the life of me decide on just one. I want both, but I know I can’t have both. Because I know I just don’t work that way.

I often think that if I just go down the career route then it would make my leaving Japan absolutely meaningless. If all I wanted to do was work heaps and make good money, I should have stayed in Japan!!! Then I could have not only had my job, but have eaten my melon bread too!

I keep having to remind myself that I left to be a slave.

I left to be a slave.

I left to be a slave.

And I’ll be damned if anything detracts from it.
 

Survivor

In an effort to cheer Master up and bring some light into his boredom filled day at work, I’ve decided to….blog! Now, I can’t guarantee that it’s going to be earth-shattering stuff, but I know that it’s always nice to have something to read with one’s brekky, so here goes….

Umm…now…all I need is a topic….lol.

We ended up not going to the play party on Sunday. Master hadn’t been feeling well and it was cold, so we just ended up watching a movie in front of the fire- albeit I was in my cage and Master was on the couch. I wasn’t too worried because it meant I didn’t need to be naked in front of a room full of people or shove things up my ass- double bonus! I’m guessing that pony girl kitten will make an appearance next month, followed by harem girl and possibly burqa girl. Have I mentioned that Master has too much free time to ponder costume selection?

Against some misgivings about work detracting from my slavery, I put in a job application over the weekend for a part time admin position- partly because this job sounded like it was made for me and partly because I’m thinking that I’ll need to do *something* other than clean the house and be slave bitch. I got a call this morning from the recruiter while I was on the train going to work. He of course started the whole thing in Japanese, and while it’s not uncommon for them to do that just to check your language skills, I would have liked a little bit of warning. As I’ve said before, I’m not a morning person, so my brain wasn’t fully awake, but I don’t think I made any huge faux pas along the lines of,  "I like shibari and bukkake" in what I said to him, and as a result I’ve got an interview on Thursday. It’s not nuclear physics, and only two days a week so I’m hoping that if I get the job it will just give me some steady income and take my mind off the need to tie myself up all the time or eat. I’m thinking two days a week will still let me get on with my real career in slavery.

In other work-related news, it’s looking like I’m going to claim the title of "Survivor of the Centrelink Island" because the other remaining person who I started with is leaving at the end of this week. Everyone else has either been voted off or left the island. Yay! I always feel much better when I’ve ‘out-endured’ other people.

After so many months of listening to people’s tales of welfare woe, I now know why most people in call centres have such a "I don’t give a fuck about you" tone in their voice. I’ve learnt to stop listening and to just wait for my turn to talk so things don’t really penetrate my brain, ‘You’ve got leukemia? Okay. Moving right along…’ sort of stuff. Anyone that you talk to who still has a chirpy, "Yes, I’m listening to you" tone in their voice is obviously a newbie operator.

Since I started doing later shifts, I have much more pleasant mornings and I also get an extra break during the day. That extra 15mins makes a huge difference. The only downside is that I can’t make it to my normal step aerobics classes and I live for step! Instead, I’ve been doing combat and spinning. The instructors who do those classes are even crazier than my usual scary military step/pump woman. I mean, seriously, who rides up a hill in 20th gear??? I haven’t sweat so much since my first display of public nakedness.

My huge, massive news though is that I’ve managed to snag tickets to see Phantom of the Opera when it comes to Perth next Feb. I’ll be dragging Master along to it even though he hates anything to do with Andrew Lloyd Webber. This will be the fourth time I’ve seen it and I’m super excited already. It just sends shivers down my spine. If I catch Master yawning/snoring/playing games on his pda during it, I’ll be forced to administer a sharp Japanese forehead slap. Master, you have been warned!!!

So yeah..that’s about it from days in the life of kitten. Hope you’re not feeling so phunky today sweetie pumpkin Master and just remember, you’ll have your cappuccino-making, back-scratching, boot-wearing, ear-cleaning slave bitch to ravish tonight.