Who’s the slave?

I’ve been having a bit of a think of late. A think about many things, but mostly about my ego and my general inability to put the One who should go before all else, where he should be:

First and foremost.

He is a prominent part of my life, but I usually have to look behind me to see him. Because I’m there, out front. Me and my wants and wishes and needs are right out there in the lead. Sure I’ll happily do the little things that don’t interfere with my priorities – being me, myself and I – like serve his food before I get mine, play his fetch and carry bitch and make sure his bed is made before he comes home on Wednesday and Friday nights. But there are so many things that I struggle to…really struggle to…do without resentment because they involve me putting him first.

I have always wished and prayed that someday I would come to a peace. A quiet place where I’d shut the fuck up and be a complement rather than an equal in his life. But I’ve realised that that will never happen, simply because of how our whole relationship started.

I began down this path because I wanted something. I wanted something so much that I became blind to everything else. Nothing else mattered: marriage vows, countries, lives and futures were all pushed aside because I wanted something. I wanted it; so I went out and got it.

The whole premise of me becoming a slave was based on my wants and needs. I was the priority. I needed a very specific type of relationship and what I wanted was very firmly set in my mind. I believe this is so for anyone involved in consensual slavery. Unless you’re whisked off in the middle of the night on the back of camel and held against your will, you’re a slave because you want something – you want your itch scratched, your leash held, your needs met. When that ain’t happening, that’s when the slaves revolt.

I’ve done a lot of compromising in my time as a slave. I’ve done a lot of things I never wanted to or dreamed I would ever do. I’ve re-adjusted things upstairs, realised that fantasies are not real life and come to an understanding of myself as a needy, wanton slut. On the flip-side, I’ve also discovered that the longer I’m a slave, the more it becomes about me. I used to be a ‘whatever my Master wants is what I want’ slightly disillusioned slave, but now I’m a person with very clear ideas about what I do and don’t like and I’m not afraid to let him know about it.

I used to think that made me a bad slave. But now I think that just makes me, me.

Dying a thousand deaths

You might have noticed that as of late I’ve gone quiet.

For once in my life, I’ve got nothing to say.

I was wondering whether this was a good thing or not. On one hand, it could mean that I’m happy because I have nothing to vent about (and my blog is, afterall, my tool for venting) but on the other hand, it could just mean that my brain is so dead that it can’t form words.

At the moment, I’m favouring the latter explanation, because…well…venting is my thing – even if I’m happy and really don’t have anything to vent about, I’ll still mange to vent!

So, while my brain continues to die slowly but surely, I’ll share some more pics with you.

Don’t they say that a picture is worth a thousand words??

The nasty Mr Strap

Legs are down....

Legs are up!

The aftermath

Just because he's into humiliation too

The orgy

Our Saturday night was an orgy of tandem bottie spanking, boobie milking, pony-on-pony, girl-riding-girl-spanking-boy, crotch-in-face, bum-licking, cupping…and that was all before midnight!

My outfit for the evening:

Gorean slave outfit

Where I spent a great deal of my evening:

On the cross -again...

Something new I can now cross off my list:


Unfortunately, due to a corrupt memory card in the camera, all the juicy pics have disappeared. From the shock of losing such eye-candy pics, Master took to his bed today and spent most of it snoozing. His pics are like his children, so I’m sure he’ll be recovering for most of the week.

Master also ended up breaking his favourite paddle from an extended bottie attention session so we’ll have to see about replacing it.

The house was fantastically decorated with cobwebs and spiders and scary cats. There were even little snakes crawling all over the nibbles table. For a country that has no tradition of Halloween, some of us are really embracing it. Master spent most of Friday evening telling the die-hard neighbourhood kids who were out trick or treating that we didn’t have anything for them. That’s how a lot of people celebrate Halloween here, so I was impressed that they had gone to the extent that they did.

Cupping was something I’ve seen done numerous times and wanted to try and I was uber pleased to get the chance. It was, in a word, uncomfortable! Lol. I couldn’t stop cringing everytime I felt the overly warm cup coming near my skin and it felt a bit like large portions of my back were stuck in clamps. It’s like a massage!, they all said. Personally I prefer my massages to be more massage-like than cup sucking-like.

Anyways, I have a tender botty and enjoyed myself so it was a great night.