Controlling the beast

Master thinks I complain a lot. In fact, when I got home from my subbie girl shopping trip on Monday, he wanted to know whether I’d ‘whined’ sufficiently to the other girlies about not getting beaten enough/what a bastard he is/how being a slave is tough.

He may think it’s whining, but I like to call it ‘sharing my feelings’ ūüėČ

I guess that’s the problem with having a blog that is for the sole purpose of ‘venting’. By default, it’s going to be a litany of anger-inducing moments, failures and¬†general whining. If I had a close girlie friend to whine to¬†‘share my feelings with’ then I probably wouldn’t feel the need to write it all down here, but I don’t, so here I whine.

In reply to Master’s question though,¬†¬†I pointed out to him that I hardly ever whine any more and that generally I was at peace . I mean, seriously, how long has it been since I’ve had a meltdown or a massive bitch session?? I think he is stuck with an image of the old me in his head- the one full of expectations, fantasies and unattainable¬†standards who used to have a breakdown every three months or so.

Daphne commented the other day that it seemed like my relationship with Master was becoming more important to me than my relationship with slavery. I thought it was a very astute comment and I think she managed to succinctly put into words the change that has been taking place quietly inside me for the last few months.

I guess I’m at the stage where the bells and whistles are nice, but I don’t really *need* them anymore. If I was in therapy, I guess this would be called a ‘break through’ – the moment where I gain control over what had been controlling me.

I think I used to be more of a slave to slavery and bdsm itself than I was to Master. I was a slave to the trappings, the rituals, the rules, the supposed ‘lifestyle’ that I was supposed to be leading. I think it’s hard to really submit to the one who owns you when you are too busy submitting to what you ‘should’ be doing.

Now, I expect absolutely nothing. I don’t wait in anticipation of weekends for play or parties or anything. There’s no expectation and therefore no disappointment. There’s also no pressure or angst. I don’t think that I’m anything less or more when there has or hasn’t¬†been an implement impacting with my botty and regardless of what does or doesn’t happen, I’m still his slave. As I said, I’ve gained back my control over the beast that is bdsm.

The only downside to this is that I’m whimsical about how passionate I used to be about it. Those early times when I would¬†be too excited¬†to eat or scared shitless or feeling another of the myriad of intense emotions were, in many ways, ‘the good ol’ days’.

Now there is nothing.

But I’m taking that as a good thing, because without the highs, there aren’t any lows either so I’m spending my days in the warm haze of a temperate climate where there aren’t any extremes. It’s not glaring sunshine one day and teeth-chattering cold the next, it’s warm and comfortable every day.

I bet Master will read this and say,

“There you go. Even when you’re not complaining, you’re still complaining.”

…but really, I’m just sharing my feelings 8)

Understanding man-speak

Master sends me things he think I will find amusing and generally I do. This was a recent offering that landed in my inbox from him:

Understanding woman-speak…
1.) Fine : This is the word women use to end an argument when they are right and you need to shut the fuck up.

2.) Five Minutes : If she is getting dressed, this means a half an hour. Five minutes is only five minutes if you have just been given five more minutes to watch tv before helping around the house.

3.) Nothing : This is the calm before the storm. This means something, and you should be on your toes. Arguments that begin with ‘nothing’ usually end in ‘fine’.

4.) Go Ahead : This is a dare, not permission. For fuck’s sake, don’t do it!

5.) Loud Sigh : This isn’t actually a word, but is a non-verbal statement often misunderstood by men. A loud sigh means she thinks you are an idiot and wonders why she is wasting her time standing here and arguing with you about ‘nothing’. (Refer back to #3 for the meaning of nothing.)

6.) That’s Okay : This is one of the most dangerous statements a woman can make to a man. That’s okay means she wants to think long and hard before deciding how and when you will pay for your mistake.

7.) Thanks : A woman is thanking you, do not question, or faint. Just say, ‘You’re welcome.’

8.) Whatever : Is a women’s way of saying FUCK YOU!

9.) Don’t worry about it, I got it: Another dangerous statement, meaning this is something that a woman has told a man to do several times, but is now doing herself. This will later result in a man asking ‘What’s wrong?’ For the woman’s response, refer to #3 then RUN!

Because I’m deep in plague-ness and I’d rather¬†not tear the heads off small children and animals,¬†¬†I’ve decided to write my¬†vocabulary guide:

Understanding man-speak:

1.) I’m fine:¬† This is the phrase men use to avoid going to a doctor even when they are half-dead/ have a gaping hole in some part of their anatomy/ are missing a limb.

2.) I don’t want to talk about it: Obviously in relation to a topic that calls into question their manliness/their ability to fix something/money and/or where they were last Friday night.

3.) I know where I am: ….self-explanatory.

4.) I have one of those in the garage: said in response to a woman’s request to buy something that they really need but¬†that can never be found/requires fixing before¬†it can be used/is not the actual thing that she wanted.

5.) We don’t need to call someone, I can do it: Danger is imminent, call a professional immediately.

6.)¬†A¬†man’s breakfast: generally consists of eggs, bacon, sausages, tomato…and toast cut into liddle twiangles.

7.) I’ll do it¬†on the¬†weekend: be careful here of the rather loose term “on the weekend”…and also the loose terms, “I’ll”, “do” and “it”.

8.) The speed limit: generally refers to the fastest speed the car can do.

9.) In a minute: note that the actual length of time it will take a man to begin to do what he has been asked to do increases proportionally with the type of activity. For anything involving cleaning or shopping, minutes can turn into hours, days or never.

In the driver’s seat

For the first time in 14 years I sat behind the wheel of a car and I have to say, it was…empowering.

And it was not just any old car – it was Master’s beloved Range Rover – and it was at the mercy of my steering and braking.

Of course, along with feeling empowered, I was totally mortified and also nearly shitting myself. I had visions of plowing into Master in the car in front of me or driving over somebody who happened to stray into my path. Fortunately, I wasn’t really ‘driving’ it per se. I was only steering and braking as Master towed it along with his Hyundai (since the beloved rangie had suddenly decided that two blocks from home was a really good place for¬†its transmission to die.)

I’m not sure whether feeling empowered is such a good thing for a slave. In fact, I’ve spent nearly the last four years attempting to surrender my power and learning to depend upon my domly one for decision-making. And I’d have to admit that¬†the training has¬†been quite effective. If I¬†was a bit indecisive before I became a slave, I now can’t make a decision to save my life.

As an example, when rangie died and I was sitting there thinking, “What the fuck are we going to do?’, Master had already jumped out of the car and was walking for home to get the Hyundai and all the necessary straps and tools for towing. He quickly returned, then calmly directed me as to where to attached things and then gave me instructions for driving that began with which pedal was the brake. All the while, staying very cool, calm and collected. He was like a sea captain steering his ship through a raging storm – sure-footed and exuding confidence to keep his crew together.

That’s not to say¬†I don’t have a driver’s license. I have a crisp, shiny, gold driver’s license that generally serves no other purpose than getting me into nightclubs. I got my license when I was¬†seventeen and spent a blissful two months enjoying the freedom of wheels, before¬†I failed to give way to another car at an intersection and broke a physics law by having two bodies in the same place and time of the continuum.¬†There was a lot of blood (the other driver’s)¬†and damage (both cars were total and near write-offs) and three days later I left for Japan with bruises all over my body from the seat belt and impacting with the steering wheel and parking brake handle. I haven’t been behind a wheel since…until yesterday that is.

I’ve often thought about getting some driving lessons and maybe starting to drive again. God knows, in Perth it would be infinitely useful, as we live in the ‘twilight zone’ of public transport accessibility. But Master’s comment when I voiced my plans for ‘slave freedom’ by starting driving again was,


To be honest, I¬†think some part of me was really relieved when he said no. I’m actually still quite scared about the whole concept of driving, and in some strange, twisted way, being at the ‘mercy’ of public transport and Master’s transport makes me somehow feel….more slavey?? I somehow think that being able to go where I want, when I want would be like putting another nail in the coffin of my slavery.

And then I was thinking,

“Am I that insecure in my slavery that putting me behind the wheel of a car would spell the beginning of the end?”

You may have noticed from the tone of my entries lately that I’m in a sort of mid-slavery crisis – re-evaluating expectations and what I am and what I’m not. I don’t know exactly where I fit in, in the bdsm scheme of things, but I’m thinking more and more about the importance of being true to yourself and doing what makes ‘you’¬† (i.e. Master and I)happy as opposed to what is ‘expected’ to make you happy as per the roles you have taken on.

I haven’t got any answers yet.¬† When I do, I’ll let you know.

Until then, I’ll continue to be freaked out about being placed in the driver’s seat of the beloved rangie.

And these are the days of kitten’s lives

If I was really a cat, honest to god, I would of lost a life yesterday morning. I died, and by that I mean that I hovered over my body and looked down upon myself at 5am as I felt something something small, hard and alien in bed with me.

With my heart-pounding, I was still half-asleep¬†as I scooped it up and threw it across the room. It’s probably a dog biscuit or something I thought to myself (the poodle pup likes to scatter them all over the house¬†so it pays to watch where you’re stepping while in stiletto boots), but curiousity got the better of me, so I turned on the light and had a look at what it was.

A fucking cockroach.

And it was still alive! So I did a comando roll out of bed, grabbed my slipper with a free hand and thumped the bejesus out of it. Probably a few times more than was necessary, but at least I knew the sucker was dead.

Ahhh….the glamorous life of a sex slave.

Well, I’m down to 8 lives now so I’d better do bed-checks before hopping in bed from now on or this kitty is going to soon be a dead kitty.

In other news, it looks like my anticipated trip to Japan is not going to be happening (I’d applied for a programme through the Japanese Foreign Ministry that was for an 11-day all-inclusive trip to Japan.) People selected were supposed to have been contacted by 22nd April…and well, it’s the 25th now and…yeah….

The good side of not going is that it will mean that I have 16 news lollies to add to my lolly jar! Yay!

*does a little happy dance*

Master and I had a bet using my remaining 9 releases, which I would lose if I got to go and if I didn’t get to go, I would get an additional 16. Master was working under the assumption that if I got to go to Japan, not only wouldn’t it cost him anything, but he would be holding all the release cards. A total win-win for him.

I was working under the assumption that a person who has already spent ten years in Japan wouldn’t be chosen to go again, so I knew that I’d be pretty damn safe betting my last 9 releases on the chance of gaining 16 more.

My¬†next bit of news is that I’ve reached my first weight loss goal! Yay!

*does another happy dance*

I was hoping there would be a blimp trailing, ‘Congratulations!!!!’ across the sky and fireworks erupting as I typed in my weight this morning, but the only thing was a, ‘Well done on achieving your first goal!’ that flashed up on the screen in calorieking. It was a tad deflating.

I was also hoping that maybe they’d give me a few more calories in my daily allowance so that I wouldn’t have to angst over whether the apple I had eaten with my yoghurt for lunch was going to tip me over my 1310cals for the day, but instead the bastards dropped it to 1280cals! I’m hoping to eventually fit into an uber lovely pair of leather pants that Master purchased for me eons ago, but that I’ve never been able to get past my¬†thunder thighs.¬†Hopefully having something to wear will encourage Master to let me attend a party wearing them, instead of going butt naked.

Finally, I just have this delightful little moment from our trip to the supermarket yesterday to share with you. They had packets of salt on special for 93c for 1kg yesterday so I bought 10 packets. It’s salt harvested from natural salt beds in Western Australia and contains no iodine, so it’s perfect for my pussy cleaning.

As we went through the checkout, the checkout chick looked at the mound of salt on the conveyor belt, scanned a packet and said,

“Wow, that’s cheap.”

“Yep, that’s why I bought so much,” I replied.

She then thought about it for a moment and asked,

“Yeah, but does this stuff keep?”

I looked at Master. He looked at me. It was priceless.

Ahhh….the kids of today. What will the world be like when they’re in charge???

Change in all things is good

Mannerika is another one of those funky Japanese-English words¬†from language limbo – ¬†being neither really English or really Japanese.¬†It comes from the English word ‘mannerism’ but is used to mean being stuck in a rut – often in terms of a sexual rut.

You may or may not know that Japanese imports a lot of words from other languages (mostly from English, but also Portuguese, German etc.) so along with learning the Japanese-Japanese words, you’re also learning funky words that are often known as Engrish. Words like anime from animation are pretty self-explanatory, but when handoru (handle) is used to refer to a steering wheer in a car or when sutobu(stove) is a kerosene heater, communication gets challenging. (Oh, and I’m not saying using words from other languages is unique to Japanese, I’m just using it as an example.)

It becomes more interesting when you think about the fact that Engrish is often used when the thing didn’t originally exist in Japan,¬†resulting¬†in there being no¬†Japanese-Japanese word for it.¬†¬†Does that mean that the Japanese never used to get stuck in a rut I wonder???¬†I highly doubt that, but¬†by that logic it¬†does mean that they never used to do¬†3P (pronounced ‘surii p’ meaning threesomes), ¬†6-9 (pronounced ‘shikkusu nain’ meaning 69s)¬†or onanii (from onanism meaning masturbation – thanks Daphne!)? Or maybe they just never talked about it…lol. (As well as onanii, there are a couple of Japanese-Japanese words for masturbation – which does suggest it has been done in ages past – thank god!¬†)

So after that Japanese lesson, I’ll move onto today’s topic – being stuck in a rut.

Being human beings, we like change. We like new experiences, new things, we don’t like to eat the same food over and over again or do the same things day in, day out. Having such a large brain means that we need to be stimulated and challenged. As children we learn from experiences. We can be told not to do something ten million times, but it’s not until we’ve actually burnt a finger or fallen off something that we really learn not to do it.

Any sort of relationship we have must also change, because the people inside it are in a constant state of flux. We grow, we change, what we like and what we enjoy can differ from day to day. In fact, it’s un-natural for it not to. I’m not the same person who, four years ago, wanted to run off and be a slave. I think about D/s very, very differently now to how I did back then.

I used to think I would die, if I couldn’t be a slave. My life used to revolve around my slavery and everything to do with it. I now realise that it is but a part of my life and it’s not the be all and end all of my existence. I used to want to play from the moment I woke up until the moment I went to sleep. I wanted to experience everything and everything. In essence, I was the newborn babe doing her tactile learning and absorbing information from the ‘new’ world around me.

Since then I’ve been through the angsty teenage years of wanting to be in the ‘in-crowd’ doing ‘x,y and z’ and now I’m into mellow D/s middle-age where you do what you can when you can and you stop worrying so much about perceived labels. The die-hard habit of ‘should-ing’ all over yourself and your relationship as to what you ‘should’ be doing as a D/s couple, also takes a backseat to the reality of life, what you both actually want and what you can realistically do.

While the ‘kids’ run around poking themselves full of needles and go from dom to dom looking for their twue master who gives two hours of aftercare and makes his own toys, I’m grateful for ending up where I am.

Content. Loved. In Love.

Sex slave vs. Slave

Although this title might conjure up images of¬†two girls wrestling it out in jelly/mud/oil (and¬†FYI, I’ve¬†*never* understood men’s fascination with those types of activities)¬†I’m actually referring to the difference between your every day, run-of-the-mill slave mainly in a D/s relationship to be controlled (sex can be optional and denial of¬†it is often practised by the domlyone) and a sex slave which, by my definition, is there mainly to do all sorts of nasty things in the bedroom and have/give copious amounts of sexual pleasure.

During our whole hard-limits talk the other day, Master once again pointed out to me that my cunt is for his pleasure, not mine and that he will do with it what he wants and if he wants it ringed, it will stay ringed.

Okay…I get that. I’m his property and by default he can do what he wants with his stuff, but what I’m starting to realise is that his idea of a slave and my idea of a slave are *totally* different. I guess I’ve always thought of being used for sex as an integral part of being a slave (i.e. sex slave), whereas he feels it’s optional (i.e. slave). After all this time, I’m just understanding that his ‘slave’ and my ‘slave’ are two very different beasts – mine having two backs and his¬†just¬†breaking his/her back in the fields ūüôā

Going back a few months ago when I had a meltdown about my cunt, one of my main issues was that I felt like I wasn’t ‘serving the purpose of a slave’ by having my cunt out of action i.e. it being so sore that touching/sex is totally out of the question (Well, I’d like it to be off the menu, but if Master doesn’t mind his slave crying her eyes out while he is doing what he wants, then it stays on the menu. Generally he is very good about though, and will stop when it gets more than I can bear, or if I’ve told him it’s sore he will stay away from the area.)

To me, having a non-functioning cunt was a bit like having my collar removed – I felt like I was no longer a ‘slave’. Inside¬†I just kept thinking, ‘How can I be a slave if I can’t have sex? What good am I like this?’ Inside Master’s brain however, I was still his slave, nothing had changed and life was going on – just with me having a sore pussy.

By my reckoning, as a Master, you should want you slave to be a horny little slut, getting herself all nice and juicy several times a day so that she can ‘serve her purpose’. By Master’s reckoning, slaves should feel incredibly lucky whenever they are given the ‘gift’ of being sexually used (as it’s not the norm in a slave’s life). In a sense, Master’s idea of a slave is a lot purer than mine is and a lot closer to what slaves have been¬†used for historically.

That’s not to say that I don’t get ravished. Of course I do! In fact, I would say that I get ravished much, much more than I get beaten. Master’s definition of slave though, is that sexual use is not¬†their main purpose and that¬†a slave¬†should be ‘available’ for anything, not just ‘sexually available’ (which I felt that I wasn’t due to my non-fully-functional pussy and I couldn’t think about anything else).

I’ve been a long time in learning this particular lesson and perhaps it’s why of late I’m okay with whatever, if anything, is on the play menu. It was another piece of the slavery puzzle I needed to learn and funnily enough, every time a little piece of the puzzle clicks into place, I become more peaceful within.

In case you’re wondering how I started thinking about this, it was the following question Florida Dom asked:

Didn’t you say in a recent post that he offered to let you take the rings out because of all the problems with them yet you decided not to.Yet you also say you wouldn’t have agreed ito them in the beginning if you knew then what you know now. And how much pain and hassle do they still cause you now?
Could you delve into this topic more and explain your current thoughts?

(Just skip the rest of this if you’re o.v.e.r me whining about my pussy all the time…)

In answer to the question, yes, Master¬†did say¬†he would let me take them out (he has since said under no circumstances are they coming out), but after nearly 3 yrs of putting up with them and coming this far, I didn’t want to just toss in the towel. It’s difficult to explain…I’m sure most people would say, ‘Take them the fuck out!’ the minute they could, but for me,¬†giving in¬†was akin to saying I was a ‘loser’. Having said that though, if I could go back in time, I would definitely say a big fat no to the piercings. I miss how my lips used to be…

Pain and hassle?? Well, as far as pain goes, I have good days and bad days. Good days are where there’s a few tugs and twists, but it’s okay – ¬†mostly due to the fact that I’m used to it now. Bad days are where walking brings tears to my eyes and several repetitions of¬† ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’ are muttered along with lots of sucking in of breath through gritted teeth. A couple of times I’ve literally burst into tears and had to sit down¬†while out shopping.

Hassle includes a daily salt bath and cleaning with cotton tips, several checks a day to make sure my balls are still screwed on, and many, many underwear rearrangements¬†(oh, and I’ve tried the no underwear thing and¬†I’ve found that I’m better off with the support underwear provides.)¬†There is also the application of cortisone cream or soluble aspirin on occasion. Peeing requires special wiping techniques (the dab-dab instead of the wipe-wipe) and getting the hitachi to a pleasure zone without¬†hitting anything down there requires a university degree. Hair removal is also incredibly challenging (I used to get waxed, but the chance of having one of them ripped out was just too high, so now I use depilatory cream.) And last but not least, you don’t even want to know what happens down there when I get my period.

Currently, I have a love-hate relationship with my cunt. Yes, they look great and admitedly, I love being able to say that I have piercings down there and being able to show them off, but they have a *huge* impact on the quality of my life. Ultimately though, regardless of what I feel about them I’ve just gotta suck it up ’cause what the man wants, the man gets.

Some people are just bizarre

You know what I really love? Waking up naturally without an alarm, making a spanish omelet and cappuccino for breakfast and then just chilling while I read blogs and check email. It’s one of my simple pleasures in life and right up there with long baths taken while watching SaTC and drinking hot chocolate in front of the fire.

Another one¬†of¬†my daily pleasures¬† is looking at what people have searched for to find my blog and like kitten, some people are looking for some funky shit. To give you a little bit of an idea, let’s look at some of my favourites:

enema girl – is it a bird? is it a plane? no, it’s enema girl!

slavegirl on woman leash – is that different to girl on girl?

mature botty – hmm…not too thrilled about this one

nice botty – you can come back again!

slavegirl public dog fuck humiliation– ummm, you ain’t never gonna see that here!

pictures of english slavegirls with pier – wtf??

virgin pussy – nope, sorry.

black slavegirl – once again, nope, sorry.

make it more painful and humiliating for – please don’t.

need to have my ass fucked – well, I ain’t gong to fuck it for you.

dirty girls down under – is it just me or just that sound like the title of a porno?

koala-ing – awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

easy access slut Рgiggity giggity.

subtle boobies – yes, I have ‘subtle boobies’, but you don’t have to make a point of it!

dom asshole – if you have to ask, you usually are.

And my personal favourite…

spunked bedroom tissue

Boys and their CBT toys

I came across a thread posted on one of the lj communities I frequent the other day that literally opened a pandora’s box between me and Master.¬†The thread was a desperate plea from a subbie boy wanting to begin a relationship with two masters and wondering what to do¬†about the masters’ requirements. They¬†wanted to keep him in a chastity device permanently and he didn’t want to be – with the catch being that if he didn’t submit to their requirement, the relationship was a no-go.

He stated that he didn’t want his ‘quality of life’ to be affected (i.e. still be able to go to the gym, be able to sleep comfortably etc.) and that when he’d worn one before it didn’t make him horny or anything, just uncomfortable and he saw no point. As you can imagine, most of the comments were along the lines of , ‘You still have a right to hard limits and if that’s your hard limit and they won’t accept it, you’re better off not being in the relationship.’

I mentioned the thread to Master knowing that he has an interest in bois and their toys and he responded with his usual:

“Bois should always be in chastity and just be milked on occasion. If I had one, that’s what I’d do. Bois shouldn’t be expecting to have anything else.”

Master and I have talked about bois in the past and he’s often said he’d like to have one to come and do the gardening and fuck me every now and then. Of course, the boi would be in a cock cage¬†outside of the times when¬†his ‘services’ were required. Whenever we talk about the subject, Master always get an excited gleam in his eye. Incidentally, he gets the same gleam whenever the topic of conversation is boots….

So, anyway,¬†we were¬†discussing the subbie’s boy’s dilemma on the phone last night and I was of the opinion that it’s not really healthy to always be in chastity and that not everything works for all people. I thought it was pretty unreasonable that they were demanding it of him. Master’s opinion was that if he was a subbie boy, then that’s what he would have to put up with and if he didn’t want to, then he’d have to find someone else who could accept that.

I then said that¬†the subbie boy¬†should be able to ‘negotiate’ to a certain extent and that even if he is unable to do exactly what the masters want, then there should still be other ways that he could ‘serve’.

Master said, “No, it doesn’t work like that.”

So I said that generally in the ‘honeymoon’ phase of a d/s relationship you are willing to go through a lot of funky stuff without a lot of consideration of the consequences and that¬†sometimes not everything works out the way you planned e.g. my cunt rings.

He said, “Yeah, well, shit happens.” (or words to that effect)

So having my curiousity piqued I asked,

“So¬†what would of happened if I had refused to have my labia pierced at the beginning of our relationship? Would I not be here now?”

And he said,

“Probably not.”

Hearing that was a bit like getting a bullet in the chest.  I mean, if I had realised at the start that my piercings would impact on my quality of life they way they do and if I had known that there was even a chance that they would end up the way they are, I would never, ever have gone through with it.

As it was, I was burning with slave need and never even thought to look into what can go wrong with piercings and how shit like that can affect your life. He said, “I want you pierced with 6 rings in your outer labia.” I said, “Yes, Master“and it was done. For Master,¬†apparently saying no¬†would of been a deal breaker. If I had said no, he wouldn’t have become my Master.

He said it was the same as if I had been a smoker and refused to quit. He would not have been able to have a relationship with me as a smoker and I can understand that…smoking is just wrong. I would never have a relationship with someone who is a smoker either, but is not submitting to having your labia pierced deal-breaking material???

I’m still blown away by his thoughts on the matter. I think about everything we have above and beyond my slave ‘trinkets’ and can’t believe that slave-sans-cunt-rings is such a big deal. In the scheme of things, what function do they serve other than to cause me pain and stress? Sure he might enjoy seeing them every now and then, but seriously….

Looking at the situation from the other side of the fence, what if I had said no to the relationship because he wasn’t a shibari-pro? How….shallow (fucked up??) would that be?

I feel sorry for the subbie boy with the chastity dilemma. I know what it’s like to want to be owned with all your heart and soul. I understand his burning desire to please, but also his apprehension at doing¬†something that will affect his life both physically and mentally.

This is why subbie folk are scared to use their safe words, scared to say¬†no and often do things beyond what they are comfortable with doing. They’re scared of rejection and scared that if they don’t do something, it’s going to be a deal breaker. With no one to blame but themselves for not being ‘submissive’ enough, what’s a subbie one to do?

A letter

Vanimp over at vanillaimpaired wrote the funniest post¬†to her pets the other day. Seriously, you should go over there and read it and maybe leave her a comment or two…although she just got a hitachi and gonzo delivered to her door so we may not see her surface for a few days to write a reply….:)

Vanimp’s letter inspired me to write a letter to Master¬†(hope you don’t mind vanimp….what is that they say about imitation being……??)


A Letter

Dear Master,

The dishes and drinks on the table in front of you are yours. The food on my plate and the drink in my glass is mine. Just because I haven’t eaten/drunk¬†what’s in front of me¬†yet doesn’t mean I don’t want it. I don’t find it¬†spiritually pleasing¬†when I’ve angsted over what to order, only to have it disappear down your throat. I also believe that a taste-test shouldn’t require consumption of my whole piece of cake.

Pulling me along by my hair or half-choking me with my collar¬†does not make me crawl any faster. Similarly swatting me on the bottom as I try to move doesn’t make the journey from my room to your bed any quicker

I cannot detach my arms from my body so when you get angry when I tell you I can’t take my top off with my wrists in handcuffs – believe me. I also cannot suck cock when I have a blocked nose or scratch your back if you are lying on it. Getting into the ‘hot toweling’ position doesn’t mean that I will automatically give you one and asking me, ‘Where’s my coffee bitch?’ when you haven’t even asked for one would normally get you nothing but a forehead slap…if I wasn’t your slave of course.

Stiletto heels are very difficult to walk in and thigh-high boots are very difficult to put on. Waking me up at 6am and telling me to put thigh-high boots with stiletto heels on when I’m only half-awake is a recipe for disaster.

I don’t share your same penchant for my nakedness and I also don’t enjoy wearing things that only someone half my size should be wearing. Forgive me when I groan and moan about your wardrobe choices for me as clearly you enjoy humiliating me.

Toilet spray can smell nicer than your crap, but only when you use less than half a can, and disappearing into your bathroom to have¬†your two minute¬†shower and then getting angry when I’m not waiting there towel-in-hand to dry you down¬†when you step out¬†is, of course, unforgiveable.¬†Because yes, I am psychic and know what you are doing at all times.

The proper¬†time for kissing is: never. The proper time for licking is: never. Saying that you will ‘break me to kissing’ doesn’t make it any more pleasant for me. Ever.

Remember, slaves are better than kids because they:

1.     only eat gruel

2.     don’t have any money or property

3.     are easier to train

4.     normally come when called

5.     never ask to drive the car

6.     don’t hang out with anyone

7.     don’t smoke or drink (without permission)

8.     don’t wear clothes

9.     don’t have to buy the latest fashions (see previous point)

10.   don’t need a gazillion dollars for college/school/life

11.   if they get pregnant, you can sell them

The question

It took nearly three months but I was finally asked ‘the question’ by¬†my boss at work today. Actually it was¬†six questions and some random comments about my collar, but it did include the most classic of questions:

Does he snap a leash on it and take you for a walk?”

I’ve mentioned¬†before that asking people you don’t really know really personal questions is the norm in Japan and once again my cultural observations were proven correct.

It all started innocently enough as we were walking to the carpark:

“That thing around your neck…does it come¬†off?

I’m not sure whether it was the long Easter break that gave him too much time to think up questions or what it was, but once the floodgates were¬†opened, they all just came gushing out:

“How do you take it off?”

“Did M give it to you?”

“Where do you buy one?”

“Don’t you want to take it off?”

All culminating in the double whammy of:

“It looks like a collar. Does he snap a leash on it and take you for a walk? Walkies?!?”

I turned a deep crimson and did the Japanese girlie laugh (which amused him even more),¬†explained that¬†it was an eternity necklace that could be taken off, but I didn’t want to take it off and that no, M doesn’t snap a leash on it and take me for walks.

“Why didn’t you just tell him it is a collar and that I do snap on leashes and take you for walks???”

Master demanded to know why I hadn’t set my boss straight in our evening phone call when I told him what had happened.

Now, I’m not stupid enough that I would out blatantly tell my boss about my lifestyle choice. I’ve read all the stories buzzing in the newspapers about how many people have been fired from their jobs for having funky status lines on their facebook or for bad-mouthing their workplace or employer in their blog. I even read poor luna’s story about how she lost her job by having a co-worker, who she thought was a friend, see her looking at some kinky stuff at work.

I mean, you just never know how a person is going to react to that sort of information and there’s nothing worse than telling someone (who you think you can trust) only to have them poke fun at you every time you see them, or worse fire you/have you fired.

That¬†is why in the “Occupation” line on forms I don’t write “Sex slave” and also why I tell people I did, “Nothing” last night instead of saying, “Well, I tied myself up, stuck a dildo up my ass, put gonzo on my clit, put on a ball-gag, used the prisoner shackles, attached clover clamps to my nipples and had a deep guttural orgasm…. How about you?”

I’d been waiting for the day that ‘the question’ would be asked and I supposed a part of me was surprised that it took this long. Now I’m wondering whether there will be any follow-up questions. Time will tell I guess.

Bed chain and boobies

Open k asked me whether my bed chain is attached to anything. The answer? Yes……the bed ūüôā

*beams at own little joke*

Actually it works like this:

bed chain

When we got the house painted and had to move all the furniture, Master decided to hammer an anchor point into the base of bed so my chain can be attached to it.

pillow chain

Master also purchased a nice length of chain so I have ‘freedom of movement’ when I’m in bed and there is a D shackle on the end that is attached to my collar.

While a four-poster bed with the chain coming down from above would be ideal, the reality is much more practical. With the chain where it is, I can simply drop it down behind the bed if anyone comes and no-one is the wiser.

Since I was in my room taking pictures, I thought I’d add a bonus pic of my boobies since porn material has been pretty thin on the ground here recently.


Generally this is how I ‘entertain’ my boobies when I have a release. I also like to get another shackle and bring the two clover clamps closer together or I attach one of the shackles on the linking chain to the bed head so I have pulling in two directions. Normally I also do some rope bondage with the clamping so I get the nice ‘purple boobie’ effect.

Unfortunately I don’t really have the boobage (or at least the implants) necessary to do good boobie bondage, but the addition of the rope does ramp up the pain. Of course, this sort of boobie pain *needs* to be accompanied by the pleasure of the Amazing Gonzo.

Open k also asked me what sort of things I have to ask for permission for. My list is fairly concise:

– anything above and beyond my standard slave gruel (i.e sweets and treats)
– removal of boots
– re-clothing of clothing
– going to bed
– getting out of the cage
– releases (if I don’t have any left in my lolly jar)
– cumming when I’m with Master

And that’s about it for permission asking.

I’m a big fan of questions, so don’t be shy if you have a burning question to ask. Ask, ask away! (Not only do questions feed the narcissist in me, but they also give me a blog topic! Yay…)

This is what gets me into trouble


(Yes, I’m now officially a WoW geek by posting a pic of my main on my blog.)

I spent 90% of yesterday getting the silent punishment from Master. He didn’t talk to me, wouldn’t have me do anything for him and basically just ignored me from the time of my early morning discretion. And what did I do to deserve that?

I was being my blood elf paladin when I should of been his slave.

I’ve had a little bit of an abnormal obsession with playing WoW ever since a couple of weeks ago when I decided that I really needed to get a flying mount. Bizarre, isn’t it? A thirty-two year old thinking about nothing other than how to get enough gold together to ‘buy’ something that flies in a computer game. Actually, writing it down like this, it’s just sad.

Master started out patiently listening to me talk about my gold-farming exploits and even managed to do an excellent job of feigning interest when I told him of my climbing gold tally between my three characters and how I’d squandered 5000 gold on¬†another character that is nowhere near high enough level-wise yet to fly.

But then yesterday morning, he asked me to make him breakfast. I was in the middle of doing a ‘deal’ to get more gold and 20mins later when he was still waiting, and I finally made a move to the kitchen, my tardiness broke the donkey’s broke and I was instructed not to talk to him and leave him alone.

Personally, I’d rather have a good solid beating than the silent treatment. I’d rather it be done and the slate wiped clean than hang around miserably waiting for absolution. Some pain, some cathartic tears to lessen the guilt and life goes on, lesson learned. 24hrs of silence that was so heavy it could be cut with a knife was not pleasant. He did his thing, I did mine. We were like room-mates with an icy relationship.

Every time¬†I piss him off or I get the silent treatment there is always a little part of me that thinks, “Ok, now he’s going to get rid of me.” I have frantic thoughts about being turned out on the street, collar removed, suitcase in hand. I don’t generally think that my ‘position’ is so unstable that I could be released at any moment, but every time I rock the boat I can’t help thinking, ‘What if he lets me go?’

Being a slave and only a slave is like dancing on a blade’s edge. Since I serve no other purpose than to be his slave, if I’m not doing that then he has no reason to keep me. It’s not like we’re married or have property together or anything else that would keep us together. We’re two completely separate entities that have, in many ways, entered into a ‘business agreement’. In employer speak, if an employee isn’t doing their job, you fire them. Similarly, if you’re a Master and your slave isn’t being your slave, why keep them?

This morning he came into my bedroom early, unchained me, attached the short leash and took me to his bed. An hour-long interrogation session followed with the main thrust being that he ‘hoped I’d learned my lesson.’ He said he knows that I am intrinsically¬†a slave and that not being able to be that slave should have been a harsher punishment than any beating he could of given me.

And it was.

When I first went and apologised to him and he turned me away, it hurt. I got all teary and felt thoroughly rejected. In the scheme of things what I did was not so bad, but I supposed from a Master’s point of view having your slave put priority on something else than their Master is a cardinal sin.

So I’ve learned my lesson and today I’m actually glad to hear, ‘Bitch, coffee me!‘ ringing through out the house. It beats stony silence any day.

Masochistic dreams

A 33-year-old Australian man has apparently had himself crucified to celebrate Easter. He’s either got some pretty serious scientific curiousity, radical Christian beliefs¬†or a serious case of ‘give-me-pain-please’.

I often wonder what sort of things masochists dream about doing. While my¬†innocent little cravings consist of nothing more than some heavily weighted clover clamps, I’m sure their cravings go into the realms of OMG-ness. I still remember that morning I sat down with my morning porridge and¬†coffee while I casually¬†clicked through my blogroll and saw kaya’s tit-nailing video (and if I wasn’t so lazy I’d link it, but I’m sure everyone remembers it anyway….) I knew I shouldn’t of clicked, but once I did, I was like a deer in headlights. Needless to say my porridge stayed in the bowl and I had flashbacks throughout the day.

When I come across something ‘extreme’ it’s a bit like passing a traffic accident scene – you don’t want to look but you really can’t help yourself. Call it morbid curiousity or even stupidity, but I am intrigued by¬†(and possibly jealous of)¬†those with a pain tolerance infinitely higher than mine.

I suppose in the scheme of things, a slave’s ‘worth’ is measured by pain tolerance. We all put our politically correct hats on and say things like, ‘you’re a slave by your own definition’, ‘you don’t have to be into pain to be into bdsm’, ‘sensual play and service are just as relavent’, but the reality is bruises, welts and wounds will get you a round of applause and respect any day.

This¬†might be harsh, but overly dramatic people i.e. the ones who howl with a drag of a fingernail over their flesh, annoy the crap out of me. I don’t make allowances for different people’s pain tolerances and¬†I don’t believe that some people are a lot more sensitive. To me, they’re a pussy and that’s that. Porn in this same category also immediately turns me off.

As I’ve said, a lot of people have higher pain tolerances than me. I accept that. I accept that they’re better than me and therefore I’m a loser. I used to tear myself up about being the ‘loser’, but now I just accept that I have limitations and there will always be people better than me. I’m not even going to try to compete with something that is beyond me. I just think ‘that’s life’ and I’m happy with that.

It’s very freeing to live within your limitations and I don’t need to be nailed to a cross to know it’s not for me.

Why the why?

I’ve been chewing this topic over for about a week now, thinking about the point I’m trying to make and what I want to say and¬†then thinking that maybe I don’t have a point after all and deciding not to write. I do that all the time – have a spark of an idea for a blog topic and then doubt and angst over whether I’ve really got something valid to say.¬† I mean, who the hell am I to have an opinion? Master has, after all, spent the last 2 1/2 years teaching me that I’m pond scum. Is pond scum supposed to have an opinion?

Sometimes I think I should just write about my day and be done with it. Of course, that would make absolutely riveting reading as my readers struggled¬†to keep their eyes open¬†as I related the amusing story of how my shoes broke on the way home from work or how I couldn’t decide what to have for dinner. I’m sure my blog stats would simply go through the roof (have I mentioned that I am secretly addicted to wordpress’ blog stats???lol.)

Well, anyway, onto the topic: I’ve decided that I’m a very reason-orientated person in that I like to know the why of things. I’m not so naturally inquisitive as to pull apart my toaster just to see what makes it brown stuff, but I definitely like to know how my actions contribute to the world around me. (I would also like to know how they can possibly make a new Star Trek movie with a crappy Australian actor in it instead of Jean Luc, but I think that will remain a¬†mystery for years to come…)

Being reason-orientated and being a slave at the same time is not good mix. Slaves are suppose to *do*,  not *do because xyz*. Unfortunately though, a lot of the interactions between me and Master go like this:

‘Come here.’


“Put your boots on.”


….and so on ad nauseum.

Sometimes a reason as simple as, ‘Because I want you to’¬† will satisfy some burning little desire in me to have a reason to do something. Which really is strange because the very act of him asking me to do something is obviously motivated by his wish for me to do it. But for some reason, I need to hear the words. I need to know that I’m doing it for him.

Being reason-orientated¬†is also why I have so much trouble doing things that seemingly serve no purpose e.g. being chained to the bed when I’m alone in the house and he is 300kms away. I mentioned before that I was having problems with getting into¬†a slave head-space and one of the suggestions was for me to do some meditation or repeat a mantra or something. It sounds like a good idea, but in reality¬†my mantra instead of being, ‘I am slave’ would become,¬†‘Why the hell do I have to do this?’

Master and I have been watching Rome season two on dvd and I have to say they had a very no-fuss policy towards their slaves – fuck them up the bum, beat them well and don’t kill them capriciously. Anytime a slave was impudent or ‘rose’ above their station, they’d be beaten swiftly and life would go on. There was no, “Why do I have to stand here for hours fanning you with these feathers?” or “Why can’t you put your own damn grapes in your mouth?”

I suppose we are talking about a culture where smearing fresh chicken blood over your children’s faces was the best way to remove a curse, but at least slaves knew better than to ask, ‘Why?’

I really don’t see how this can be comfortable..


…but that’s how our fluff pup likes to sleep in the hallway outside my slavecell bedroom door. Then again, I can’t really talk, I lodge a pillow between my thighs, have my upper body¬†face¬†down on the bed, put one arm under my head pillow, put the other arm Cleopatra-like under my neck, all the while trying not to get a dead shoulder from lying on my chain.

That’s the only way I can get comfortable with my pussy and maybe that’s the only way he feels comfortable in his old age. The poodle is, after all, ¬†a ripe old man of 84yrs. But he’s still uber cute – although it would dramatically reduce my loads of washing if he refrained from wiping his dog snot all over my black skirts whenever I walk in the door. He only does that to me and apparently by rubbing his scent all over me, he is reasserting his higher place in the pack order.

Our pack order is: Master, poodle, slave bitch. Even though I’m the one who gives him food and water, I’m only worthy of having dog snot wiped all over me. It’s funny when I’m in the cage or lying on the floor, the poodle will come over and have a good sniff or stand over me with a slightly amused look in his eyes. He ain’t stupid, he knows who is the alpha dog.

In other news, it’s been exactly a month since I started keeping an online food diary over at (the US version is not free…)¬†If you haven’t tried it and are interested in losing weight, it’s a great free site that allows you to record your daily food & fluid intake as well as record your exercise and steps you’ve walked. You also weigh in every week and record your measurements¬†and if you don’t check-in for a while, you get a ‘nice’ email reminder.

Instead of opting for having my boss as my ‘scary personal trainer’ I went with the low-impact online version and although it still requires will-power, it’s a high-tech version of the old ‘food journal’ which is generally a true and tested method of losing weight. But more importantly, it generates cool little graphs which I get a kick out of ūüôā

Wanting to be one of those uber thin, flexible sluts for our masters seems to be on the top of every slavegirl’s wishlist. I ain’t ever going to be one of those, but I’d like to be a healthier, fitter me and stay that way. Staying that way seems to be the thing that I can’t ever do, but maybe this time, maybe…maybe…maybe.

Dom = asshole ?

I’ve noticed a few discussions here and there about whether a dom can be ‘trained’ or not. By ‘training’ they’re referring to whether you can teach him to help around the house a bit. All I have to say to that is this: just because you call yourself a dom, doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole (although I did wonder about Master this morning when he instructed me to use the bench-top grill instead of the¬†frying pan to cook his bacon so that I would ‘have some to clean’…asshole.)

I’m very much for a man, whether dominant or not, doing the little things around the house that make life easier e.g. putting water on dishes so they don’t get so hard you need a jackhammer to clean them, putting dirty clothes in the laundry basket and not strewing them around the house like a trail, taking the garbage out if he is going that way to his car anyway.

I don’t think I should, even as the submissive in the relationship, have to wrack my brains for ways of carefully suggesting -without offending him – that I want him to do such things. I also shouldn’t have to worry about it being suggested that I’m not ‘doing my job’ if he has to lift a finger every now and then. Even as a submissive you should be able to say, “Sweetie, would you mind doing xxx please?” And the dominant shouldn’t be so insecure in his dominance that doing a bit of ‘slave work’ would jeopardize the foundations of the power exchange. I mean, he doesn’t need to be an asshole, just to maintain his status as dominant. Right?

I know a lot of men think that anything to do with the house is ‘women’s work’ because that is the ‘traditional’ division of labour, but the reality is that stuff in the house needs to be done and¬†if spending 5 seconds putting water on some dishes will make your woman happy, you should do it. The man should not worry that doing it will make him a pussy, what the man should worry about is how women have a wonderful capacity to store things in their mind and as she’s scrubbing to get the encrusted scum off the plates, she’ll be mumbling under her breath and creating another little notch on her list of ‘things to resent him for’. Just because she is a ‘slave’ does not suddenly make her happy to spend 20mins scrubbing plates instead of the 5mins it would of taken had he put some water on them.

Fortunately Master is fairly well ‘trained’ ūüôā He puts his own clothes in the washing machine, cooks, takes me grocery shopping and lugs heavy bags of groceries into the house, has been known to load the dishwasher, does outside ‘boy stuff’ and hunts and gathers all manner of things for me. Generally when he is being an ‘asshole’, like this morning with the frying pan, it’s because he thinks he is cute and funny. Luckily he is cute and funny enough for me not to start sewing voodoo dolls or plan a slave revolt.

Because I only work part-time and Master pays for all the bills, I feel it is my ‘duty’ somewhat to do the majority of the stuff around the house – kind of like I’m doing housework to pay for my share of things. I wouldn’t say I’m Martha Stewart, but I do the basics and every now and then I get motivated enough¬†to clean the fridge, microwave or windows (fortunately Master’s standards for cleanliness are very similar to mine and we don’t require floors that you can eat off of or cutlery polished so you can see your reflection in it.) Having said that, I still like him to not be a asshole, so every so often when something annoys me I do a,¬† ‘Sweetie, would you mind doing xxx?‘ and he generally responds with,

‘Who is wearing the silver thing?’

But because he is a dominant and not an asshole, he does it for me anyway.

My Sex Diaries

Apparently The Sex Diaries is a huge, huge book at the moment (well, in Australia at least!) In case¬†you’re not familiar with it, it’s basically a book telling women that they should be carrying out their ‘wifely duties’ by giving their men more sex. It includes chapters with titles seemingly¬†borrowed from Nike t-shirts like¬†‘Just Do It!’ and suggests that women should ‘put the canoe in the water’ even if they don’t feel like it because once they start paddling, they’ll probably enjoy it.

Well, I’d have to admit that in the final year of my marriage my lake was frozen over so solidly that there was no way¬† a¬†twig, let along a canoe¬†was going to reach the water. I didn’t want sex in any way, shape or form. It just did not interest me in the slightest. After fucking like bunnies for the first few years we were together, I’m sure my husband was as confused as he was desperate for some action. Thinking about it now I feel guilty that I often used sex as some sort of ‘reward’ for his good behaviour. If he was good and the planets aligned and the wind was blowing from the south east then maybe, just maybe I’d let him have some.

Master¬†has said to me¬†that the reason I did that was because I wanted him to force me – I wanted my husband to take what was lawfully his. I’m not sure that that was the case at the time, because I would have rather plucked out my nose hairs with tweezers than¬†let him do the deed. It’s not that the sex was bad or anything, I just felt as enthusiastic about sex as I did about having root canal work done at the dentist.

“The notion that women have to want sex to enjoy it has been a really misguided idea that has caused havoc in relationships over the last 40 years.”

Women’s are fickle folk. One minute we want romantic, feeling-orientated ‘love making’ and the next minute we want just a good, rough fuck. Unfortunately, our libido is equally as fickle and we’ve got about as much control over the ebb and flow of our urges as we have over pms i.e. sweet fuck all. In fact, I can have a change in libido mid-fuck. One minute I’ll be hot and horny and the next I’ll just be wanting him to get the hell out of there.

Luckily for Master he doesn’t have to worry about me saying ‘not tonight dear’ or ‘Aren’t you done yet?’. If he wants it, he’ll get it…although sometimes I am more ‘responsive’ than other times. That’s the beauty of having a slave I guess, sex on tap and she does your laundry ūüėČ

I do think that men have been trained to ‘tip-toe’ around women in the bedroom. There’s so much emphasis on women needing this, that and the other, women having the final say, women holding the power. Sometimes things get so puffed up and blown out of proportion that it’s like¬†women are¬†surrounded by an¬†inpenetrable wall that literally it takes months to find a hole in big enough to stick a willy into.

Being a slave, I enjoy having the power taken from me and I enjoy being used as an object. There are also things that will just¬†make me melt in a second: a sharp tug on my leash, being pulled by my hair, a hand on the back of my neck.¬† But because I’m also a¬†women, I¬†don’t enjoy¬†the objectification¬†all the time.¬† I also need to feel loved and wanted and I need to know that ultimately I am more than just an object.

When the pure use outweighs the feelings, that’s when things start getting into dangerous territory. I start to ultimately feel ‘useless’ and begin to sink. The important thing is that the use has to complement the firm foundation that makes me feel secure enough to enjoy just being an object on occasion.