Better late than never

Just ’cause kaya tagged everyone in the entire world…

The Rules-
* Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.
* Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog – some random, some weird.
* Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blog.
* Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. I make noises like a mule giving birth when I cum using gonzo

2. My record for conveyor belt sushi eating is 44 pieces (rice and all)

3. I can’t remember any of the addresses or telephone numbers of places I’ve lived previously (I can barely remember my current one)

4. I failed my driving test the first time I took it, but told everyone I passed on the first go

5. 14 years ago I applied to join the navy because I figured that the world was peaceful and I had next-to-no chance of being sent into combat – then came the Iraq war, the Afghanistan war and the East Timor conflict (fortunately I failed the medical and ended up going to Japan instead)

6. I’ve used vegetables in place of sexual pleasure devices

7. I’ve drunk my own piss out of a cup every morning for a period of 3 months

And who am I tagging? Everyone who ain’t done it yet. You know who you are…don’t make me name you!

Eve before the apple

While we were driving along to the supermarket the other Saturday afternoon Master casually said,

‘Show me some boob.

So I pulled down my top, flipped one out and smiled back at Master.

You wouldn’t have done that two years ago,” he said laughing.

I didn’t think much about it at the time but he was probably very right. I wouldn’t have done it two years ago or even probably a year ago. But it barely gives me pause now. So what has changed?

Maybe all that nakedness in public has knocked down my walls of inhibition and I’ve lost my shame. Or maybe I’ve seen so many other people do things in public that my brain has finally received the message that it’s ‘okay’. They say we learn through example, so perhaps I’ve got all those other people who have put their bodies on the line before me to thank.

Reading through Fetlife I read post after post of people wanting to get involved in bdsm but who are ‘too scared’ to attend a party in public or even go to a munch to chat with ‘like-minded’ people. People safely sit at home, lusting after some action, but are too afraid to take the first step. I know that there is often a fear of being ‘outed’ when going out in public and people worry about their jobs or family/friends finding out, but even before all of that, people seem to be fighting their own demons.

I’m sure there are some people who have been ‘burned’ before, having had bad experiences with someone else and are hesitant to put themselves in that situation again, but there are also considerable numbers of people who have never even dipped a toe in. And of the people who do finally manage to attend some sort of event, I’m amazed by the number of people who hug the walls and never venture to pick up an implement, ask a question or move off the couch.

I know I would of felt like that myself at some time – tentatively venturing out into the big, bad world of bdsm – but I find it hard to recapture the feelings of fear that newbies have. I’m not saying that I’m an old hand, by any means, but I don’t understand what everyone is so hung up about.

Is bdsm such a big deal?

Or have I just become so comfortable with it all, that I no longer care what other people think as long as I’m getting what I crave?

I remember at the last party I went to, someone I’d never spoken to before came up to me and said that she loved how Master and I laughed and smiled and had fun while we were playing. I laugh a lot ot cover my nervousness, but I also laugh a lot because I’m having fun – after all, I’m doing what I love and enjoy. Perhaps there’s a sense that it all has to be black leather and protocols and newbies are worried about putting a foot wrong. For some people I guess it is very ritualized, but for others, like myself it’s just a chance to do what I ‘do’.

I’d always imagined the bdsm sphere to be a place where people could do what they wanted and not feel threatened and I guess as part of that I also have to keep in mind that *not* doing anything is what some people may *want* to do. But my advice to anyone wanting to start down the path?

Just do it.

Make believe

In my younger days I aspired to be an actor. I studied drama and became a member of the local theatre group. I even had my three minutes of fame on the stage. It was a time in my life where I relished every moment of the magic of being someone else.

One thing that will make or break a thespian is suspension. Not so much the ‘flying through the air with the greatest of ease’ type of suspension, but the suspension of disbelief. Those in the audience must suspend their belief that what they are watching is not true, therefore accepting the actors *as* the characters and the story *as* happening now. Without that suspension, you’re just looking at some people in bad makeup making fools of themselves.

As a slave or sub, I think there is also a fair amount of suspension that goes on in bdsm play. In my own case, I know there is an awful lot of conscious turning off of the ‘what the fuck am I doing?’ switch. Every time I’m sticking something up my ass or crawling on the floor, or doing something equally as humiliating/degrading/fucked up I’ve got to turn that part of me that cringes in horror off. I suspend it. In fact, the only way I can do most of these things is to detach myself from *myself* entirely. That’s generally when I remind myself that I’m wearing the ‘shiny thing’ and because it’s my get-out-of-it-humiliation-free card, I can go on with my life normally at the end of it all. Afterwards, when I’m doing something banal and domestic I might have a trippy moment and think, Fuck, I walked around a room full of strangers in pony gear, but I’ll be be ok because that was then and this is now and the shiny thing excuses all.

I’ve often thought about the similarities between the dramatic world and the world of bdsm. We ‘play’, we ‘scene’, we have all the necessary props and costumes to set the mood. We play for audiences and have drinks and nibblies at intermission. It is contrived and prepared. We hang our normal personae up in the closet and put on our masks and play.

I’m sure at this point that a lot of people would like to point out that ‘real’ slaves don’t ‘play’ at being a slave, they *are* a slave and that’s what they do. The underlying dynamic is probably there to varying degrees, but John the school teacher and Mary the police officer aren’t the ones up there in front of everyone, that’s Master and slave doing something they enjoy together. They believe that the other person is going to fulfill the role they’ve chosen for themselves. Without the belief there is nothing.

Good actors make you believe in them.

Good doms make you believe in yourself.

I did the humane thing…

…and went shopping for makeup, shoes and clothes by myself after work last night. I was going to ask Master to take me shopping on Saturday, but there are times a girl needs to do things without fear of the wrath of a task-orientated man. If Master has something he wants to buy, he goes into the shop, buys it and leaves. Me? I like to wander around and look at this and that and oh, that’s right, I wonder if that’s on sale, and while I’m here I’ll have a look at that too. After approximately two hours of shopping I left with foundation, powder, blush and an eyeshadow palette- sans shoes and clothes. I’m glad I went by myself, he never would have survived.

I really wanted to buy some romanesque lace-up sandals for the gorean slavegirl outfit I’ll be wearing to the next party. Amongst the aisles and aisles of shoes, do you think I could find a pair? Of course not. That would be too easy.

I also spent a little bit of time looking at games we could play together on the PS 2. Usually I play WoW and he watches tv, but WoW is becoming a tad boring after 3 years and I’d like to play something together. So I thought, what better to do than kill and be chased by things? Some mindless entertainment for both of us is definitely warranted after a long week of work. I’m still undecided as to what game to buy though. I used to be a Crash Bandicoot kinda girl and he is a Doom kinda boy. Is there a middle ground for people like us?

It’s funny when I go out shopping alone. I feel so…I don’t know…out in the big bad worldish? Generally I go to work, go to gym and come straight home. I don’t make side trips, I don’t meet friends for coffee or a chat or anything like that. Of course I could, if I asked. But I don’t. I do what needs to be done and return to the security of home. It’s almost like I’m on one of those retractable pet leads that lets the animal wander ahead a little, but recoils to pull them in close again. Master isn’t home for three nights of the week, I could shop ’til my heart’s content if I wanted to. But I don’t.

Funnily enough I used to shop for 2 or 3 hrs everyday in Japan. Of course, that was because the shops didn’t close until 8 or 9pm and I worked for myself so I could pretty much choose my working hours. There was also the necessity of doing food shopping in short little bursts because you had to carry everything home…up hills…in snow, heat and rain. One thing about Japan, it toughens you up! It’s like boot camp for soft Westerners.

In other news, I’ve succumbed to the dreaded red plague and I’m also diseased with a lovely head cold, so I think this weekend will be spent eating comfort foods, taking drugs and sleeping. It’s sad, but I think my body is trying to tell me something….something like….GET A NEW JOB!

Weekend thrills

Master and I went for a lovely drive in the countryside on the weekend to see the wildflowers.

Perhaps ‘lovely wasn’t the correct word…’thrilling’ might be better. It was so ‘thrilling’ in fact that I peed behind a bush, nearly shat myself going down some exceptionally steep hills, almost went airborne in the RangeRover and thought I was going to be arrested by the national park ranger. For an experience junkie like myself it was great fun….especially the thought of being ‘arrested’…yummo!

Every now and then I go 4WDing with Master and we bounce and jiggle through the countryside and go up and down ridiculous-looking hills with me saying every five minutes, ‘We’re not going up/down there are we?’ I think he finds it amusing as I squeal and swear and feel my boobs slapping my back (*makes mental note to wear a bra on future 4wd trips).

But humour aside, it was a lovely day and the wildflowers were gorgeous. I’ve never seen them in bloom before and the variety of colours and shapes is amazing. It’s fantastic to see and feel the seasons changing.

Sunday’s highlight was a large amount of %!&X#!! cold chain being liberally applied to my body. Damn it was cold. It was the chain that is attached to Master’s bedhead that he bought for me one day at the hardware store based on the fact that I said I liked ‘chainy-chain’. Flimsy little chain just doesn’t have the feel, weight and sound of big, clunky chain and when I saw the big mother chain he had bought, I fell in love.
It was attached to my collar and the metre or so of slack laid over my poor naked bits. I may not be vocal when being beaten (in public) but apply cold chain to this slave’s body and you’re guaranteed to hear some piercing screams.

We’ve talked about getting some metal restraints for the toy box.  I do like the ‘idea’ of them and in summer they’d be great, but during the cooler months, I may be tempted to bury them in the backyard somewhere. I’m already starting to put a list together for Master’s xmas presents, but the question is, will I stay true to form and buy things that will cause me grief later on down the track when he actually uses them? Knowing me, the answer is probably yes.

Excuse me while I….

….step outside for a moment and check the sign above the door.

Strange.

It doesn’t say, “kitten and her Master witch hunt”.

It also doesn’t say, “Enter here to drive a needle through the kitten and her Master voodoo dolls!”

That is very peculiar.

Dodging through the mass of landmine-infested comments tumbling into my inbox these past couple of days, I’ve thought that someone must have changed the sign while I wasn’t looking.

Well, where do I start? Firstly, a big thankyou to the members of “my club” who have left a comment supporting me, thoughtfully analyzing the situation or intelligently asking questionsI I’m always happy to respond! To those who have done nothing but engage in name-calling and insulting, I’ve asked you nicely to desist…twice…and you’ve annoying continued, so now I have to be not so nice:

FUCK OFF!

Ok. Now with that done, I can get around to responding to the intelligent questions and thoughtful analyses.

Firstly:

In your head, when you think of your partner as your owner, I know you do mean owner, and you are property. I get that. But then, how do you break up? How do you initiate it? I know that just because you’re property in the relationship doesn’t mean that you don’t have a voice (hello, blogging), but I can’t quite get how property suddenly regains autonomy. Or is it, after all, a role? Your closing paragraphs sound just like my own life…except that I don’t think you could leave even if you hated it. Or could you?

In my last entry I was talking about my former owner and leaving. I call him my ‘former owner’ or ‘the one who shall not be named’ for the sake of calling him something. At the time, when I left, he was really nothing more than a guy I shared a house with – that was all our relationship was at the end. If he had been my owner or master still, I wouldnt have been able to leave. To earn the title of owner or Master, you’ve got to fulfill that role. He didn’t, therefore there was no point in me being there as his ‘slave’.

It didn’t happen overnight though. To get back my autonomy was a gradual process that took about four months from when my collar came off, to the time I gave him a hug and walked out the door. If my nanna hadn’t had a heart attack and needed someone to care for her, it probably would of taken me longer. The door was never locked, I had access to money, but the emotional bonds holding me there were very tough to break.

Secondly:

I wonder if your master might ever attempt to give you an orgasm (for instance) instead of leaving you to find your own release. There are two issues I have with him giving me orgasms: firstly, I would feel like he was ‘servicing’ me instead of the other way around; and secondly, orgasms for me are exceptionally tricky (I can only have them with the hitachi and with muscle contractions) and I don’t really want someone not directly connected to my pain receptors messing around down there. The whole pussy rings situation (see below) requires exact placement and a lot of minute readjustment. I’ve hurt myself enough times to know that I don’t want anyone else with a hitachi down there.

 I’m thinking (for one thing) of your pussy rings, whose wounds have not fully healed after two years. To me that’s comparable to driving a car for two years without an oil change… sure you can own something but you need to take good care of it, and in this one regard, at least, it seems to me he’s neglecting his responsibility as your master.

This one is a toughie. It is blatantly clear that they will never heal due to scar tissue and other factors. I’ve spent two years in some sort of pain whether it be a soft sting or a ripping, throbbing pain that has me sobbing. I have to sit, sleep, walk and move differently. There are days when I’ve thought about getting a pair of pliers and just pulling them out. But there is also the other part of me that is insanely proud of how they look and what I’ve gone through.

I suppose in a sense, what I’m going through is really not that different to the pain that women have gone through to different degrees for the sake of fashion and looks for years: corsets, high heels, plastic surgery etc. Even the foot binding of Chinese women was excruciatingly painful and crippling, but was done to make them look more attractive.

I remember when we went back to the piercer to have them checked and when I was told that the only thing to do for them was to take them out, I started bawling. Master was more than willing to do it at the time, but I was the one who made the decision to keep them in.

And even if you love him and are proud of him in some ways, I’ve not read in your posts where you worship the ground he walks on, or where obedience is your nourishment. If it’s all about enduring, it’s all about you. But it seems that if it’s all about you, then your ego might (understandably and justifiably) be getting in the way of a fuller experience of slavery in which joy and fulfillment might potentially be found through service and obedience and absolute devotion to a man worthy of the title, Master. God…can you actually imagine me losing myself in service, obedience and absolute devotion to a man??? While that may be my ideal of what slavery should be, the harsh reality is that I’m never going to be that sort of person. Several years ago, I also thought that if I put on a big white dress and wore a rock on my finger, I would be able to be a good wife and possibly even a mother. But that wasn’t me. Nothing I did changed who I was.

 A long time ago, I thought that with the right man I could be a ‘perfect slave’, but then I realised that it’s not him that has the issues, it’s me. My kink is endurance. That’s all I have ever enjoyed and probably all I ever will (although I won’t set that down in stone, because people really do change!) My existence as a slave is maintained by my suspension of disbelief. Nothing Master says or does will change that fact. Put simply, if I don’t ‘make’ myself a slave, I won’t be one. Of course, having an environment in which I feel secure and comfortable enough to ‘be’ that slave is vital. That is what Master provides.

The trappings (collars, tattoos, cunt rings etc.) don’t make me a slave and having a Master doesn’t make me a slave either. He can’t ‘force’ me to be a slave. The door is not locked, I am here because I want to be here. By the same token, I could be a slave without a Master. I think I coined the phrase “slave sans owner” not long ago and that was exactly what I meant. Master’s constant repetition of, ‘You are my slave’ is designed to give me the confidence to believe in myself. His unwavering belief in me gives me the foundation I need to be me.

Support, compassion and understanding were things that were lacking with my former owner. I was starving for interaction and communication. Even if all the bondage, beatings and booby torture had been there, the key basis for the relationship wasn’t. That’s why it failed and why I could leave.

So, I guess, I’m still searching for that elusive inner peace, where I can accept myself as a slave and I’ll keep on blogging until I find it.

Why I blog…

1. I’m an attention whore

2. If I don’t write down the shit in my head I tend to implode

3. It’s a great way for me to let Master know what’s happening upstairs and to get his feedback

4. Playing with words is fun

5. Getting comments from readers gives me a rush (see No.1)

Waaaaay back in the beginning, I was required to hand-write a journal. I’m not exactly sure why. It was just another one of my tasks – along with the nightly enemas and chaining myself up – that eventually became meaningless when I realised that he didn’t care whether I wrote in it or not. I was never given any feedback or ‘answers’ to my questions. In fact, I remember having to literally wave my journal in front of him before he would read it. I was pouring my heart and soul out in it and it hurt immensely that he’d give it nothing more than a cursory scan and toss it aside.

I eventually found LJ and decided that I could type quicker than I could write, so I started keeping everything here in a locked journal. I ended up typing up most of my handwritten journals and soon it took on the form of one long record of my unhappiness. After I broke up with my former owner, I started up this journal and transferred most of the entries across as a record of my ‘journey’. It was quite a big decision at the time to go public with my journal because in the beginning I was worried about putting my thoughts and feelings out there for all to scrutinize. I was also considering the identity issues and stuff like that. I’m not sure whether I’ve become more comfortable with myself or not, but now I don’t really mind having my face, ass and all the other bits out there.

Master always, always reads my blogs and comments on just about all of them. I appreciate so much the fact that he does read them and digests what I say. I remember how incredibly frustrating it was before to never have affirmations or praise. On many levels, even though I don’t have decision-making rights, I need to have a voice. I need to be able to express myself and know I’m being heard.

Master started blogging after we talked about how I’d like to know what he thinks. Every now and then he’ll throw in a very detailed description of his thoughts and feelings, but mostly he blogs about the day to day. His blog is a record of what he does. My blog is a record of how I feel. I think we compliment each other nicely and I enjoy the fact that I can relive our times together there on the pages of his journal.

I don’t expect everyone who reads our blogs to agree with what we do or say. Our brand of D/s is relaxed and very laid back. While I am the slave and he is the Master, we call each other ‘sweetie’ and generally hang out like ‘normal’ people do. We don’t have rituals or really any rules. We’re just a couple of folks trying to enjoy our time together and make it through this crazy thing called ‘life’.

I don’t blog to save the world. I don’t try to change the opinions of anyone. I just ask for a bit of common courtesy and decency from those folks who stop by to read my thoughts.

That’s all.

To Karen

Hi, I don’t think we’ve met – unless, of course, you’re a blast from the past who is using a pen name (you haven’t been known as Master Dee have you???)

My name’s kitten or kathy, depending on what circumstances we’re meeting on. I’ve come to know you as ‘Karen’ , ‘Ever loving Karen x’ and the ‘Dim dom basher’.

Reading through your comments I get two distinct feelings: one, that you’re a well-meaning, but slightly misguided soul who could be mistaken for my mother; and two, that you’ve been incredibly insulting (to both Master and I), critical and are making outrageous assumptions about something you know very little about.
 
I pondered whether to respond to the comments you’ve left over the past few days. As you’ve rightly pointed out, both Master and I blog in the public sphere and we welcome comments. I’ve always been the first to say that everyone has a right to disagree and a few ‘spicy’ comments always make life interesting, but I draw the line at personal attacks, especially when they are based on interpretations of a tiny slice of our lives portrayed here. By insulting Master, you’re insulting me.

You’ve mentioned my ‘intellect and seeming vibrancy and the glowing lack of same in her Master’. Is this based on the fact that I can throw a few fancy words together in blogland? Do you assume that someone is dumb if they don’t pepper their writing with amusing literary devices? Just because writing is my thing and I enjoy playing with words, doesn’t make me ‘smart’.

If you looked through our resumes you would find quite a yawning gap in education and professional qualifications. Now, I don’t need to blow Master’s trumpet but he’s mine and I’m proud of him, so I will. Master has a double Law and Commerce degree from one of the leading universities in Australia. It’s a programme that less than 50 people in the whole of Australia could be admitted to. His professional life has seen him running his own consultancy firm, serving on the board of a superannuation fund and now he is an ER/HR specialist.

Me? I’ve got a meaningless BA that is barely recognized in Australia, I’m qualified to be a teacher (whoopdeefuckingdo) and I’ve had scratchy little jobs over the past ten years including my current illustrious stint as a call centre bitch. I don’t know about you, but from that I think I can see who is the most ‘intelligent’.
 
You’ve also described our dynamic as the ‘daftest, most piecemeal D/s relationship I’ve ever stumbled across’. Wow…that’s harsh. Fortunately I don’t care about your wildly incorrect assumptions, but just to make my point that you are describing something that you know very little about, I’d like to remind you that Master and I are 24/7 D/s and if you read a blog that portrays a ten minute slice of our life you’re looking at 0.00694% of our life. Now, maths is not my forte, but I don’t think that something that is less than 0.01% of the total could ever give a fair indication of the whole. It’s like looking at an apple with a microscopic blemish on it and throwing it away because it’s ‘rotten to the core’.

Funnily enough you’ve also mentioned that I’m not happy. I’m sorry, I don’t remember putting out a general distress call in my blog, but you seem to be wanting to drown Master on the way to throwing me a buoyancy device. There are always things I’m not happy about (why doesn’t my internet work? why can’t I buy nice cheesecake? why do I have to spend my valuable sleeping time to right the wrongs of the blog world?) but, you know, that’s life. You can’t please all of the people all of the time. The shittiest thing about my life at the moment is my job and unfortunately that poison seems to drip into the deep dark recesses of my mind and taint everything. I’m hoping to alleviate that as soon as possible. As Master said, if I wasn’t happy with our relationship and didn’t think there was hope, I’d be out of here. I value myself too much to waste my life. I like to use my blog as a way to vent things and often they are random, fleeting thoughts that crowd my mind. The next day I might be feeling fine and have moved on, but a blog is not something that you write over afresh everyday. For better or for worse, all the nasty mood swings and pms attacks and miscommunications are written down in great detail for the world to see and are generally blown up into something bigger, then are dissected and analysed under a high power microscope.

I’ll be first to admit that my life as a slave is very different to my fantasy- simply because it is real and is not fantasy. In my fantasy I’m a fantastically obedient slave with a knock-out body and Master keeps me locked up all the time and just drags me out to feed, fuck and beat me. We all know that ain’t going to happen – for starters, in the cold weather I’d be asking to be let out to pee every five minutes. The challenge of D/s is finding a happy balance and aligning what you want with what you can get. Master and I are a work in progress, we’re not perfect and will never be so. He has things to learn and so do I. We have ruts that we need to get out of and probably some ‘back to basics’ training that needs to be done to get us right on track once this work situation gets better. All things that will have to wait for the inevitable incursion of life.

So, dear Karen, I hope that has put things back into perspective for you. And while I appreciate the fact that you took the time to comment and become involved in our lives, I don’t appreciate the jibes and name-calling. Hopefully that will now end.

Ever-learning kitten

Itakimo

I’ve said in the past that Japanese as a language has some great words/phrases for things that take a sentence or two to express in English. However, itakimo is a feeling that sounds just as good in English:

“It hurts so good!”

The play party we went to on Saturday night saw me prancing around mostly naked in my pony girl harness and thigh-high red pvc boots. Later into the night I managed to sneak a jelly shot or two and a vodka cruiser around my bit and suddenly I was the talkative one chatting with lots of people I’d never exchanged more than a hello with and having a generally splendid time.

But I wasn’t there for the social chitchat, I was there to be strung up and solidly beaten – which Master obliged me by doing. After the crop, flogger and fly-swatter paddle, things turned serious when the rubber flogger came out. I was a little disappointed when, after extracting some botty blood, Master signalled that he was going to stop by applying baby oil to the offending area.

“Sweetie….” I whined in my most beat-me-some-more-please! voice.

So the baby oil was quickly removed and then the cane made an appearance. I almost wished that I had stopped while I was ahead. Fortunately there were only a few strokes (I counted about twelve, but Master assured me there were forty or so of his ‘light’ canestrokes.) When Master queried whether I’d had enough, I responded with a response straight out of the How to be a Stupid Slave Girl 101 textbook:

“Ummm…I think I’m about 60% beaten.”

Master attempted to provide me with the remaining 40% after we returned home, but by then I’d lost my beating window and audience. As a result I was screeching like a fishwife and my ass could have had mexican jumping beans in it I was moving around so much.

The itakimo feeling is something that I’ve felt the fringes of on rare occasions when I’m in the zone. It’s a feeling akin to biting into deliciously ripe fruit and having the flavour burst across your taste buds. It feels like an energy that dances across my skin before the pain sets in. It feels like nothing I’ve ever felt and is so difficult to put into words. So much so that the best word I can come up with is itakimo.

Earlier in the night I’d already seen carinastar’s botty of steel break one of her favourite canes, but afterwards she was grinning like a cheshire cat. I think I’m beginning to understand what she feels. Although I’m a very long way from being a masochist,  there are moments when being beaten really does hurt so good.

On another note, one thing I’m finding interesting at parties of late is my total lack of being stressed out with my nakedness. Several months ago it was a huge issue for me – one that I thought might make or break me. Now I really couldn’t give a shit who saw what part of me. I wonder if that is a good or bad thing. Do I now no longer care? Or am I actually comfortable in my slave uniform for once?

In fact, when I was getting ready for the party and wearing my comfy warm clothes as I applied makeup etc, Master mindfucked me by saying,

‘You can go like that.’

I have to admit that I was totally disappointed. Wear warm, comfy clothes to a play party? Wtf? It wasn’t until I realised that he was performing a double mindfuck twist that I calmed down.

It’s so funny how we change and grow….and slightly scary at the same time.

As I like it

All the world’s a stage,
As you all know, I’m a huge fan of the Big Bondage and have been for a very long time. I’m not sure exactly what it is that I like about bondage, I just know that I enjoy it. Normally I’m quite claustrophobic, scared of heights and like to be moving around, but when the Big B is involved, my ideal spot to be would be snug as a bug in a rope rug suspended up somewhere.

And all the subs and doms merely players.

The interesting thing about the Big B is that I don’t get off on it. It’s just a warm up, a glass of wine, a lead in to something more substantial and sometimes all I need is a quick five mins or so to get my engine revving for what is to come. I can get bored of it very quickly if that’s all there is, but it’s always a necessary ingredient for my souffle de bdsm.

If I thought about bondage in dramatic terms, it would be a costume change. It’s something that separates the ‘kathy’ from the ‘kitten’ and once I’ve ‘shed my mortal coils’ and slipped into the headspace of resident slut and slave, I can start to enjoy.

Bondage is also something that gives me a focus. While I’m restrained I can zone in on the fact that I am restrained. I can enjoy testing the ropes and feeling the unyielding bonds. Anytime I feel a ‘to do’ list or a worry forming in my mind, I can gently pull and focus on the bonds biting into my flesh. The coolness of the steel, the heaviness of the chains, the bite of the rope all give me focus and freedom from life.

In many ways, I’m an escapist….not in the Houdini sense…lol.. (even though I pride myself on generally being able to wiggle out of most bonds!) I have a firm rule of never reading non-fiction. I generally don’t watch documentaries. I’m not interested in true stories or autobiographies. I want to be able to lose myself in the fictional world. And that is somewhere that bondage transports me to. Like a memory that instantly takes you to another place I can be anyone and anything once I’ve gone through the ‘bondage door’.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time?

Not me.

Don’t you just hate it when….

….you’ve got lube squishing between your butt cheeks?

I hate that feeling.

The lube was a result of my last gonzo of the day. It was a two gonzo release day which can only mean one thing….a tradesman was coming! (For some reason I still always feel the need to have a release whenever anyone is expected to come to the house. That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?) We were supposed to have some IT dude come and look at our internet connection today. Due to its propensity to turn itself on and off with wild abandon, I’ve named our internet The Karate Kidnet….because it’s always ‘net on, net off’. I had a gonzo while I waited and then when the guy called at 2:30pm to say he wasn’t coming at all, I decided it was a good time for another gonzo.

The second gonzo for the day included some nice boobie bondage with the jute rope, the ball gag, a vibrating dildo up the bottie and gonzo manning the front hole. Gonzo doesn’t need any help getting anywhere, but my bottie appreciated some lube…thus the squishy buttcheek feeling now.

After tiding up the aftermath of my gonzo – drool, excess lube, pussy juices, implements –  I plugged in the modem again, just in case Mr Miyagi (aka the internet god) was feeling benevolent, and lo and behold, I had FOUR LIGHTS!!! I think I’m still in shock. How long it will last, no-one knows but it was a nice ending to my relaxing rostered day off.

So, a bit of an update about the long, long weekend just gone: Master was generally pissy with me for all of Monday and most of Tuesday. After not being able to glean much out of him about what I had done, I finally got an answer Tuesday night along the lines of he was upset because he had wanted to take me for a drive down south on Monday, but I didn’t want to go.

To be honest, I didn’t know he wanted to go that badly and I had assumed that he was offering to take me on the 6hr drive because I’m always bitching about the fact that we don’t go anywhere. When I suggested that we go for a drive somewhere closer because I had woken up late and we would be coming back in the dark in the return to the city rush, his response was, “whatever”…not the ‘I want to go south, let’s go!’ that would of made knowing what he wanted to do a lot easier.

I’ve decided that it’s tough having a Master who is nice. His plans are peppered with the niceties of,  ‘If you want to….’, ‘I thought it would be nice if we….’ and ‘What do you want to do?’  Being the slave, my ideas for plans are also peppered with the same trying-to-put-forward-an-idea-but-not-wanting-too-sound-pushy niceties so that our general conversations go something like this:

“So, did you want to go there?’
“Yeah, if that’s what you want to do?”
“Well, I don’t mind, so if you’re happy to that’s cool.”
“Whatever you want to do…”
“So, did you want to go there?”
“If that’s what you want to do….”

Our conversations go around and around and around like that until we end up not going anywhere or doing anything because we’re both worried about what the other person wants to do (of course, I’d probably also be complaining if he wasn’t nice. That’s the tough thing about being a Master, you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.)

Not only am I slave who hesitates to put forward ideas, but I’m also a divorcee who spent ten years with a man who loved travelling. I was forever being taken on mystery tours and trips to all corners of Japan and several times overseas where all I had to do exist and breathe. I was never asked where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do (I guess because he thought I didn’t know about many of the places -which was generally very true!) it was just a case of being whisked off somewhere new nearly every week. I realise now that I was exceptionally spoiled and as a result I’m still very passive in the planning process.

But to answer the question about whether I really wanted to go for the drive or not, I’ve have to say that I was secretly hoping that we would stay home and play. It has been forever and a day since we last really played and being pre-plague and all, I’ve been climbing the walls for some action. So much so that after lunch on Monday I went and had a bath, primped and preened and emerged naked with boots (just the way Master likes it) in an effort to entice him to play. He barely looked at me, grudgingly returned the playful kiss I planted on his lips and asked, ‘What do you want?’

I think something in me died at that moment.

‘Nothing…’

And just like that he turned back to the tv. I quickly exited the room and nearly burst into tears. Granted Master was already pissy at me by this stage (although I didn’t know it then) but I wasn’t expecting such a brush off. I took off the boots, got dressed and made myself busy. A few moments later he called me into the lounge room.

‘Bitch!!’
Looking at my now clothed and bootless figure he asked, ‘Where’s the fun in that?’

“The fun has gone,” I responded.

“What?”

‘Fuck you then.’
And that was Monday.

‘Fuck you.’

Tuesday I went to work, while Master had the day off. At 6:30pm when I called to say that I’d missed my bus after gym and could he come down to pick me up, he was still frosty, but came down to rescue me, missing one of his favourite programmes on tv in the process. In the car I asked him what I’d done wrong to make him pissy and it was then that the issue of the drive came up. So I apologized a few times and he seemed to be okay then. That night we bantered in his bed and things were generally back to normal.

And what have I learned from all this?

D/s doesn’t just stand for Dominance/submission…is also stands for Damn this Shit is hard.