Field of dreams

Open k asked me a question:

What action does a submissive have to do to be considered a true submissive female in your eyes. i realize everyone is different and couples play in different areas. Some are lightweights in one area and play intensively in another. But what separates a poser or wannabee from a sub that is truly into it. Does it have to be 24/7? Are there a few items, anyone of which signifies a real sub?

If you comment on it, she will writeso here’s my answer.

I could give a Barney answer in keeping with our recent educational philosophies of ‘all-kiddies-are-winners-so-let’s-give-them-all-a-trophy’ and say that you’re only a slave as defined by your owner i.e  you do what he wants you to do and if he says you’re his slave,  then you are.

But that’s the after-school special answer. In my eyes, you can’t just call yourself a slave and expect to get away with it. You’ve got to do a bit of the hard stuff, struggle against things so badly it hurts and live mostly unaware of the blissful happiness just bubbling below the surface because it’s covered up by all the other crap of life.

You’ve got to endure a bit of pain – none of this fur flogger bulllshit. You’ve got to be beaten when you really want to be, not beaten when you really want to be, and not beaten when you really want to be. You can’t have a safeword and you can’t expect to have an hour of  ‘aftercare’ for every minute of pain. In fact, you’ll be lucky if the aftercare consists of anything other than taking off the ropes or chains.

You’ve got to get up and get him that fucking cup of coffee/piece of fruit/bowl of ice cream when you really don’t want to. You’ve got to come running (well, sometimes strolling) when he yells “Bitch” for the fortieth time that day and resist the urge to strangle him when he empties out the watercooler in front of you and casually says as he walks past, “You need to fill that up.”

You’ve got to live with the man – none of this once a month play & fuckfest or online stuff. You’ve got to learn to be the slave all the time, not just for isolated times when everything is perfect and intense. You’ve got to watch toys gather dust and days roll into weeks and months where absolutely nothing happens and instead you just live life together. You see him when he’s sick, sad, vulnerable and depressed. He sees you with bed-hair, peeing and scratching your armpits.

You’ve got to wear a collar. You’ve got to be marked in someway that signifies his ownership. Furniture is an optional extra and permission is something that is required for just about everything.

I don’t think that ‘doing’ something in particular makes you a slave. There is no list where you cross things off one by one and when everything is crossed off, you are officially a slave. I wouldn’t say someone into blood, cuttings and needles is more or less of a slave than someone into putting wine bottles up their anus. Above and beyond being able to take a good beating every now and then, everything else is a party trick.

The ‘real’ ones aren’t happy all the time, they’re not 100% complete and fulfilled with service. The real ones struggle to control their expectations and their will. They learn that acceptance is something that will come to them in time along with obedience. The ‘real’ ones know that their Master is just a man and they’re just a woman and that there are limitations to everything. He is not god and she is not superwoman. Bodies get older, interests change and everything is in constant flux.

And in the quiet times when they’re alone, the ‘real’ ones think that she loves him and he loves her and everything is right with the world.

That’s what a ‘true’ slave is to me.

Number ones and twos

“…maybe you could close your eyes and I could dribble warm tea on you. That might feel good. Or maybe you might think it’s fun to hear the sound of running water when we have sex. And, if things got really serious between us, I could maybe even leave the bathroom door open sometime. Although honestly, I’m really not sure how comfortable I would be with that either.”

Watching an episode of SaTC for the bazillionth time the other night I thought about how stuff that you once thought was a ‘deal breaker’ can become so normal and mundane that you don’t even think about it.

In the episode that the quote is from, Carrie is dating a man who confides to her that he wants to be peed on. After hearing this she spends the rest of their dates not drinking liquids and not going to the toilet in case he actually wants her to do it. She eventually confronts him saying she is not willing to pee on him, but maybe, just maybe, she’ll leave the door open when she pees sometimes.

I have to confess that I’d be pretty taken back if a man wanted me to pee on him. Pee on me? Sure, no problem. Me pee on you? Hang on, a minute! That would be thrusting me into the driver’s seat and I hate when that happens. (In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have a switch-like bone in my body and I really, for the life of me, don’t understand how people can. It’s great that it’s their thing and all, but for me, no way Jose!)

But I digress, what I wanted to talk about was how it’s so funny that she has issues peeing with the door open. I can’t remember the last time I closed the door to pee (except in a public toilet of course!) and Master even has the evidence to prove it.

In fact, he was grinning from ear to ear the other day when he gleefully informed me that he’d changed the screen saver on his iMac. I had complained that the slide-show of my ass and cunt was becoming a bit depressing, so he happily changed it to his collection of photos of when we went away – which includes numerous pictures of me on the toilet.

Now when I walk into the kitchen, I get to see me sitting on the throne in all my glory. Seriously, I don’t know which is worse, toilet shots or ass and cunt shots.

Actually, if I remember correctly I think Master made it a rule that I wasn’t allowed to close the door when I went to the toilet because ‘slaves don’t have privacy’. Fortunately we have two toilets, and in those early months before doing my business with the door open became mundane, I always managed to go to the toilet that was the furthest away from wherever Master was. That was until he sprung me one morning when I was still half-asleep, quickly snapping several shots of me tinkling before I even knew what was happening and that was the start of his ‘toilet shot’ collection.

As a girlie it’s generally embarrassing to have my ‘tinkle’ heard or seen. I was acutely aware of it when I was in Japan, where it’s a crime against humanity to have the sound of your pee echo through a public toilet. In order to avoid this, you either flush the toilet while you pee (which is an exercise in precision timing – if you don’t match your stream with the flush, you’ve got to flush again, but then the tank might be empty and you can’t and oh my god, the shame!) or you use one of the handy little devices called “The Sound Princess” that they often have on the wall that emits either a flushing sound or birds chirping or something equally as masking while you tinkle.

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Generally they come on with an infra-red sensor when you sit down, but you can turn it off if you’re just sitting there reading the Japan Times or something. These devices are also handy for masking your swearing when you get into a public toilet and realise that you’ve forgotten to bring your own tissues (because, of course, you can have the technology to have noise emitters with infra-red sensors on the wall, but god forbid if you ever provided as something as basic as toilet paper!!)

There’s incidentally another episode in SaTC where Carrie gleefully announces that she’s gotten to the stage in a relationship that she can do a ‘number two’ at her boyfriend’s house. I’d like to announce that after nearly three months at my new job, I’ve finally gotten ‘comfortable’ enough to be able to do a number two at work. Yay! What is it with girlies and number twos? I’m sure there’s some left-over neanderthal instinct that doesn’t allow us to shit outside our territory in case a predator catches the scent and comes after us or something. As for men, I’ve never met one who couldn’t do a crap anytime, anywhere and have it fragrant enough that predators from surrounding continents could smell it.

But I digress…again…what I wanted to say was that things can pretty quickly go from safe-word material to the everyday. Maybe one day kinky will be normal and vanilla will be considered kinky:

Ooohh…hang on, let me close the curtains if we’re going to do it without the ropes and chains!”

The great mystery

What is it about kinky folk? Rational, mature adults who have family, jobs and function normally as a member of society somehow manage to morph into idiotic, immature fuckwits when placed in a room or an online forum together. Why is it?

Why do the people who whine the loudest about ‘vanilla’ people not understanding them and who blab non-stop about how happy they are now that they are finally ‘accepted’, end up being the most intolerant, judgemental people when it turns to matters of kink?

Why does a ‘community’ always have to have a huge school ground popularity contest with the ‘A Group’ and the ‘B Group’ and the associated back-stabbing, name-calling and rumour-spreading between the ‘in folk’ and the ‘out folk’? Why, why, why?

I can understand why a lot of people choose to stay underground and just do their own thing.

I’ve witnessed over the past few days the unfolding of a morbidly fascinating series of thread on Fetlife encompassing the entire kink community of where I live. It’s been like a car wreck on the side of the road that you just have to slow down and have a gander at. Although I’ve been itching to add my thoughts to what has been said, they would just be more kindling on the fire that was already/is still blazing out of control.

Basically the fire is centered on the monthly party that Master and I attend. It’s a party held at an individual’s house with no entry fee, where everyone brings a plate, their own drinks and mingles and plays with the huge array of toys there as they wish. Some people are not invited to the party because the owner of the house has personal issues with them or has seen them at other functions and feels that they would interrupt the flow of the party either with their style of play or personality.

I’ll repeat again here that the party is held at this person’s *private house* with no entry fee. In fact, with cleaning and heating of food and things, it would actually be costing this person money every month, but he continues to do it.

The people not invited to the party have started an all-out personal attack on the individual saying it’s not fair to exclude people. There have been numerous threads with hundreds of comments about all and sundry and it’s been going on for days.

I’ll repeat again, just in case you missed it the first time: it’s held at a person’s *private house*. It’s his party for which he receives no monetary gain.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t be inviting someone I didn’t like or didn’t get along with to a bbq I was having at my house.  I wouldn’t invite someone I knew was a notorious drunk or someone who always rubbed other people up the wrong way. I wouldn’t even need to explain my decision. So why is this situation any different? And why has this topic been a catalyst for everyone to bitch and moan about everyone else and bring up everything has has ever happened before?

I’m convinced that a lot of people seek out like-minded people  simply in order to justify their own choices and behaviours. They don’t want to make friends or play nicely together, they want to reassure themselves that they are tougher/have better outfits/have the best skills/ are the most edgy/have the most fetlife friends etc. and when they discover someone ‘better’ they go into preservation mode and start tearing down the people they feel threatened by.

Remember when Fetlife started and everyone raved about how good it was to finally have a place like that? Now it’s turning into a cesspit of dirty-laundry airing and bitchiness. It’s sad it has to be like that. But seriously, kinky folk seem to have the least common decency and commonsense of any group I’ve ever come across.

What I want to know is, why are the people who are supposed to be the most tolerant, actually the most intolerant?

When it’s over..

They say all good things come to an end, and when an M/s relationship comes to an end what happens?

Is there a dividing of the toys, quiet talks and collars returned, or are there screaming matches, slammed doors and venomous threads posted on Fetlife?

I guess it all depends on what caused the breakup and what your feelings are about the other person. I won’t say it’s any harder than a vanilla breakup – any breakup is bad – but the nature of a D/s relationship gives you so much more ‘ammunition’ than a vanilla one.

For example a D/s relationship generally involves the taking of photos. There are also blogs or websites and there are often things done in public and private that can come back and haunt. At the time, you’re in love and lust and you feel the slave fire burning inside. You’re only happy to do whatever your Master wishes at the time, without thought for the consequences that may rear their ugly heads down the track.

Speaking from my own experience, I remember being incensed that a photo of me was still gracing the alt profile of my previous owner. I asked that he remove it. He laughed. I asked again. He never responded again. To my knowledge it’s still there.

I think if you see a pic you don’t want up you should ask the person to take it down. And likewise, if someone asks you to remove a pic, you should. Seriously, this sort of thing is just common decency.

It doesn’t bother me so much that it’s my photo there, it bothers me that he is using it as much to say, ‘ look at what I’ve got/I’ve got experience/ look what I can do’ when that is nothing but lies. If he really was as he claimed to be and had my pic up there as part of his ‘portfolio’ I don’t think it would bother me.

When I left I didn’t take my collar or the hundreds of dollars worth of toys I had bought him. I also didn’t take my handwritten contract or the tiny pair of silver handcuffs I’d had engraved with, “My chains are yours, love your slavegirl.”

I also didn’t take the washing machine/clothes dryer/television I’d bought or the $2500 in bond I’d put down on the rental. I just packed my suitcase and two boxes of clothes and left. There weren’t any screaming matches or slammed doors. I left with as much fuss as he put effort into our relationship i.e zip.

I’m sure not all relationships end like this. I’m sure there are some very messy breakups and the really scary thing is that generally the community is so small and tight-knit that once you’ve got a ‘reputation’ you are screwed.

It’s sad that more often than not it all turns into school-ground politics instead of being resolved in a consensual adult fashion.

When the cat’s away…

Sitting on the bus coming to work this morning, I had another affirmation of the correctness of my decisions to (a) not have children and (b) not become a high school teacher.

Heard out of the mouth of a thirteen-year-old girl:

“You know Miss Hanson? Yeah, she’s such a MILF.”

It’s times like this when I feel really old.

But anyway, I thought I better squeeze a blog out even though I’ve officially got nothing to write about, because Master gets antsy if he checks and I’ve got nothing new here for days.

I’ve been alone at work all week because my boss has gone to Japan. Normally it’s just him and me in the office so since he’s away, I thought I’d enjoy myself by coming to work au naturel!  (No, I’m not coming naked! Lol…)

‘Au naturel’ for me means no makeup, no hairstyles, comfy clothes and shoes. It’s saved me so much time in the morning that I’ve actually been able to have a proper breakfast – complete with cappuccino. Mmmm…..The only thing I have been doing is wearing my contacts (but that’s only so I can wear sunglasses so that when I sleep on the bus/train, people don’t stare at me!)

I’d like to be a ‘proper’ girl who likes fashion & makeup and enjoys shopping, but I’m not. Ten years of shopping in the ‘Queen-sized’ section in Japan for tops (because that’s all I could ever hope to fit into) and buying a year’s supply of bottoms and pantyhose whenever I came back to Australia probably sucked most of the joy out of it for me. I enjoy being comfy more than fashionable.

Master has this thing about me wearing ‘slut wear’ and I have to say that even after 3 1/2 years with him, I’m still not quite sure exactly what he means. I’m guessing it’s low-cut tops and short skirts, but when you’ve got no boobs and thunder thighs like me, singlet tops and micro-minis tend to be more ‘omg-that’s-so-wrong wear’ than ‘slut wear’.

I’ve never met or heard of a Master who wants their slave to wear anything other than revealing stuff. What confuses me is whether they like the thought of what is covered up, or what is out there for all to see. Considering that it’s all theirs anyway, what are they trying to do?

Generally, I don’t find slut wear to be anything other than a lesson in humiliation. I know what suits me and my body shape and for me, less is not more. If he wanted me to feel sexy and confident then something that doesn’t have me sucking in my stomach all night is best, therefore I can only conclude that he wants to enjoy the view?!?

Maybe Master looks at me through different eyes than what I see reflected in the mirror. In fact, since I’m yet to see a man put makeup on so he doesn’t look like a clown, I have to guess that maybe a man’s idea of what looks good and what doesn’t is different to a woman’s.

Maybe all Master needs are some new glasses? 😉

In pursuit of frugalness

Generally I’m a thrifty, frugal, bargain-hunter and in fact, on more than one occasion I have been called a tight-ass. I refuse to buy anything that is not on sale and have been known to spend several nights tossing and turning after discovering on my supermarket receipt that we’ve been overcharged by….a dollar!

I don’t own anything with a “brand label” on it – there’s no Gucci, Chanel or Prada in my wardrobe. I buy fashion after it’s gone out of fashion and there really are times when I’ve got nothing to wear!  I’d also like to mention that catalogues make me drool and I prefer to spend my free time clipping out coupons and saving shopper-dockets.

Having said all that though, there are occasions where I like to splurge and this week has been one of those occasions:

I am now officially a slave who sleeps on 1000 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets.

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Since I’ve got to sleep naked, I might as well have something smooth to lay on, right? 🙂

Actually they were on sale – 60% off to be exact. But that still doesn’t make me feel any better about spending $300 on a some sheets, a couple of towels and a quilt cover.

Oh, did I mention I also bought Egyptian Cotton bath sheets? They’re not just towels…they’re big enough to be be sheets….mmmmmm.

In my slave fantasies I’m always dirty, dressed in rags, eating dry crusts of bread and sleeping on a cold stone floor. In fact, I’ve even microwaved some bread until it’s gone stone-hard and warmed up some water to have as a suitable ‘meal’ during one of my fantasy sessions. (That incidently was also the one where my mum came home in the middle of it and having nowhere to put anything, I shoved the food and water under my bed only to have the dog frantically sniffing at it…‘No mum, there’s nothing under the bed!’)

My reality, however, is that I like a few home comforts. I prefer to sleep in a warm comfy bed, my cage has a layer of cushioning foam in it and my ‘slave gruel’ tends to be better than anything you can get in a restaurant. I’m lucky that Master chooses to keep me in comfort, as opposed to keeping me ‘like a slave’.

Sure hessian sacks and damp dungeons sound hot, but give me 1000 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets any day.

School for Doms

Is it just me, or have all the domly ones graduated from the same school of fuck-with-your-property’s-mind-then-just-fuck-her-too?

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been reading something or talking to someone and I’ve said, “Yeah, mine does that too!” It happens so frequently that it seems to be more than a coincidence – considering they are all individual human beings and should all be equally as unique. So it got me thinking that perhaps all the domly ones had secretly attended a Dom School while we weren’t looking and, being products of the same education system, they’ve all taken the same freshman classes in Domly-ism:

Selective Deafness: How to only hear properly phrased requests and block out whining

Administering Ouchie Beatings: How to always hit that sweet spot she hates

Embarrassment 101: Getting your slave to talk dirty (additional units in having her masturbate in front of you)

Dressing Mutton as Lamb: Getting your slave to wear outfits she’s too fat for

Doing the Yukky Stuff: Getting your slave to lick your ass and suck her own pussy juices from your fingers (ewww!)

Mortification 101: Subjecting your slave to nakedness in public with a tampon string showing

Playing God: How to act like you know it all and are always in control even when you’re not

Mind-fucking 101: How to tease your slave along endlessly and make her break out into a cold sweat on a regular basis

Being Annoying: How to repeatedly get her to go and get something for you after she’s comfortable/warm/asleep

Breaking 101: Making your slave realise you’re only ever going to do what you want when you want

Age Defying Tricks: How to pull your slave’s hair hard enough that it gives her a facelift

Brainwashing for Beginners: Getting your slave to think she’s a slut and whore when she can barely be bothered to shave her legs

Being a Fucker: How to stretch out those periods of orgasm denial

And so on and so forth. I could go on all day!

Seriously…where is this school and what’s it called ? I want to buy shares. They must be making a fucking fortune 🙂

Three days monk

Mikkabouzu is a phrase in Japanese that describes me perfectly. Translated it literally means ‘three days monk’ and while I did used to think for a short period in my younger days that I might grow up to be a nun, mikkabouzu is actually used to refer to someone who has problems sticking with something past an initial ‘three day honeymoon’ period. (The origin of the phrase comes from the fact that a monk’s life is very rigid and requires a person to dedicate themselves to it, and that if your average Joe Blow tried to live as a monk does, they would only last three days.)

Diets, exercise, housework, slave tasks, slave headspace…you name it, whenever I make some sort of a decision to start or improve on something, I’m good for the first few days when everything is new and ‘fun’ and then it generally falls by the wayside. That’s why I like punishment and accountability. Without it, I’m just a sloth.

I’m back on the wagon of eating healthy and exercise and I’ve asked Master for his help. I’ve stated before that it is the slave’s responsibility to look after themselves and whatnot and I still whole-heartedly believe that, but it is mentally easier for me without the ‘sweetie nothings’ that Master regularly whispers in my ear (and that normally I totally love him for) things like, “Sweetie, would you like a carrot muffin?” ,”Sweetie, do you want to go for a drive to get some ice cream?” and my favourite “You want some chocolate, sweetie? Sure, why not!”

(And yes, he calls me sweetie and I call him sweetie…Master is only something I call him when he suddenly develops selective deafness:

“Can I get dressed now?”

“What?”

“Can I dressed now, sweetie?”

“What?”

“Can I get dressed now, Master?”

“Oh, I can hear you now! Of course you can.” )

I’ve come to the conclusion that exercise is best done while watching something to take your mind off it so I asked Master once we’d gotten home this afternoon whether we could watch True Blood (my current favourite show) while I rode to the moon on my exercise bike. He was happy to oblige and forty minutes later when I’d finished my allotted time I hopped off the bike and went to get a drink of water:

“Get back on the bike bitch!”

“But I’ve done my exercise for today!”

“You said you wanted to ride to the moon while we watched True Blood and it ain’t finished yet so get pedalling!”

The mikkabouzu side of me wanted to giggle innocently and just wander off, but I decided to hope back on that damn bike and keep pedalling – mostly because he told me to. Fortunately the show ended about five minutes later and I was off the hook, but still it’s five minutes less I would of done if it had only been up to me.

Another thing I’m very mikkabouzu about is my bed chain. Every now and then Master will ask, “Have you been wearing your chain?” and I’ll truthfully answer no and generally he’ll slap me around a little, tell me I have to wear it every night and for the next three nights I will dutifully wear it. On the fourth night something magical generally happens and I either (a) initially forget and when I do realise can’t be bothered to get up to do it, (b) forget until morning and then feel really guilty about it (c) forget completely and never have it cross my mind until the next time Master asks about it.

There are plenty of other examples where I’m very mikkabouzu but I also think that it can go both ways. I can remember on numerous occasions setting up rules for play frequency or cage time or any of a myriad of things and I can remember him not really giving a toss about the ‘rules’ he had decided. I personally think it’s just as easy for the domly one to have a case of mikkabouzu –  where they either genuinely forget or just downright can’t be bothered to check on something or follow up on a rule.

It used to stress me beyond relief when he’d say something and not carry through with it. I think those were the days when I lived expectation to expectation, but now I’ve chilled out about things and I tend not to get excited before he has got the cuffs/crop/rope in his hand and is pointing to a spot on the bed where he wants me to be. It’s only then that I really know something is going to happen.

To borrow from kaya ‘Great Expectations: Learning to Let Go of Them’  *is still laughing stupidly about this one*

Is masochism catching?

I have a question…

How many subbly folk didn’t know they have masochistic tendencies until being played with?

Or perhaps a better question…

How many subbly folk only enjoy pain when they’re enduring it for someone else?

I started thinking about this on Saturday evening following my punishment for being a ‘bad kitten’. I’d been given the nakedness and boots directive earlier in the day and for some reason or another, it took about 6 hours for me to actually get naked and booted.

I had originally been given dispensation to delay the naked and bootedness until after I’d had my coffee and muffin, but when questioned by Master about why it had taken me hours and I replied,

‘Well, 6 hours after is still after. You didn’t say I had to do it straight after!

I was doomed. Needless to say, Master wasn’t impressed….obviously…and he responded with his oft repeated phrase, 

‘You’re cute, but not that cute.’

So his instrument of punishment was nothing more than his fingers, but damn those fuckers can hurt. He boob-crippled me – which I think is almost as painful as a nipple-crippling – over and over again until I had apologized, cried in pain and was suitably back in my place…on the floor…again.

Now I have to be honest, there is a very small part of me that likes being hurt and not simply for the fact that I’m being used. Something inside me finds it exquisitely….umm, I don’t know how to explain it…satisfying? After the pain has gone, of course.  Generally after some Master-inflicted ouchiness, I’m chirpy and in the mood for something yummy to eat.

The pain itself sucks and the tears he forces out of me are real. I’m not crying because I’m hoping that will make him stop (although I often am wishing that), I’m crying because it hurts. I’ve got no control over those tears and they flow of their own accord. But after the pain has gone, it feels good to have endured it.

Reading one of the blogs on my blogslog, I came across someone describing how they became a slave. She stated she never knew she was a masochist until she met her Master and he ‘brought it out’ in her. But see, I have to question that. How can you not know if you’re a masochist? Surely you would have had some inkling in the forty years of your life prior to meeting a man with a whip, that you enjoyed pain. If you enjoy pain for pain’s sake (which is how I define a masochist) wouldn’t you have been doing things to yourself or at least fantasizing about it before then?

I would suggest that she’s not a masochist – a slave? yes. A masochist? no. I think a masochist is a rare breed of person – they don’t enjoy enduring pain for someone else, they actually enjoy the pain themselves. I’m not a masochist (duh!) so every painful/uncomfortable/humiliating thing I go through is made endurableby the fact that it’s being directed by Master and that’s precisely why I can do it. Left to my own devices, I’d chicken out of piercings, tattoos and beatings. I’d never offer myself up to be someones instrument of torture (although maybe I actually did indirectly by becoming a slave.)

In those periods of time when I’ve been an unowned soul, I’ve never felt the need to spank myself or hurt myself in any way. There’s just no point, because there’s no-one to do it for. I don’t feel an itch for pain like I do for a release. My life could happily be spent pain-free and in fact, I’d go out of my way to ensure a pain-free existence, but that need to be directed, controlled is something else. Perhaps I need the pain to remind me that in fact I am owned, because I would never do it to myself.

And in those quiet times when I think back to the things I’ve done and I say to myself,

‘How the fuck did I ever do that?’

they are obviously the times when I’m unconscious of the collar around my neck, forgetting that I didn’t do anything.

Not realising that Master did it.

And all I did was endure.

Unhealthy obsessions & quirks

I’m peeling! Yep, it’s official. The layer of sunburned skin has finally decided to commit mass suicide and detach itself lemming-like from my back and as a result I’m itchy as hell. Master cheerfully stated that he was going to chain my hands in front of me because ‘a scratching pussy is not sexy’…lol. Actually I think he was more disturbed by the fact that I kept scrunching my boots down to get to that sweet spot behind my knees. He doesn’t quite understand that an itchy girl has gotta scratch!

So while I’m juggling the scary fact that three or more peeling sunburns in your life increases your chance of getting melanoma five times (I think this is number four), I’m also enjoying peeling off the skin…well, because it’s one of my unhealthy obsessions.

I have quite a few unhealthy obsessions that I haven’t really talked about in great depth before mostly because it’s going to make me sound like I’m really fucked up. But I figure, hey, my cunt is all over the internet so who cares anymore???

If you don’t want to read about how gross I really am, I recommend not reading any further (don’t say I didn’t warn anyone!)

My big obsession is ear-cleaning. I just love it when big, dark chunky ear wax comes out on the end of my Japanese earcleaner which has a light on the end of it so I can see all the good stuff (and by the way, this link is from a Japanese website devoted to ear-cleaning. Japanese only.) I usually never find these delicious chunky things in my ears, but Master’s ears are an endless source of juicy chunks. So much so that when I see him on a Wednesday or Friday evening after not seeing him for a few days, the first thing I do is shove my finger in his ear.

I still remember the orgasmic chunks I once got out of my ex-husband’s ears several years back. They were about the size of the the end of my thumb and there was a distinct ‘Shhhhhlooop!‘ sound as I pulled them out. They were in quite deep and he had freaked out about me going ‘down in there’ before, but one night he fell asleep as I was doing the Japanese wifely duty of ear-cleaning and I managed to grab the suckers.

Japanese ears are different to Western ears in that they tend to go straight down to the ear drum- there are no twists that don’t allow you to see straight in- so they are ideal for my ear-cleaning frenzy. I’d often be on the train in Tokyo and squished up against some Japanese dude and my eyes would inevitably check out his ears. More often than not there would be some ear wax there just screaming my name. It was probably a good thing that I was generally so squished up in the carriage that I couldn’t even raise my hands, or I’d be in there digging out some strangers ear canal.

(Oh, and I’m well-versed in the structure of the ear and what’s dangerous and so forth. I’m a safety girl!)

My other unhealthy obsession is peeling skin or it’s most often encountered form dandruff. I’m like a gorilla in that sense. I’ll pick over Master’s head and anywhere else on his body that might be peeling although sadly he generally doesn’t have enough to satisfy me. Among gorillas social grooming is a very relaxing activity and while I don’t I think he’d ever doze off in rapturous slumber as I picked over his body, Master has come to accept that I’m just weird like that. Now I’m sure you can understand my excitement at my own body peeling. Hours of unbridled pleasure await me!

Funnily enough though, while I have an endless fascination with these bodily wastes, there are a couple I can’t stand.

Firstly, spit. Spit just grosses me out totally. This has lead my strong distaste for kissing. I mean, I’ll do your closed-mouth peck, but none of this tongue-in-mouth action at all! The thought actually makes me want to vomit.

Which also brings up my issue with licking. Just.not.going.to.happen. Master knows about my issue with being licked and exploits it on every occasion possible. He will actually stick his tongue out during a ravishing session when I’m pinned to the bed –  to which I will of course squirm and twist and try to get as far away from as possible – and then he will say in that no-nonsense-you’re-my-slave-bitch voice,

‘Open your mouth!’

And 80% of the time he’ll either put his tongue in my mouth or on some other part of my face, making me scream and cry. And 20% of the time he’ll just enjoy the mind-fuck and give me a closed-mouth kiss.

Bastard.

And the other thing that just grosses me out is breath. My breath, other people’s breath, it doesn’t matter, it’s all freaky shit. You know when it’s cold and you can see your breath? That totally freaks me out. And you know when it’s cold and the windows fog up from everyone’s breath? OMG, that is just panic-central for me. If it’s breath-seeing weather I will always wrap my scarf over my mouth so I can’t see my breath and I will never, ever wipe a fogged up window.

Breath-hating causes major issues during ravishing. When Master is on top of me and doing his normal interrogation thing and I can feel his breath on my face, I’ll always try and turn my head some way, any which way so I don’t have to feel it. I’ll also match my breathing with his so I’m breathing in at the time as him and don’t have to breathe in what he is breathing out.

That is really fucked up, isn’t it?

Oh and I’ve talked about my absolute hate of talking on the phone before. I can now proudly report back that 8mths of working in a call centre did absolutely nothing to help me get over that one. I still hate, hate, hates phones and I still get that absolutely horrifying sinking feeling whenever I have to answer one or use one.

Finally, as I said in a previous post, I still get freaked out by my piercings- the idea that there are holes in my body with metal going through them is a total head-spin. Two years on and it’s still really hard for me to touch them or even wipe down there. I remember the first time I went to clean them a day after they’d been done and I started to turn the piercing and had a massive anxiety attack (e.g. not being able to breathe, almost passing-out-type-of-thing.) I’m better about it now, but it is super freaky.

So yep that’s about all freaky funky shit that’s going on in my brain about the most mundane of things. Anyone have any unhealthy obsessions or quirks they’d like to share? Please? Just so I don’t feel so much like a tard.

The ol’ slap across the face trick

I mentioned (in a gratuitous stab at including something ‘kinky) at the bottom of yesterday’s entry that I got face-slapped while we were away. To be precise, he slapped me several times and then backhanded me a few more, all the while holding the o ring on my collar tight so I couldn’t move my head away.

On the rare occasions that face-slapping makes its way onto the menu, it’s never  particularly hard or bruise-inducing in anyway and this time was no exception. But for some reason it always induces a particular reaction in me.

‘You should of seen your face!‘ laughed Master in our post-face-slapping/ravishing debrief as we lounged around on the bed and I attempted to squirm out of the wet spot.

He was referring to, I think, the stunned mullet look I’d given him after hand had made contact with face.  The look is a result of not only the physical jolt for me, but also the emotional jolt I get whenever he does something that for some reason just screams ‘abuse’ at me.

I don’t know what it is about the face-slap, but it’s still very taboo for me. Perhaps I’ve seen too many movies with domestic abuse victims sporting fat lips and a myriad of bruises across their face or maybe I just feel that the face is too much of a ‘public’ thing to be kinkified, but I know that any time my face becomes the target instead of another part of my body, I feel exceptionally uncomfortable.

And no, I’m not worried about what other people would think if there were marks or bruises on my face, and I’m not particularly vain about my looks in any way (If bags over the head became a fashion statement, I would soooo wear one!) I just find both the fantasy and reality hard to stomach.

In fact, I don’t even find anything done on the face to be particularly hot. Bruises which I’d be drooling about if they were anywhere else, make my blood run cold if they’re on the face. And I’m not sure if any of you saw that pic on Fetlife of that chick having her mouth sewn? Yeah, well….I just didn’t get what everyone thought was so hot about it. Of course, I have a lot of respect for anyone that does anything to do with needles or blades in general because they totally freak me out, but getting juicy from a pic with blood and needles on the face? Nope, not me.

Botty slap? Juice-inducing.

Face slap? Cringe-inducing.

Paradise

We’re back from our hedonistic trip to paradise that ended all too quickly! Didya miss me?

Of course I can hear the choruses of, ‘We never noticed you’d gone!‘ echoing around me, but I’m still basking in the afterglow of paradise, so it’s all water off a snorkel-bunny’s back.

As you can see, my legs got worked over exceptionally well during our trip away…

Legs

Unfortunately it wasn’t Master’s hand that left me looking like I’d been thrashed into next week, just that devilish thing called the sun. It’s amazing what a lack of ozone layer will do to you (I would like to point out that I was lathered in SPF 30+ and still managed to end up like this!) I’d post a pic of my matching sunburnt back, but I’m sure you’d all like to keep your breakfast/lunch/dinner down.

Along with my two pairs of swimmers, I also took a pair of thigh-high boots for Master’s pleasure and I have to say that with my roasted legs, it created a lovely blend of pleasure and pain – his pleasure, my pain…of course. Boots and beach don’t really mix and I’m sure I’ll be shaking sand out of them for the next couple of months.

I spent my time there snorkelling, snorkelling, koala-ing Master, snorkelling and snorkelling. Master spent his time there snoozing, being my koala post, snoozing, swimming  and snoozing. Other than the slightly unnerving experience of having sting rays swimming around your feet and mysterious large black shadows passing in the ocean nearby (we hope it was a manta ray or a turtle or a school of fish or a whaleshark and not a shark), we had a totally wonderful time. I don’t think I’ve been that relaxed for quite a while. It was Master’s birthday yesterday (Happy Birthday Master!!) and although he spent most of it driving, I hope the memories of paradise eased the pain of having nothing but road and swarms of flies in front of him for hours.

And so where did we go? We went to the Ningaloo Reef resort in Coral Bay which is about 1200kms north of Perth:

ningaloo-australia

Between Perth and Coral Bay there are a few one-horse towns, masses of roadkill (consisting of kangaroos, goats, cows, sheep, rabbits and foxes) and lots and lots of nothingness. Every now and then just to break-up the monotony and keep the driver on his toes, there was a mob of emus:

 Emu alert

 or a mini-herd of cows drifting across the road:

Hamburger! Get off the road!

 But after driving, driving and some more driving, you get this:
Coral bay

and under the water where it’s a little bit darker in the photo above? It’s a world full of fishies, coral and the best of mother nature…
Reef

Maybe reality is sometimes as good as fantasy.

P.S Oh, and I got spanked and ravished and face-slapped while we were there too….does that satisfy for smut content?

Oozing submission

About six weeks ago I started a new job and as predicted – by me – there have been no random questions about my collar or why I sometimes walk like John Wayne, even though my new boss is a very chatty fellow.

Over the past few weeks amongst the banter in the office we’ve gone over my marriage, my divorce, my current relationship (the vanilla version), his marriage, his ex-girlfriends, his university days, my university days, my ten years in Japan, Perth, the travel spots to see in the length and breadth of Japan, religion, Australian aboriginal issues, Ainu (one of the native peoples in Japan) issues, birth control, the English language, the Japanese language, the economy, the legal system…and the list goes on.

Maybe he is just super happy to have someone else to talk to in Japanese, but as you can see, he’s a chatty fellow.

Our most recent banter topic is health and weight and we’ve been discussing the middle-age spread that begins after you hit thirty (he’s just a couple of years older than me) and what we’re doing to combat it. In the ‘my-ten-years-in-Japan’ talk I discussed my yo-yoing weight from +20kg in my first year there, to -30kg before my wedding (doesn’t everyone do that???) and then the inevitable up and down in between.

Then I mentioned the fact that due to the stress of my last job I had been/still am on the ‘rebound’ from the healthier weight I was last year (is it just me, or am I starting to sound like Oprah?) and that I was thinking about getting a personal trainer just to give me some motivation.

Then he suggested that we could put some scales in the office…and that if I didn’t lose weight he could ‘amend’ my salary accordingly.

Then he said to me that he could be my ‘scary personal trainer’…and drill me into shape.

Because he said…*quote, unquote*…

” I bet you’re the type of person who likes to be told what to do and you like having someone scary in control.”

His comment, said totally in jest, was eerily true and I was sitting there thinking,

‘Does he know?’

And just in case you’re wondering whether this guy was being ‘inappropriate’ in an office situation, you have to understand that this sort of talk is really normal in Japan. I mean this is a country where you must put a photo, your age and marital status on a job application – and then you’ve got to hand-write the application so they can see your penmanship! There ain’t no such thing as privacy! If you’re on a first name basis, guys will ask you your bra size, whether you’re on the pill and even chicks will ask you what colour your hair is ‘down there’.

I got used to it after a while and it didn’t really bother me, but it was quite disturbing at first. I never really understood though why things like eating and walking along the street were considered rude, while you could ask someone if they were a DD and that was fine. Ah, Japan… the country of paradoxes.

But I digress….

Getting back to the ‘getting-outed-by-the-boss’ situation, now I’m wondering what he based his assumption that I ‘like to be told what to do’ on. Am I letting off some sort of subbiemone that those with the ‘nose’ can pick up on? And more importantly is he that way inclined?

Maybe I should ask him if he likes to tie up his wife…or would that be just too personal? 😉

Resilient Spunk

Although the title might suggest that I’m going to write about how once you get spooge in your towels they will never be the same, I’m actually going to write about a slightly different type of spunk.

Master should be home in…ummm…about 2 1/2 hours. I figure that by the time he gets his luggage, lines up for a taxi and actually gets home it should be well after midnight. I just checked virgin’s website and apparently the flight left 25 mins late. He is definitely not going to be a happy chappy with the added delay and that unfortunately means bad news for my ass. Hopefully he’ll be too tired to give it any attention tonight because I’m diseased.

So while I’m waiting, killing time before I have to go and get naked and booted, I thought, ‘What the hell, I’ll write another blog!’ (Because I just know what he’s going to say about the blog awards entry i.e.‘You call that a blog??!??‘)And just to give you a glimpse into my ‘real life’ I’m sitting here with a tissue shoved up both nostrils to stem the tide of drizzle coming out of my nose. Every single time I get sick I wonder to myself, where the hell does it all come from??? And I swear I can catch a cold through the internet. I read  blog someones where they’re sick and then Bamn!! a few days later I’ve got it too! How eerie.

I’ve been home alone for 5 days while Master went to Melbourne. It hasn’t been unusually lonely. I mean, I’m generally home alone for most of the week anyway and I’ve had the poodle pup to keep me company. I was really impressed when the poodle stayed by my bedroom door all last night while I hacked and coughed up my lungs. If I was him I would of said, “Fuck this no sleep thing, I’m heading off to the sofa!” and stomped off, but he stayed there and saw in the dawn with me. Now that’s what I call resilience.

Which leads me into tonight’s blog topic: resilience.

When I was at ‘take two’ of university doing my teacher’s degree I had to suffer through endless lectures about how resilience was what separated the ‘good kids’ from the ‘bad kids’. The basic theory is that if a kid came from a bad home and was abused yadayada and was therefore being lined up for a life of crime and delinquency, but instead ‘chose’ not to go down that path, then that was what we called a ‘resilient’ kid.  Their resilience allowed them to rise above everything that could possibly bring them down and generally they would not get bogged down in challenges later in life. As ‘good teachers’ we were supposed to nurture the resilience in our charges by showing them that they could make good choices or bad choices and more importantly that they always had a choice.

I think that resilience is a good characteristic in a slave too. If you can manage to rise above all the shit that gets thrown at you and still choose not to kill your domly one – resulting in you seeing out the rest of your natural life in prison – then that’s got to be a good thing, hasn’t it? =P

Resilience actually refers to an ability to spring back to an original shape when something has been bent out of shape, like when you’ve been sick or have had some rough times, and you can get back on your feet quickly. But we also tend to use it to mean that something or someone is tough, flexible and doesn’t take it lying down. And once again, I think that is a really important characteristic in a slave.

In conversations with domly ones over the years I’ve been told several times, ‘I’m not looking for a doormat.’They explained  that they want someone with a personality, with some spunk, so to speak. I’m not exactly sure whether they were saying that they wanted someone who they could like as a person as well as their slave, or whether they wanted someone who was going to be a ‘challenge’ or perhaps both. However, if someone is going to be a challenge, I’m not sure whether there is enough thrill in seeing someone finally submit to cover all the work that needs to be done up until that point. Please feel free to correct me if I’m wrong domly ones!

In my slavery I probably err on the side of brattiness – well, the outside world may see it as brattiness, I like to think of it as resilient spunk. I tend not to take things lying down….(yes, give me doggy style any day!)…and I pride myself on being as tough and flexible as I can be. I mean, you’ve really got to be resilient to be a slave. From Day 1 your way goes out the door and his way become the twue way. You don’t have to like it, but you do have to do it.

And if you’re going to get all bent out of shape about that, then you might want to rethink putting that collar around your neck.

Blog awards

Luna, of The Submissive Guide gave the award to me and CarrieAnn of A View from the Floor gave the award to Master. Thank you both!

In light of the fact that there are very few people who haven’t received the award yet (My, don’t we have a tight little community here in blogland! 🙂 )I’ve decided to introduce some entertaining boy blogs that show things from the other side of the fence:

All for Her – explores the dynamic of a “Wife Lead Marriage”

A Kind Dom – do I need to say more?

The Journey -danae’s Master

Into the Attic – a blog kept by JR & ZED. These guys runs the commercial porn site Into the Attic and I find them highly amusing.

 Sir’s Place – littleone’s Sir

The Lustful Quality of Watching Her Erotic Demise – Deity’s blog about the ‘entrancing effect of corrupting the feminine creature’

Siranneal’s JS Replacement – the blog of jean-and-t-shirt-wearing, 18-wheeler-driving Sir Anneal

…and the strangest things seem, suddenly routine – the blog of Twisted Monk, the maker of all good hemp rope

“These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers.”

Well….that’s what the award is supposed to be about, but some of the blogs I’ve mentioned are just damn well amusing! So thank you all for entertaining me 🙂