Castles in the air

So, how many of you started on your journey by reading Castlerealm? That glorious spot in cyberspace that taught all and sundry about ‘Proper Submission’ and ‘Aftercare 101’. Go on, don’t be shy or embarassed. Put your hands up!

*puts own hand up*

I think that’s why everything got fucked up.

Way back when Castlerealm seemed to present M/s as everything I wanted and was looking for, I’d read the tales from the ‘promised land’ there and my heart would start beating faster and sometimes I could barely breathe for the excitement.  I made me want to go and throw myself at the feet of the next man, any man, who came along. Strangely enough it also made me start wanting to write bad poetry….

I can think back now and realise Castlerealm presented a picture of cookie-cutter bdsm in which everything in a perfect vanilla relationship was simply given a bdsm twist: marriage ceremonies became collaring ceremonies, foreplay became warm-ups, cooking and cleaning became service, a wife controlling the purse strings became topping from the bottom. Perhaps that’s why it resonated with me so much; It wasn’t scary and filled with stories of trials and tribulations, instead it presented things that I was familiar with, but jazzed up with collars of ‘consideration’ and slave postures.

I’m not saying it was bad or anything, and I know that it ended up being a tribute to Lord Colm’s slave jade who passed away, I just think that taken out of context those unattainable ideals can be very dangerous. And considering that Castlerealm was where most people started out, it created hordes of doms looking for boneless slaves willing to bend over 180 degrees for them and subs looking for kind, but cruel doms who could beat them while also changing a nappy at the same time.

I googled Castlerealm (mostly because I wanted a good laugh…did I hear someone call for a cynic?) and found that it has disappeared from cyber space. Apparently it disappeared with barely a ripple and no-one knows why.  So I instead found several sites for the ‘new submissive’ that provided me with equal amounts of entertainment:

Kyla’s Guidelines for New Subs– among other ‘important’ information it provides detailed diagrams of where one should ‘sit’ in a chatroom depending on ones orientation.

New Submissive’s Tips on Behaviour – details how subs should act feminine and demure in order to find ‘The One”.

How to Pick Your Dominant – defines a Master as, “He is the type who would test new toys on himself first to make sure he does not harm his submissive or slave.”……yeah right.

And finally New Submissives which summarizes the ‘important’ info that was on Castlerealm and explains becoming a submissive in six easy steps! If only I had followed the steps then I wouldn’t have had all the angst all these years! What the fuck was I thinking??

I think I’d hate to be a newbie again. I found the whole ‘learning experience’ akin to going through puberty for the second time – full of unexplainable mood swings, embarrassingly tacky outpourings of emotions and a tendency to be walked all over by anyone who chanced by. I realise it’s all part and parcel of the process, but does it really have to be that painful?

Oh that’s right…silly me…I was the one that signed up for it.

The Phantom Master

Ever read a blog and wondered what the person was really like? I do, all the time. I think about all sorts of banal things like what sort of toothpaste they use and whether they munch on dried squid while blogging…like I do…whoops…just outed myself there. 

While reading people’s words I like to see the little glimmers of reality that remind me that we’re all just human and struggling to make it through this trial by fire called ‘life’. It’s comforting to know that behind the veneer of ‘we’re-uber-kinky-and-coolness-incarnate’, there are people who fart in elevators, take buses in completely wrong directions and are hopeful Darwin Award recipients… *raises hand to all three*

In blogland though there is a definite inequality in the number of domly blogs to subbly blogs. I would estimate the ratio of subbly blogs to domly blogs at being somewhere in the ratio of 100,000:1. Perhaps this just reflects the fact that subbly ones tend to be drama queens who like to share their gripes with world, while domly ones tend to secretly hide in shadows and formulate evil plans.

When I do read the select few domly blogs that are out there, I imagine what their real name is. Generally I think of cool names like Barnabus, Richard and Sir Stephen (pronounced Stef-an not Steevan!) because that’s what domly ones in my head should be named. I imagine they walk around in crisp suits during the day and transform into black-clad vampire-type characters at night.

Experience has told me that the reality is quite different. Domly ones in real life tend to be named Mark, Terry & John. They tend to wear jeans and will fart in bed and then hold the covers over your head as you try not to breathe. In some strange coincidence both my former owner and Master have the same name (perhaps god decided that remembering two different names was just too much for me or something) and funnily enough it doesn’t sound a bit like what I imagined my Master to be called. But then again, I supposed he imagined his slave would be called Crysalis, Bethany or something equally as divine instead of the crusty name I have.

Maybe that’s why he just calls me slut or bitch instead.

Master hasn’t made an official appearance in this blog – no photos etc.- which has lead to the rumour that he may be a “Phantom Master” or perhaps simply a Blow Up Bobby in disguise 🙂 The simple reason for this is that he is generally the one taking the photos of me. After all, have you ever tried to take a picture while whipping someone at the same time? I did take a photo of him at the play party last weekend wearing my bunny ears which was sooooo cute it just made me want to spread him on toast and eat him up, but I believe that posting that pic would forever exclude him from the ‘bad-ass dom’ list so I won’t do that.

Fortunately he has his own blog to still the rumours, but he still does remain a bit elusive. Perhaps that adds to the air of mystery around him though….or is that ‘air of mystery’ just a cloud of methane gas escaping from the bedsheets?

What a slut needs

Between September 22 and Feb 17 I had precisely 25 orgasms. 13 of them were brought about by the Amazing Gonzo and 12 of them were reached ‘au naturel’ i.e. no vibrating devices involved.
 
And why do I know this? Because there is a chart on the fridge that I have to fill in every time I have a release. I fill in the date, the method (‘N’ normal or ‘G’ gonzo) and I get to look at it every single time I go to the fridge for something. It’s there for all and sundry to see, just staring me in the face.

The release chart looks like this-you’ll notice the writing is a bit messy as it’s usually filled in post-release 🙂 :

p1110196
That said, the system we have now is a lot better than the ‘if-you-want-one-come-and-ask-for-it’ system that he used to employ. I’d wake up at 3am, unable to get to sleep, and I’d hover around Master’s bedroom door trying to decide whether I should wake him or not. More often than not I’d be too guilty to wake him and so I’d go back to my bedroom thinking about nuclear proliferation treaties or something equally as off-putting just to get my mind off my nether regions.
 
Mostly I use my rations in lots of two so I have a “G” followed by an “N”. While I enjoy toe-curling, grunting “G”s, I never feel as ‘released’ as I do when I have an “N”. I guess the muscles used are different – as I’m doing all the work with an “N” – and I find an “N” is much more internal, so it really is the cream on my cream pie.
 
The other day I discovered that the Amazing Gonzo doesn’t even need to be inserted in order to be useful. What a discovery that was!  Seeing that his ‘nose’ seems to fit perfectly where it needs to go without disturbing the surrounding metallic minefield, it will make things a whole lot smoother -and quieter!- down there in future. It may also help alleviate my barbells coming loose – as I’ve noticed they generally come loose after a good gonzo or two. Unfortunately, I discovered all this on my very last available release on Feb 17th and haven’t been able to go back to investigate the delights of ‘gonzo-sans-insertion’ some more.

The Amazing Gonzo:

p1110197

Does it bother me that I have rations of releases? Yes and no. I have never been a type of person who needed to cum three times a day, every day, but I do find it a bit stressful when I feel like one and I’ve got no ‘lollies’ left in my lolly jar. Times like now….
 
Master says I need a lot more ‘begging and pleading’ in order to refill my lolly jar. I thought that simply pointing out I’m a slut with needs would be sufficient, but apparently not. Considering he is going away for 5 days from tomorrow, things are looking dire. I’m planning to fill his last night with nakedness, boots, back-scratching and grovelling….in that order -’cause that’s what the man likes!
 
A slut’s gotta do what a slut’s gotta do.

It’s hot

I’m sitting here facing the window (’cause our puters are in front of the window) and every time the wind blows it feels like I’m sitting in front of a hairdryer….Normally I’m totally fine with heat, in fact, the hotter the better, but for some reason this year there have been some times where I just can’t take it. I feel claustrophobic and almost like I can’t get enough air. Hot flushes perhaps? Am I menopausal or just getting old? Lol.

So I managed to drag Master to the beach for the….ummm…3rd time? this summer and we had a nice cool dip in a totally flat ocean. I was floating on my back and just chilling. It was great.

After getting back from the beach we spent a couple of hours practising some shibari. I find the tutorials on Japan Rope to be quite useful. I bought some rope from them several years ago- about 30m of fire truck red hemp. Unfortunately the rope hardly ever got used by the ‘one who shall remain nameless’ and now they don’t appear to be selling rope anymore.  The Twisted Monkalways seems to be doing a roaring trade these days though if you’re after some purdy-coloured rope.

So while I’m off removing hair for this evening’s play party, I thought you’d enjoy a meme I pinched from Coyote’s Kitten.

1. Who eats more?

Me, sometimes. Master,sometimes. If we go to an all-you-can-eat place, definitely me 🙂

2. Who said “I love you” first?

Master did. I haven’t actually said it to him yet.

3. Who is the morning person?

Master naturally wakes up earlier than me. I loathe mornings.

4. Who sings better?

Me.

5. Who’s older?

Master is by 19 years.

6. Who’s smarter?

Master.

7. Whose temper is worse?

Master’s. But he controls it very well. He has a *very* loud voice.

8. Who does the laundry?

We both do. He always washes his own work clothes. I do his sheets, towels and my stuff.

9. Who does the dishes?

I do. Well, the dishwasher does 🙂

10. Who sleeps on the right side of the bed?

Master sleeps in the middle of his queen-sized bed. I sleep in the middle of my double bed.

11. Whose feet are bigger?

Master’s.

12. Whose hair is longer?

Mine.

13. Who’s better with the computer?

Master has an imac…need I say more?

14. Do you have pets?

Yes. One white poodle, several ant farms (in summer), regular spider infestations and the occasional cockroach.

15. Who pays the bills?

Master does. I file away the receipts.

16. Who cooks dinner?

Master. Unless it’s Japanese and then I do.

17. Who drives when you are together?

Master does. I don’t drive.

18. Who pays when you go out to dinner?

Master does generally.

19. Who’s the most stubborn?

Master? Me? This is  tough one. I *think* I’m stubborn, but I’m always bound to lose with him.

20. Who is the first one to admit when they are wrong?

I never admit it and Master is *never* wrong  😉

21. Whose family do you see more?

Master has never met my family. We see his family a couple of times a year.

22. Who named your pet?

Master did.  The poodle’s name is Jacque.

23. Who kissed who first?

I hate kissing. He loves it. Go figure.

24. Who asked who out?

Ummm…..I met him in person for the first time at Perth Airport – the day I became his slave.

25. Who’s more sensitive?

Master. He always cries in Gone with the Wind…. *smirks* But then again, I always cry in Driving Miss Daisy and Sex in the City and the list goes on….

26. Who’s taller?

Master is. He’s 5ft9.5 (I’ve been corrected!Lol) and I’m 5ft5.

27. Who has more friends?

Master does. I have like 2 friends.

28. Who has more siblings?

Master does. He has an older sister and a younger brother. I have an older sister.

“We can’t do this 24 hours a day, seven days a week.”

Were perhaps the truest words ever spoken by James Spader but the first time I saw Secretary, I loved Lee’s response:

“Why not?”

I loved that she was so full of hope and conviction. There she was about to embark on the journey of a lifetime and ready and willing to do anything. There once was a time when I was exactly like her.

Now, I’d have to say that she was deluding herself thinking that it was ever possible to do it all the time. The reality is that you can live together and share your lives 24/7, but you can’t live and breathe the dynamic. You might accept that you have certain roles within your relationship and have labels like dom and sub, but that’s not what you are all the time. For starters: life gets in the way. For seconds: you can’t maintain the intensity. And for dessert: if you can’t suspend disbelief, then you start thinking it’s all a bunch of hooey.

I can’t speak for domly folk, but being submissive is like being fed a drug. Once you get a taste for it, you need more and more. The feelings, the fantasy, the sex, the intensity….it’s all sooooo good. But if you’re fed the drug all the time, you build up a tolerance for it and consequently need more and more. If you don’t get enough, you go through withdrawal. I’ve been on the wagon for quite a while now so I know the inherant dangers.

Once you’ve conquered the addiction and come to a quiet state of self-acceptance one would think all would be good. And if I was all fine with the changes in myself and my new level of awareness then I’d stop talking about it.

But I haven’t.

I keep dragging up the topic and dissecting and analysing and endlessly finding new ways of saying that my feelings have changed and why the hell has it happened.

I guess I’m sad that I’ve lost the wide-eyed, ‘this-is-all-wonderful-and-new’ newbieness. I’d like to *want* to serve again and be happy simply doing so. I’d like to recapture the wonderful feeling of blind obedience – to be able to do what was asked without pause and with joy. Life was simpler then and there really wasn’t a sense of ‘submission’ because I had nothing going on inside my head that I needed to overcome. It was all, “Yes, sir”, “No, sir”, “Would you like your boots licked with that, sir?” Happy and eager to please was my middle name.

Now I feel like I really am ‘submitting’. Every little thing I do starts with an internal struggle – just a hard slog through the battlefield with a possible action at the end. There’s no joy in it at all. In a sense though, it has become more about him and less about me. Because if it were simply about me, nothing would get done at all! Lol.

I miss being happy and eager to please 24/7, but I have no idea how to recapture those feelings…any ideas?

Self-acceptance

I’ve noticed that a great many submissive folk enter into the lifestyle ‘looking for something’, something elusive that their ‘normal’ relationships didn’t give them. In fact, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard people say, ‘I felt incomplete but now with my Master, I’m whole’ or something to that effect.  But what exactly have these people found, and what had they really ‘lost’ to begin with?

I have to confess to saying the same thing myself in the early days when I was just sprouting my wings and before I became the angsty blog-writer I am today. I made lots of noises about ‘yearning for a deeper connection’ and wanting to feel ‘completion through service’ etc. I think in retrospect, that I was disatisfied with me, that I didn’t match up with my expectations of myself in some way and therefore I was looking for something or someone on the outside to ‘fill’ the gap within.

But what was is that I was lacking? Confidence? A sense of value or worth? Acceptance of myself for who I was?

Way back in the good ol’ days, I struggled with accepting the ‘kinky’ side of me. I felt like a freak because I liked things that other people shunned – being tied up, strangled, pissed on, treated like an animal etc. Even though these were things I wanted to explore and experience, I had trouble accepting the part of me that liked and wanted all that dirty stuff. Reading back through my old entries I kept talking about the embarassment of nudity, the shame of wanting sex, of not being able to ask for bondage or beatings. I was still ashamed of what I needed and was seeking some sort of absolution that would allow me to enjoy what I wanted guilt-free. Finding someone who was at least as ‘dirty’ as me and possibly even dirtier still allowed me come to terms with what I wanted to do and enjoyed.

Over the years my embarassment factor at liking the dirty stuff has dramatically decreased. I’ve become blase about many things from discussing my frequency and style of masturbation to public nudity. It’s not simply that I don’t care who sees me or knows what I do, it’s that I’ve become comfortable within myself about myself. I don’t need someone else to make it ‘okay’ for me anymore. I’ve come to an inner peace that accepts what I do.

So where does this leave me now? Do I need a Master?

The simple answer is not in ways that I used to. My Master used to be the person who gave me ‘permission’ to be the person I am. That permission gave me a sense of completeness and a feeling of fulfilment (because they were someone who understood and didn’t judge, they didn’t think I was sick or bizarre) – it filled the gap.  For that acceptance I was willing to do anything and I was happy to do it – in fact I wanted to do more and more extreme things to keep earning that acceptance. At my very low self-acceptance points the service itself was enough to give me a sense of completion.

Being now in a state where I accept myself to a much higher level, I don’t need the permission or the service. In fact, I often resent doing it because I ‘don’t need to’ i.e. it serves no purpose for me anymore. But having said that I still need a certain level of reassurance. I still need the words that linger in my mind long after the voice has gone:

“I know you’re a slut. I know you need to be treated like an animal. That’s all you’re fit for because that’s what you are.”

He doesn’t give me permission to be who I am, he gives me the environment to be that someone.

What a day…

After feeling that my pussy was ‘not quite right’ all the way to work, I finally arrived at the office, went to the toilet and there in my underwear was my barbell and ball that should of been in my right labia.

My first reaction was, ‘Oh, fuck!’

My second reaction was, ‘Oh, fuck, fuck fuck!’

I stripped off, put down the toilet seat and sat down while I attempted to push it back in. I pushed and it hurt like a mother fucker and it just wasn’t going anywhere. This was looking like an emergency trip to the piercer’s after work…in seven hours. I had a bad feeling about it. It’s been fifteen years since my ears were pierced and they still manage to close over if I leave out my earrings for a little while.

Seven hours of mortification at having to bare my pussy without any ‘preparation’ whatsoever later, I walked into the  piercer’s to be assailed with blood-curdling screams,

I’ve been there and done that,” I said to the girl. She laughed and led me into a cubicle next to the screaming woman.

I hopped up on the bench and my worst fears were to be realised: the piercing site had closed over sufficiently that the barbell just wouldn’t go in without a fight. She asked me what gauge my piercing was, pulled out the necessary needle and pushed it through.

‘AHHHHHHHRRRARARGGGGGGG!!!! FAAAAAARRRRKKKKKK!!!!!’…

This time the screams were mine.

Five minutes later I hobbled out to the car where Master was waiting and I burst into tears. It was just throbbing and throbbing, and I blubbered and moaned all the way home. Master saw me blubbering and gave me his white handkerchief from his pocket:

 “Your body is just so funky, isn’t it? I think I might donate you to science.”

Normally I would of said something as equally as amusing to Master, but all I could manage through my gritted teeth was:

“See? See what I do for you!”

In fact, it’s still throbbing….I need a stiff drink….or several…

With a day like that, the universe is going to have to give me some balance by presenting me with Anthony Warlow tonight in the Phantom of the Opera. Come on universe, I’m counting on you!

B is for bondage

So after my little rant yesterday about a lack of bondage in my life, I was surprised to see that other people suffer too. It appears that there are can’t-be-bothered doms everywhere! What a revelation! Doms for whom the mental bondage of their sub/slave is more than sufficient for their evil plans. Who needs to mess around with ropes when you can tell the bitch to ‘Stay!’ and she will?!? It’s a sad and sorry state of affairs….

90% of the reason I got into bdsm was bondage (the other 10% is my need to be used and abused as the toyslut with holes that I am…) I spent many, many years tying myself up and imagining that someone else was actually doing it. I’d play out the little kidnap fantasies whenever I managed to get some time alone and that was how I dealt with the burning need to be rendered immobile and helpless that I constantly felt.

BDSM – that lovely acronym that we all love. Bondage is an integral part of it.After all, it’s not DSMB…it’s *B*DSM. B is for bondage! Bondage comes first! I am where I am today because….well…I desperately needed someone to tie me up. It’s that simple.

Of course, I can tie myself up in exactly the ways I like, very efficiently and with a well-practised hand. But, I always have to tie myself up in a way that I can still get out. It’s not ‘real’. I *know* I can get out. I *know* I’m not helpless. When I tie myself up I’m very much still in control and I don’t want to be.

Bondage also carries another important meaning. Along with cages, chains, collars and anything else used to keep your slave near, it is an expression of an owner’s wish to keep the slave. It’s not for fear that the slave will run away, it’s an expression of how precious and dear the slave is to you. You lock up your house, your car, even put a chain on your pushbike. Why? Because they are yours and they have value to you. So too, your slave. The more important and valuable the thing, the more time and energy you spend securing it. If you can’t be bothered securing your slave, does that mean she’s worthless?

I have a chain on my bed that I am supposed to attach to my collar before I go to sleep. I think he assumed that it would be a ‘nice little bit of bed bondage’ for me, but I hate it. I absolutely loathe it. Every time I snap it on, it’s like a mockery of my feelings of worth. There is absolutely no point in me chaining myself with a latch that slips off as easily as it slips on. To say nothing of the meaninglessness of *me* doing it. I think he originally intended it to be something for me to enjoy, like ‘ooh, I’m a slave sleeping in chains’ but it just makes me feel nothing but sad and lonely

What is actually going through Master’s head in regards to bondage is probably quite different to what’s going on inside mine. The bottom line is, he’s just not that interested in it. Why waste time on something that is ultimately just going to get in the way? If I tell her to stay, she’ll stay, so what’s the point?  I’m sure the thought of me equating bondage with my feelings of worth has never even crossed his mind.

But that’s how important bondage is to me and it saddens me to hear that ‘can’t-be-bothered’ doms seem to be around in epidemic proportions. Can BDSM still be BDSM without the bondage, or does it just end up being sex on tap without the need to ‘worry” about the bitch?

What’s wrong with this picture?

I spent my afternoon looking online for shibari tutorials and trying out different ‘outfits’ to wear to the play party this coming Saturday night. For some reason we have rope that is either too short or too long so I was attempting to try combinations of rope, but was having issues with joining on new pieces of rope (I’d like it to look neat if possible!) Every now and then I would go into Master -who was relaxing on the sofa watching tv- and ask him to pass the rope through a loop at the back of my neck because I couldn’t reach. While he was obliging me with some assistance, my curiousity got the better of me:

“Shouldn’t you be doing this?‘ I asked.

“What?”

“Tying me up.”

“I’ll leave it in your capable hands and when you’ve got it perfected, then you can tell me how to do it.”

I might be crazy for suggesting it, but I want to spend some time with ‘my man’ and some rope and have him ‘fiddle around’ with it. I want him to be interested in the idea of tying me up. I want him to leave me with pretty patterns on my skin. I want him to think, just for a moment, that possibly I might need something more than some boot wearing and threats of a beating. But that would be wanting to do something that is forbidden by the ‘book’ -the Book of Slave which, of course, every good slave should abide by.

Now, I’m sure you’re all familiar with the first commandment in the Book of Slave that says:

1. Thou shalt not ever try to change thy Master.

Apparently as a slave you have to change your likes, wishes and desires to suit what he wants. You’ll also most likely have to transform your body, move to a different state/country and make everything else in your life a second priority. All of this and you have to be happy with whatever your Master decides to bestow on you. A Master, on the other hand, just gets to do whatever the hell they want.

Which brings us to the second commandment in the Book of Slave:

2. Thou shalt not complain.

…..damn…..now I can’t say anything……

And skipping right along to the third commandment:

3. Suck it up bitch!

*makes mental note…must suck it up…must suck it up…*

I’ll just run along now, tie myself up and have a few releases to reduce my need to scream.

It’s all in your mind

You may remember me talking about the fact that every now and then when I’m in bondage I get woosy and get exceptionally close to passing out. First I feel the blood rushing out of my head, then I generally lose my hearing and finally, if I’m not released within about ten seconds, I pass out.

It’s not fun for me or the person who has tied me up. It also comes so randomly that I probably also ‘make’ myself that way by worrying about whether it’s going to happen again this time or not. Yes, it’s the old self-fulfilling-prophecy-fucks-me-over-again trick.

I’ve investigated several possible causes – vertigo, blood pressure issues, breathing problems, blood sugar etc. – but nothing really seems to explain why it happens or what  can do to prevent it. So I’m always on the look out for information…on geeky places like the Discovery Channel.

The other night they had a show on called, ‘The Human Body: Pushing the Limits -Sensation’. It was mostly to do with people who had survived incredibly extreme situations and the processes that went on inside their body to allow them to live. It also discussed the nervous system and how we feel and interpret pain and they mentioned several things that I thought were very interestink…

Firstly, ever wondered why it hurts so much to be caned on your hands or feet? This picture shows what our body would look like if  the size of our body parts was in direct proportion to the number of touch sensors within them:

body                                                                                                                                                             (The Discovery Channel)

Notice how big the hands and feet are? The hands have something like one hundred times the amount of receptors that the back of the legs do. Now we all know why we beat people on their botties and not other places (that and because it’s one of the few places you can’t see the bruises!)

The show then went on to discuss those lovely things called endorphins. Apparently, the body suppresses pain by releasing endorphins, which stop the synapses from transmitting pain sensations to the brain. In order for this to happen, the pain must be extreme enough that the brain decides that releasing pain would inhibit survival. By stopping pain the brain is giving the body a chance to get away from the danger and whatever is causing the pain. Once the danger is gone however, the brain stops the flow of endorphins, releasing the pain and telling the body that it has been injured and needs help.

This would explain why I can rip the bejesus out of my nipples with weighted clover clamps and not feel a thing during the act, but once I’m done I can barely breathe enough through the pain to remove them. What I’d just like to know is why I felt every second of my labia piercings. I think I was in so much pain I was glued to the damn bench. Did my brain not want to give me a chance to get out of there?

For those of you who forgot how I attractive I looked during the piercing process, here’s a reminder:

pd-015

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be all ‘floaty’. I’m so jealous when I read about people heading off to la-la land and enjoying the trip. I’d like to be able to do that so I can take more, but as it is, it’s such a study in endurance for me every stroke, every time.

They say that pain has a very large emotional component and that we all experience pain in very unique ways. So does that make me a wuss, or actually someone who just doesn’t recognise the pain as being ‘bad enough’ that I need to remove myself from the situation? Maybe I haven’t been pushed enough, or maybe somewhere deep down there’s a part of me that has never really let go, that retains control and knows that I could get me the hell out of there if I really wanted.

Slaves don’t have choices, but I choose to be one.

Maybe that’s the problem.

I can haz markz?

Dis kitteh haz been bad.

I could go into a long-winded post about what I did wrong and why I did it….but that would just be digging a deeper hole for myself. Suffice to say I went out to dinner without permission and I failed to remove clothing when the big M asked for nakedness.

For punishment I was strung up with his handy little over-the-door ‘instant St Andrew’s’ and the cane was applied liberally to both cheeks. Once I’d done a suitable amount of the ‘cane jig’ , a suitable amount of crying and was suitably contrite, the then horny Masterly one decided that a ravishing was in order.

He says he never enjoys punishing me, but the wet spot on the bed said otherwise (to be fair, I did query him about it and he said that he doesn’t find punishing me erotic, but he does find me erotic…awwwww)

Master’s handywork:
Post punishment
 
I’ve come to the conclusion that sometimes is it just better to take the punishment. Often there’s no point in trying to explain or trying to make excuses, I just have to find the spirit of zen within and accept what cannot be changed. I used to get very stressed when he didn’t see it ‘my way’ (i.e that perhaps removing all my clothing at 3pm on a congested road as we go through town is not the best thing to do.) But I’ve since learned that all the little whims and fantasies of the Masterly one don’t need to rely on lawfulness or commonsense, they just need to be done. And if they are not going to be done, then a punishment will be forthcoming.

I think this is the thing I struggle with the most: the times when I know I’m doing what is best for me, but I still get punished for it. I know that if I get arrested, my defense of,  ‘But he told me to do it!’ is not going to help me. But as an obedient slave, I’m not supposed to think about the ifs and the buts, I’m just supposed to do the dos.

The going out to dinner thing without permission was totally my fault. What I was supposed to do was get permission from Master first. I could of called and checked instead of believing that no response to the email I sent to Master was a blanket approval. Instead I went and therefore I’ll totally admit that it deserved punishment.

What I have a slight issue with is punishment for not taking off clothes when requested. In the scheme of things, taking off your clothes is not a biggie, but the principal of whether mindless obedience is acceptable in all cases doesn’t change. Do I not have the right to refuse to do things if it is in my own interest not to do so?

Damn, I started out saying I wasn’t going to defend myself, that I was going to go with the zen flow and now my post looks like an angsty fetlife thread….

(Actually, to be twuly fetlife-ish, I’d need to insert SSC and RACK into every second sentence….)

When subtle met slavery

I have to be honest; there are times when I think that being a slave is the most important thing in my life….and then there are times when I think that it is a whole load of crap.
 
On the days when I think that slavery is god’s gift to subby kind, I crave more boundaries and rules, more rituals and more tangible marks of my slavery. I want to be de-based, de-humanised and basically de-‘me’ed. All of these concepts beginning with ‘de’ are fuelled by my wish to take ‘me’ out of the equation and by a longing for a ‘simpler life’. These are the days when I don’t want to think, I don’t want make choices and I don’t want to deal with anything outside of my ‘existing as property bubble’.
 
But give me a few days and I’ll swing back to the other side of the spectrum, firmly embracing the concept of ‘me’ and all that slavery mumbo jumbo will just seem so stupid. I’ll think having to ask for things is stupid. I’ll have my mind made firmly up that waiting on him hand and foot is just him being lazy. And more importantly, I’ll just want to know why I have to do anything. After all, he’s not my father!
 
It’s generally at these times that I’ll start feeling somewhat like a teenager. The unique mind set held by those poor creatures going through the angsty, rebellious years suddenly becomes my mind set: I’m an adult, I’ve got a job, commitments and responsibilities. How the fuck can he tell me what I can and cannot do?
 
And that’s when the hecklers in the cheap seats at the back of my brain stand up to give me the bad (?) news…
 
“Because you’re a slave, you dumb fuck!”
 
I forget that… a lot.
 
This is generally when the ‘I’m simply happy serving my Master’s needs’ slaves start making noises about the blasphemy I’m committing by suggesting that (a) I can possibly forget I’m a slave (b) I am not grateful I’m a slave and (c) I don’t walk around in rapturous bliss because I’m lucky enough to serve my Master.
 
Please.
 
I’m of the firm opinion that anyone who is 100% happy ‘simply serving their Master’s needs’ is either deluding themselves or has recently had a labotomy.
 
Having said that though, I would have to say that I am 100% happy when I’m surrounded by the slavery bubble. I’m more than happy to push my needs to the side, scurrying around his legs for a chance to do something, anything as his slave. What I can’t say is that I’m in that bubble 100% of the time and having the bubble magically coalesce around me is akin to having the perfect orgasm – much famed, hugely sort after, but generally faked.
 
While I wouldn’t say that my slavery is so forced and theatrical that it could be titled “When subtle met slavery”, there is definitely a lot of conscious effort to ‘get myself there’. When the bubble is there, it’s natural and effortless. But when it’s not, there’s a lot of foot stamping, under-the-breath moaning and general dissention in the slave ranks.
 
Master is very patient with me….mostly due to the fact that he knows I’m just dancing around at the end of my leash. He knows I can’t break the leash; he knows he isn’t going to drop it. Instead my pack Master just waits for me to tire myself out, all the while staying calm and assertive.
 
Cesar eat your heart out.

Babelfish BDSM

When the day came to explain to my then Japanese husband that I was interested in things of a kinky nature, I have to admit I was stumped at what to say.

I started out by telling him that I was interested in S&M and while I knew that the label S&M had leaped the language divide and had become a part of the Japanese language, everything in the media I’d seen about it referred to women in boots holding whips and tormenting drunk business men. I had no idea how to explain the finer points and that I was someone who preferred to be on the receiving end of the whip.

I remember looking on line for something that would help explain it to him. I came across the Japanese version of alt.com which had a brief explanation of subs and doms and some of the fetishes, but it didn’t explain the psychology, the significance or anything that would have made him think that I was anything but a nut job. I can understand how his confusion made him think that his partner of ten years was nothing but a sicko who was ‘dead’ to him.

Since then I haven’t really had a hunt on the net for anything in Japanese about bdsm, but on the weekend in a quest for new blogs to add to my blogslog, I came across a few Japanese slave blogs. The oldest of the blogs has been going for two years, so it wouldn’t have helped me explain things to my ex in 2005, but it’s great to be able to look now at the ‘slave soul’ through a slightly different cultural perspective.

I think the general view from outside Japan of the Japanese is that they are sexual perverts. Anyone who has seen some ‘naughty’ anime, watched late night Japanese tv, or has an interest in shibari, would think that they are sexually creative. The sad fact is that as a country they have the least amount of sex and the highest percentage of ‘sexless marriages’ anywhere in the world (perhaps that’s why the fantasy element is so strong…) This sad state is mostly due to ridiculous working hours and a lack of privacy (paper walls and a tradition of kids sleeping between married couples doesn’t exactly lead to a raunchy sex life.)

Amongst all of that though, there appear to be some M/s couples living the life – all with a slight cultural twist. Scanning through some of the blogs, peeing into buckets and piercings seem to be main items on the agenda for slaves.

Interest in pee has always been big in Japan. After shoving cameras under the skirts of girls coming down escalators, hiding cameras in public toilets to get footage of peeing in action is number two on the ‘list of things everyone is doing’. A lot of toilets in Japan are squat-style so I guess it’s a good opportunity to see everything in action.

Piercings also seem to be a hot item on the agenda and I think that is because of the stigma attached to tattoos (i.e. they are only used in the realm of organized crime. If you have a tattoo, you’ll be banned from any public baths and water parks and you’ll never get a job with anyone but the yakuza.)  So I guess, if you can’t tattoo your bitch as your property, thread a few dozen rings through her instead.

One of the blogs showed a delightful pic of a girl who was complaining about eating her rice and nattou (fermented soya beans) out of a bowl on the floor because it was sticking to her nose ring.

I wonder if we’ll get to a see a new version of Hello Kitty anytime soon – bow on the head and nose ring through the nose. Hello Kitty doesn’t have a mouth though, so no problems with the eating I guess….

Boots are his kryptonite

The last couple of mornings I’ve woken up to a crispness in the air that tells me that autumn is edging nearer. I find the first tell-tale hints of the cold weather to come to be incredibly sad and depressing, but Master’s eyes begin to sparkle. Why? Because the first thing that crosses Master’s mind at this time of year is, of course, that it’s the beginning of boot season.

Nothing excites him more than the chance to see boots coming at him from left, right and centre on our autumnal weekend supermarket trips and he’ll gleefully point out anything that stirs his fancy from two hundred paces away with a booming announcement of, ‘Sweetie, look! A boot slut!’

I never thought I’d be owned by a man with a boot fetish. Shibari fetish, metal restraints fetish, even a dreaded cane fetish were all things I had thought I might have to deal with, but boots? It never really crossed my mind at the beginning, but in an effort to mold me into his ‘ideal’ slave, over the last two years I’ve been educated in Master’s private ‘boot camp’.

The last time I counted I had something like 24 pairs of boots. Out of the 24 pairs, he classes approximately 17 pairs as ‘nice day boots’ because (a) the stiletto heel is not high enough (b) they don’t have pointed toes or (c) they don’t reach at least to the top of the knee. 

These are all my day boots lined up in a row (yes, I know I need a hobby…)

'Nice day boot' collection

Finding a pair of boots that is worthy of the title ‘slut boots’ is like searching for the ball off your barbell in shag pile, but if you somehow manage to fill his vision with a pair of 6 inch stiletto-heeled, thigh-high leather boots, his Masterly superpowers inevitably begin to wane and he turns into a kid in a candy store.

Lining the slut boots up took considerably more time than the day boots…

'Slut boot' collection

I managed to set a record at my last place of employment for 4 months of daily boot wearing. Everyday I turned up to work in a chosen pair of my ‘nice day boots’ and in doing so, earned the nickname, ‘boot girl’. It wasn’t until it starting getting unbearably hot that I asked for dispensation from the daily boot grind. Dispensation gets me out of wearing boots to work in the summer months, but nothing gets me out of wearing boots at home at any time. Inside-the-boot sweat is something that I place right up there with under-the-boob sweat in terms of discomfort.

Boots are an integral part of our play and ravishings always start with nakedness and boots. Whenever Master is feeling frisky, the call will come out of the still air:

‘Bitch! Nakedness and boots.’

And I know I’m to present myself usually in the black thigh-high leather boots (third from the left in the pic), suitably naked and on his bed where he can wrap his legs around the boots, pin me to the bed and thread his finger through the ‘o’ ring at my throat immobilizing my head ready for the interrogation:

‘Whose boot bitch are you?’

Yours Master, yours.

“Free” is not always free….

I have a tattoo on my right ass cheek that looks like this:

doreiIt says dorei in Japanese. I was very particular about it: the font, the spacing, the size and more importantly, I knew exactly what it meant.

I’ve seen some people with just the first character tattooed somewhere. While the first character may have an stem meaning of ‘slave’, do doesn’t really mean anything. In English we have stems that often come from latin – like the stem ‘ped’. We know that ‘ped’ has something to do with ‘foot’ because we have words like ‘pedal’ and ‘pedicure’, but ‘ped’ itself means nothing to us. Similarly, just writing do would be like writing ‘ped’ and wondering why people were confused.

Last night Master and I went to dinner with my Japanese boss and his wife. During all the pleasantries of discussing raw fish we also  had a funny conversation about people with funky Japanese tattoos. She said she’d seen a girl with: muryoumuryou tattooed on her arm.

We both had a really good laugh…although we could see where she’d gone wrong.

If you type ‘free’ into some online translation sites, one word it will give you would be the above characters which are read as muryou. But I’m assuming that the sort of ‘free’ that she actually wanted was: jiyuuwhich is read as jiyuu meaning ‘freedom’….not muryou as in ‘free of charge’.

It was incredibly funny…unless of course the girl was a skanky ho and ‘free of charge’ was exactly the message she wanted to project to the world.

My advice? Never, ever, ever get a tattoo if you don’t know exactly what it says and how it is drawn (correct brushstrokes) – even if you think it looks cool. Oh, and for god’s sake, make sure you know which way it goes (I’ve seen too many mirror-images and upside-side tattoos.) Otherwise, you’re likely to end up on the graveyard of bad tattoos.

*end of rant*

Gossamer threads

They say that slaves make bad friends and I would have to say that I am the worst of the worst. I don’t call people to have a talk, I don’t go out for coffee, I don’t invite anyone to come over or go shopping. You might get an email out of me once in a blue moon and maybe a birthday card, but anything more and you’re expecting too much out of this slave.

The whole thing about slaves being bad friends is that there’s always someone with a higher priority than the friend. If the owner says, ‘Get your ass home now!’ that’s what you’ve got to do -even though you might be in the midst of ‘friend’ stuff. A slave being asked if she wants a glass of wine, might result in a flurry of text messages to get permission. A shopping expedition might require a bathroom stop every ten minutes because she was told to wear her buttplug out. Being friends with a slave is a veritable minefield, and generally people don’t understand and either (a) think you’re a nutcase or (b) think you need to grow up and get a ‘real’ relationship.

On the side of the slave there also the worry that you can and will be expected to do something at any time. You always want to make yourself available ‘just in case’ and that means not wanting to make yourself ‘unavailable’.

‘Sorry! You called how many times? Five?? I couldn’t hear my phone over the music!!’

…is not something you want to say to your significant domly one.

I was not the most sociable of people pre-slave, but I have to say that compared to now, I was a socialization animal back then. Coffee and a social chit-chat, drinks and karaoke, an afternoon riding rollercoasters and screaming my lungs out, you name it, I was up for it. Now?  I don’t do what I want to do…at least without asking permission first.

It’s not that Master would say no. In fact, I don’t even think he would care what I chose to do (see previous comment about laidback approach.)It’s more that I don’t have the ability to do things on the spur of the moment and I don’t have the sense that I am my own person, therefore, I automatically turn down invitations and I tend not to make any of my own.

It’s not that I don’t want to socialize. Actually since this whole ‘restless’ thing started, I’ve realise just how isolated I am, and how I’d just like to have someone I could spend a quiet afternoon with shopping. But funnily enough, I have this little voice inside that says, “If you’re not out working, you should be at home!” I’m not exactly sure what that little voice is, or who it’s speaking for, but that is generally what I hear when I get an inkling to ‘roam’. I also feel guilty when I’ve been out enjoying myself alone because somewhere inside I think that that’s not what slaves ‘should’ be doing.

Master’s style of ownership is very laid-back and loose, but still, I somehow feel that there are invisible restrictions all over me. Like gossamer threads of a web, they bind me tight.

A work in progress

So after 3 1/2 years I finally made the move to WordPress.  I can’t exactly say for sure why I felt the need to move, just that I have a ‘restlessness’ at the moment which is making me think that I need to change a lot of things.

To put it bluntly, I’m stuck in a rut.

It may just be the equivalent of  ‘gogatsubyou’ (literally ‘May disease’ in Japanese) where everyone starts new jobs and new schools in April and then the reality of the new being, at best, the same and at worst, worse than the old hits home about a month later. So I entered 2009 with excitement(?) for the fresh beginning, but the reality of nothing really changing has hit home now.

I came to the conclusion a while ago that my slavery has very little to do with my overall happiness levels. My slavery complements things i.e when it gets out of whack it does colour everything else, but if everything else isn’t going well, having a ‘happy-happy-slave-life’ means fuck all. I’d say that my happiness levels are made of 30% my relationship above and beyond M/s with Master, 30% my job and 40% what I’m doing to enrich my life. This equates to 70% of my happiness being in my own little hands – as Master chooses to have minimal interference in my employment choices and past times. As I’ve always said, you are responsible for your own happiness, if you’re not happy, do something about it!

Since clearing up the job situation last month, it’s time to move on to enriching my life and basically, I just need something to do!! I’ve come to the conclusion that that is why people have kids – it fills in those years from puberty until death.

Looking on Facebook today, I was once again struck by the number of people I went to school with who have children as their lives – their profile pics are their children, their status updates are all ”Susie, my baby girl, is so cute!’ and they are all members of groups with names like ‘Diaper Dos and Don’ts’. I’ve made a conscious decision not to have children and as I get older, I notice I have nothing to talk to my friends about and I feel utterly and totally left out of the ‘happy familes’ rainbow that is sweeping my friends lists.

So to fill that void from puberty to death I need something…. A hobby? A social network? Twenty cats and a teddy bear named Rupert? Originally I thought that bdsm was going to fill that void, but I know it ain’t. It’s a way of living, not a life.

In short, I’m a bit lost. Too much time on my hands and no skills or interests to keep me occupied. So perhaps this new blog is something I can throw myself into, or maybe it’s merely a distraction from the big picture. We’ll see…

I’ve moved

Okay, it’s official, I’ve moved to wordpressYay!

The new blog is here https://subtletimes.wordpress.com

No new posts will be made here, but the blog will remain here ‘as is’ for archives (actually it’s just because I can’t be bothered to move all the entries over…lol.)

If you enjoy having your friends page (which I do and is one thing that I think WordPress needs!) , the next best thing is to subscribe to the RSS feed of the new blog. I discovered RSS feeds about 6mths ago…I know, I’m slow to adapt…and it has totally changed my morning blogslog. So in case there is anyone who still doesn’t know about RSS….

Skip this if you’re an old hand with RSS…

Public vs Private

It would have to be about a year and a half ago when I was first display naked in public. I remember turning up to the house where the party was to be held and even though I was totally dressed at that time, I was nervous as all hell. Except for two or three people I’d met before, it was a house full of people I was meeting for the first time and I wasn’t sure of the protocol – whether it was okay to talk to people, who was dom and who was sub – all in all it was totally and utterly nerve-wracking.

Within an hour of arriving I was stripped off and paraded around the house. My clothes were removed in the relative darkness of the ‘dungeon’ and I remember begging (and I don’t do that a lot!) not to be taken out into the rest of the house. I was close to tears when I realised that all my protesting was in vain and I was going to be dragged out there anyway.  I remember the glare of the fluorescent lights and thinking about my bumpy and wobbly bits and generally being mortified that all of me was ‘hanging out’ for everyone to see.

After an hour or so, once the initial shock had subsided, I didn’t become 100% comfortable with my nakedness in a room full of people, but it didn’t worry me as much as I thought it would. I suppose I was able to ‘let go’ to a certain extent and accept that I had no control over things and therefore had no responsibility either. Once I had decided in my mind that everyone knew it was not by choice, I relaxed a bit. By not voluntarily being naked I was stamping myself with a ‘I-know-I-don’t-have-the-body-to-be-parading-around-but-I-have-to-because-I’ve-got-no-choice’ seal and in my mind that made it bearable.

Since then I’ve been paraded, beaten, hogtied, worn butt plugs, cupped, worn pocket rockets, had a tens machine used on me and the list is growing. In fact, generally now I actually seek to get used in public because it adds another dimension to play – accountability. People expect us to go to parties and play to a certain level, and knowing that I’m on display triples my pain tolerance, which in turn feeds my endurance kink.

However, there are two things I’m not sure whether I want to do in public – be fucked by a person/device/machine and be played with to an ‘ugly’ state. 

I guess that my fear of being fucked in public is actually more a fear of  ‘getting off’ in public. My real sexual pleasure is a very, very private thing. I’ve faked orgasms plenty of times with my ex-partners, but they weren’t actually real, so ‘showing pleasure’ didn’t bother me. I remember the first time I had a release and came in front of Master – I was horrified, truly horrified. Even to this day, 100%  of the time I want to get my pleasure in private.

I’m not sure exactly why, but I think I have a feeling of immense guilt. I find it hilarious because I make it sound like I’m some good catholic girl who needs to say a thousand our fathers and hail marys after having impure thoughts. It’s not like that at all, but I guess I still like to have my pleasure held firmly close to my bosom on ‘my side’ of the wall.

The ‘ugly state’ thing is probably linked to public humiliation. By ‘ugly state’ I mean pools of drool, snot-running, mascara-dripping, sweat-patches ie. general unattractiveness. I’ve never been pushed to tears or screams or anything like that, and in fact, I’m not sure whether that sort of thing is acceptable in public, but it’s something that I find really hot and very scary at the same time.

The image of slavery I’ve always had in my head has been gracious and calm submission, not screaming-snot-flowing-abuse-hurtling submission. As a result, I’m always very stoic when I’m played with, sometimes laughing or giggling, but not swearing ‘FUUUUUCK!!’ or kicking and screaming (even though there are times I’d really love to!) Perhaps I’m trying to live up to the ideal I have in my head, or perhaps I’m not willing to give whoever is using me the ‘satisfaction’ of a reaction, but I just suck it all in and internalize it.

As I said, I’m really on the fence with these two things. The experience junkie in me wants to be able to cross them off the list, but the I-don’t-want-to-have-flashbacks! side of me, doesn’t want to go near them with a barge pole. In reality, I suppose I don’t have any control over whether they will happen or not being that I’m the slave and all, but as I always say to Master, just because I’m the slave doesn’t mean that I don’t have opinions.

I have the right to think whatever the hell I want about anything, but at the end of day, when he says, "Do it bitch" I might be screaming on the inside, but I’ve still got to do it. That’s what slavery is.

Public vs Private

It would have to be about a year and a half ago when I was first displayed naked in public. I remember turning up to the house where the party was to be held, and even though I was totally dressed at that time, I was nervous as all hell. Except for two or three people I’d met before, it was a house full of people I was meeting for the first time and I wasn’t exactly sure of the protocol – whether it was okay to talk to people, who was dom and who was sub – all in all it was an utterly and totally nerve-wracking experience.

Within an hour of arriving I was stripped off and paraded around the house. My clothes were removed in the relative darkness of the ‘dungeon’ and I remember begging (and I don’t do that a lot!) not to be taken out into the rest of the house. I was close to tears when I realised that all my protesting was in vain and I was going to be dragged out there anyway.  I remember the glare of the fluorescent lights and thinking about my bumpy and wobbly bits and generally being mortified that all of me was ‘hanging out’ for everyone to see.

After an hour or so, once the initial shock had subsided, I didn’t become 100% comfortable with my nakedness in a room full of people, but it didn’t worry me as much as I thought it would. I suppose I was able to ‘let go’ to a certain extent and accept that I had no control over things and therefore had no responsibility either. Once I had decided in my mind that everyone knew it was not by choice, I relaxed a bit. By not voluntarily being naked I was stamping myself with a ‘I-know-I-don’t-have-the-body-to-be-parading-around-but-I-have-to-because-I’ve-got-no-choice’ seal and in my mind that made it bearable.

Since then I’ve been paraded, beaten, hogtied, worn butt plugs, cupped, worn pocket rockets, had a tens machine used on me and the list is growing. In fact, generally now I actually seek to get used in public because it adds another dimension to play – accountability. People expect us to go to parties and play to a certain level, and knowing that I’m on display triples my pain tolerance, which in turn feeds my endurance kink.

However, there are two things I’m not sure whether I want to do in public – be fucked by a person/device/machine and be played with to an ‘ugly’ state. 

I guess that my fear of being fucked in public is actually more a fear of  ‘getting off’ in public. My real sexual pleasure is a very, very private thing. I’ve faked orgasms plenty of times with my ex-partners, but they weren’t actually real, so ‘showing pleasure’ didn’t bother me. I remember the first time I had a release and came in front of Master – I was horrified, truly horrified. Even to this day, 100%  of the time I want to get my pleasure in private.

I’m not sure exactly why, but I think I have a feeling of immense guilt. I find it hilarious because I make it sound like I’m some good catholic girl who needs to say a thousand our fathers and hail marys after having impure thoughts. It’s not like that at all, but I guess I still like to have my pleasure held firmly close to my bosom on ‘my side’ of the wall.

The ‘ugly state’ thing is probably linked to public humiliation. By ‘ugly state’ I mean pools of drool, snot-running, mascara-dripping, sweat-patches ie. general unattractiveness. I’ve never been pushed to tears or screams or anything like that, and in fact, I’m not sure whether that sort of thing is acceptable in public, but it’s something that I find really hot and very scary at the same time.

The image of slavery I’ve always had in my head has been gracious and calm submission, not screaming-snot-flowing-abuse-hurtling submission. As a result, I’m always very stoic when I’m played with, sometimes laughing or giggling, but not swearing ‘FUUUUUCK!!’ or kicking and screaming (even though there are times I’d really love to!) Perhaps I’m trying to live up to the ideal I have in my head, or perhaps I’m not willing to give whoever is using me the ‘satisfaction’ of a reaction, but I just suck it all in and internalize it.

As I said, I’m really on the fence with these two things. The experience junkie in me wants to be able to cross them off the list, but the I-don’t-want-to-have-flashbacks! side of me, doesn’t want to go near them with a barge pole. In reality, I suppose I don’t have any control over whether they will happen or not being that I’m the slave and all, but as I always say to Master, just because I’m the slave doesn’t mean that I don’t have opinions.

I have the right to think whatever the hell I want about anything, but at the end of day, when he says, “Do it bitch” I might be screaming on the inside, but I’ve still got to do it. That’s what slavery is.