Domestic goddess-ness

After all my recent forays into home baking, food porn and general domestic goddess-ness, Master and I for the month of August are going to take the $100 penny pinching pantry challenge.

Rules of the Challenge

1. Make a list of everything you’ve got in your pantry to start with.

2. Spend no more than $100 on food for a month (includes eating out/groceries/take away).

3. Detail what you spend your $100 on and what you eat.

4. Make a list of everything you’ve got left in your pantry at the end.

I won’t force everyone to read about it ’cause I know half of you are only here for the smut and don’t care about the domestic goddess inside me, so I’ll be posting about our challenge in a page buried way somewhere, but there’s a tab up the top for those who are interested in reading about it.

I so do enjoy a good challenge – now I’ve just got to break Master of his $12 a week chicken burger addiction…lol.

That thing called ‘choice’

Hello and welcome to part two of our series, “What’s in it for me?” In part one several weeks ago, we discussed how I like the feeling of security I get from being property and in part two we’ll discuss my little problem with making choices and how being a slave fixes that. Near the end I’ll also discuss my feelings about being born with a baby-making factory in my abdomen and how that piece of extraneous woman-hood becomes bloody annoying every 28 days or so (sorry about the pun…)

So, choices.

When I meet people who are interested in the slightly unorthodox relationship I have with Master, I think the one question that everyone wants to know the answer to is, “What the hell would you want to be a slave for?”

People generally get very wide-eyed when I say that I’m not into pain or service and they get even more confused when I say that being a slave is very tough and not something that I enjoy all the time. I guess they expect me to be gushing about everything all the time, because I consensually chose to become a slave.  Once they hear me bitch and moan, the choruses of, “Well, what the hell are you a slave for?” can be deafening at times.

Personally, I’m a big fan of choice. I like to be able to choose everything from what I wear and what I do, to whether I buy 70% cocoa chocolate or 85% (and just for the record, 85% wins hands down). My problem is that in a lot of cases, I’m challenged in the choice-making department. Where do you want to go for lunch? is a question that can have me agonizing for several hours. My recent purchase of a flight to Japan for Master and I next year, took several weeks of angsting before I finally brought myself to laying down the credit card.

Even after I’ve finally made a choice that’s not the end of it. I will angst some more just for fun…did I make the right choice?…did I choose the right one?..maybe I should of chosen something different…Often the aftermath of a choice (the disappointment,  the regret, the anger at myself) can be worse than if I hadn’t had the power to make the choice in the beginning, so much so that often it’s better just not to have a choice at all.

That’s why I generally find it very comfortable being a slave.

Slave=no choices, no rights.

While not everyone may define a slave in these terms, this is how Master and I define it. Yes, he may ‘allow’ me to ‘choose’ some things sometimes, but ultimately he has the final say. He might ask me what I want for dinner, but that doesn’t mean I can choose what we eat. Yes, I can offer up a suggestion, say what I feel like eating and even make it, but if he then told me to eat something else or eat nothing at all, that’s what would happen (of course, there would be a great deal of muttering to accompany the overturning of my ‘choice’ – Remember the first rule of slavery: just because I have to do it, doesn’t mean I have to like it).

For me,  it’s very liberating not to have to take the responsibility for my ‘choices’. I mean, if something sucks I can just blame it on Master! I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s why I bitch and moan so much. If I had the right to choose then I’d have to suck up all the bad results of things I had chosen, but because I don’t strictly make any choices whatsoever, I blame the big guy for everything bad that happens.

The one in control=the one who takes the responsibility.

As I always say, it’s tough being a domly one.

So along with the feeling of security I get from being property, I also enjoy having someone else take the responsibility. That kind of sounds really callous doesn’t it? I guess if I was a slightly different person I wouldn’t need someone to be my ‘punching bag’.  If I didn’t get ridiculously OCD about things being perfect, then when something went wrong or wasn’t quite as I expected I’d be able to go, “Meh…” and move on. But instead I angst and get totally wound up about things because I ‘stuffed up’, I did the ‘wrong thing’, I picked the ‘bad one’. I drag myself over the hot coals and spend sleepless nights tossing and turning over the stupidest stuff that I chose, so it’s better and ‘easier’ for me to not have to face making choices to begin with. And even though I might bitch and moan about some of things that Master has chosen on my behalf, I generally get over them a lot quicker than if they had been my decisions and on a day to day basis I can accept things that perhaps I wouldn’t have chosen a lot more readily because I wear the shiny thing.

So that’s my second reason for becoming a slave. Ta-fucking-dah.

(Sorry if it wasn’t too lucid – I’m a woman with plague and a head cold. One choice I wish we had was whether we wanted our body to be a baby factory or not. Seriously, why should non-baby people have to come complete with factories? It really should be an optional extra for those that want them- just like a sun-roof…*mutters to self like an old crazy woman with lots of cats*)

Q & A time

How did you become a slave?

I’ve pretty much answered this one in the “About” tab at the top of the page, but in a nutshell:

bondage interest → marriage→bondage interest ignited with internet→on-line D/s stuff→divorce→slave to axe murderer→leave axe murderer→slave to Master→happy

Have you ever had thoughts of running away, or have you ever wanted to run away?

Running away? If I wanted to leave, I’d just *walk* out the front door. I’m a woman with pussy rings, so none of this ‘running’ crap thank you very much!

Seriously though, I’m what’s called a ‘consensual slave’ i.e. I choose to be here. It’s not like Master keeps me chained up or whatever. I’m an independent, educated woman with financial resources who chooses to let a man make the decisions. I don’t have to be here. I want to be here.

That being said, there are times when I really don’t want to do some things. Like anything, sometimes you just want to do what *you* want to do and it’s an exercise in self-control not to freak out. I’ve sort of learned to go silent when I’m infuriated. I know that if I open my mouth, I will regret saying whatever comes out of it, so silence can be golden.

Gags really don’t do much in the way of muffling screams. But they’re very good for disguising insults, collecting drool and playing havoc with your tmj.

Do you ever fantasize of yourself being a sadist?

I have to say I’ve often fantasized about doming myself. Like how I’d do it, if it was up to me. I also often think about doing sadistic things to Master when he does ouchie stuff to me. Kneeing him in the balls or tickling his feet(he has uberly sensitive feet) are a couple of my favourites. 

If this isn’t too personal of a question, how old are you, and how old is your Master in comparison to you?

 32. There, I’ve said it again. Master is 19 years older than me. I’ve always had a thing for older guys and personally I don’t think I’d be able to take a dom seriously if he was younger than me. There’s something that just doesn’t seem right in submitting to a younger guy. My husband was 7 years older, my first owner was 13 years older and now Master is 19 years older. I just seem to be going up and up 🙂

Thanks Wendi for the questions. I hope my answers are as amusing as my favourite search term for this week which was:

eat cat slavegirl pic

(I thought long and hard about this one until the cat/pussy reference sunk in…I can be a bit slow sometimes…lol.)

Any further questions/jokes/amusing youtube links/websites to entertain me at work can be left as a comment or forwarded to

Spot the tart

In the vein of Guess Her Muff introduced to me by the delightful Mr Upton Ogood , I’ve posted some pics so you can spot the tart.

Guess which picture shows the tart?




leather pants


tartiest lemon tart


boobless top

And the answer is???




d) of course. Did you get it right?

I was trying on the options to wear to the play party next weekend and Master took a few snaps (as we know he always does…) so I thought I’d share. The leather pants were an ebay purchase Master made for me a looooong time ago and I’ve never been able to get them over my thunder thighs wear them previously, so it’s good to finally fit into them.

Interestingly enough, they have the zipper up the crack of my ass and when Master saw them on me for the first time, he enquired whether I ‘had them on the wrong way’. I was actually thinking that having the zipper in the crack of my ass was ‘the right way’…you know…easy access and all that stuff.

Of the two tops, obviously Master is favouring the boobs-in-your-face-tartiest-of-the-tart top and I’m favouring the cover-my-boobs-ever-so-slightly-warmer corset for the evening’s outfit.

Oh, I also made a lemon tart on Saturday afternoon which turned out browner than it should of been. (Note to self: don’t go and give Master some cuddlin’ time when there’s a tart a cookin’ in the oven.)

We had a flurry of activity in the kitchen yesterday with Master baking a bacon and leek pie and a blackberry jam roley poley (I didn’t know what it was, but apparently it’s pastry with jam spread on it, rolled up and baked until golden brown.) Smelling the divine aromas of buttery flaky pastry and sizzling bacon with leek for several hours almost made me want to start eating meat again.

For seventeen years I haven’t eaten red meat, but that pie almost tipped me over the edge. Then there was the buttery pastry and sugar smell wafting around after that…it was pure torture. I made the tart for Master and then cabbage rolls Japanese style for us for dinner.

After dinner I then again upheld my record for choosing the worst movies in history to watch by choosing The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada.Normally I love Tommy Lee Jones, but it was just baaaaad. Also, the extent of my Spanish language knowledge is jalapeno and tortilla so the un-subtitled 1/3 of the movie in Spanish was frustrating. Yep, baaaaad and gross and there is nothing worse than a bad, frustrating and gross movie (except maybe looking at too many hairy muffs on Guess Her Muff…)

I’m just too monkey for you

I think it’s kind of funny that Master thinks I’m sexy. I’m also genuinely a.m.a.z.e.d. that I can make him horny/cum/be in the mood to beat my ass (I’ll ignore the contribution that thigh-high stiletto boots make to his enjoyment just because…well…if I don’t, this will be a post with zero content…)

I’ve never thought of myself as a ‘sexy’ person. I mean, most of the time I wear glasses, I have a bushy bush and wander around the house in slippers and a purple or pink nightie wih monkeys on it. Somehow, methinks, this is not how a ‘sexy’ person looks.

Master thinks I ‘became’ a slave so that I would have ‘permission’ to let the slutty side of me come out. A lot of the interrogation sessions centre around me admitting that I’m a slut/whore/ass-bitch because ‘that’s what I really am’. He thinks that I don’t feel comfortable with letting that side of me out because it goes against the grain of my prim and proper, cutesy normal self. Personally, I don’t think that I’ve ever been or will ever be that sex kitten and, if after 3 years of constantly being told that I am, I still don’t believe it, I really don’t think my thoughts on the matter will change.

But then I wonder if I really am a slut , deep down inside, but that I’m just not ‘allowing’ myself to be that person.

I’m very good at controlling myself. If I say that I’m going to do something or not going to do something, that is exactly what will happen. If I say I’m going to lose 35 pounds then I will (and I have as of today, and I’m writing it in pounds because it sounds like more!) and if I say I won’t eat sweets or chocolate then I won’t. I don’t cave in, I don’t lose control and things don’t get out of hand. If perchance, something ‘accidently happens’, it happens because I made a conscious decision to let it happen. I wanted to become a slave, I did. I wanted to become a translator, I did. Whenever I’ve wanted to lose weight, I have. I believe that if I truly want something, I can make it happen.

Which leads me to think that the reason I’m not a slut, is because maybe I don’t really want to be one.

Don’t get me wrong, I have fantasies just like any other woman. I want to fucked on a table by a group of strangers I want to be used in all three holes at the same time. I want to be made to cum over and over again until I forget who I am…you know, all the fantasies that non-slutty women have 😉

I just don’t see myself as a pole-dancing, blonde-bombshell, vixen aka. ‘slut’ and perhaps without truly believing I can be one, I can’t truly make it happen. I dunno, it seems to be my last bastion of me-dom that can’t be broken down.

This ‘lack of slut’ in my slavery concerns me because that is what Master wants. All the slut wear I have to wear, all the boots, the make up, the jewellery etc., it’s all designed to make me into what he wants. But if I’m not feeling it on the inside, I don’t think I can be it, no matter what I look like on the inside. While he’d like me to be and I’d like me to be, the purring sex kitten of the night, I still feel like the frumpy, small-town girl with a stewie-head-ass, who’s about as sexy as your average man in drag.

I’m not writing this because I need a rush of comments saying, ‘Oh, you’re sexy!’ or ‘You’re hot’ or similar things to make me feel better about myself. I don’t feel bad about myself and I kind of (sort of) like myself. I’m slowly coming to terms with my body and what it is and what it never will be, so I don’t need a confidence boost.  I’m just pointing out the fact that I’m not quite the slut perhaps that Master wants or thinks he wants.

Maybe I’m just me.

A little poll

You know you need to blog when:

a) You answer the nightly phonecall from Master and the first thing he says (after our ritual 30 seconds where no-one talks and we just do heavy breathing to each other ’cause we’re quirky like that) is,

‘Have you blogged bitch?’

b) You start chatting with Master on msn and the first thing he asks is,

‘Have you blogged yet bitch?’

c) Your food porn pics are starting to get boring to everyone including yourself

d)  All of the above

Topics are a bit thin on the ground here recently. So thin in fact I’m almost trying to look for drama in my life at the moment just so I have something to blog about. This situation has brought up one of the main problems with having a blog that is based on angst –  if you ain’t got drama, you’re screwed.

My life is so effortless and un-naturally calm at the moment. It actually worries me when I’ve got nothing to angst about…because there is always something…somewhere…just waiting to jump out and run naked, screaming up and down the hallways of my brain…there has to be…that is, after all, how I have always lived my life.

But I have to say, I’m very content. I’m not even letting the shitty, cold, rainy weather and my OMG-I-need-something-to-do-before-I-slit-my-wrists ‘job’ get me down. I was even walking out of my bedroom yesterday morning and I thought, ‘This must be what happiness feels like’. It was a very zen moment.

The only remotely angsty thing (and this is really scraping the bottom of the barrel) I have to mention was the chain-wrapped-around-neck-david-carradine-esque-now-I-have-a-bruise-on-my-throat morning in the Master bedroom the other day.

It’s been a while since Master’s industrial strength chain made an appearance and instead of clipping it onto my collar like he always used to do, he decided to wrap it around my neck and hold the ends together. Now, I just need to explain here that whenever I have anything rub or touch my throat I always need to swallow like a maniac. I just can’t help myself. Even when he has his finger through the o ring and is just pulling on my collar, I swallow, swallow and swallow again. I know it’s a trick you can use with animals to get them to swallow a tablet – rubbing their throat –  but seriously, my swallow reflex is just bordering on bizarre.

So anyway, the weight of the chain was making me swallow more and more and the weight was also making it more difficult and painful to swallow. I started making gurgling noises, which Master somehow interpreted as noises of ‘enjoyment’? and so he pulled the chain tighter. I then started getting light-headed and said to Master,

“I think my brain needs some blood.”

To which he kind of went, ‘Pfffft!’ and carried on with his interrogation/ravishing. About ten whole seconds later I started choking, wheezing, crying and making a whole heap of very unsexy sounds as I attempted to breathe/swallow before I drowned in my own spit/stay conscious.

Master let go immediately and told me to sit up in his very this-ain’t-supposed-to-be-happening-so-now-I’m taking-charge-of-the-emergency-voice and I did and I struggled a bit with the whole swallowing thing for a few moments, but eventually got my mojo back. Then he checked that I was okay and that was that. I’ve still got  bit of a shadowy bruise in the middle of my throat as a memento.

But even that slightly unsettling experience isn’t enough to dampen my bubble of content. It happened, we’re okay and we’ve learned from the experience. It will just get filed way together with the mars bar up the twat lesson as something to be avoided in the future.

Life is good.

If Master was a woman, I’d marry him in an instant

(assuming, of course, that I was a man…)

I’ve discovered that the average life expectancy for a woman in Australia is 83 years. Being that I’m 32 1/2, I’ve got a little over 50 years left on this planet. This translates in 18250 days, and assuming that I eat three meals a day, that’s 54750 meals I have left to enjoy.

My conclusion from all of this?

Life is too short to eat crap.

I used to be a food-is-fuel-and-if-it-stops-me-feeling-hungry-that’s-enough kind of person. Most of the stuff I ate came out of tins, bottles or the freezer and my philosophy was ‘the cheaper, the better’. Three years of living in the aura of Masterchef have changed me forever.

During the week I paid a visit to a lovely little shop in town that sells Japanese tea and crockery. As well as sampling some truly lovely shincha (green tea from this year’s tea harvest) I saw a rice bowl that I fell in love with and just had to buy:

 My beautiful rice bowl

I also bought a couple of miso soup bowls with wood patterning (not real lacquered ones, but dish-washer friendly ones, because I’m still a convenience girl when it comes to cleaning up!)

I had been using some soul-less white rice bowls I got from Ikea, and while functional, they didn’t give me the feast-for-the-eyes to go along with the feast-for-the-stomach. My first meal of chinese cabbage and chicken spicy stirfry using the new bowls was, I swear, much scrummier than usual:

Stirfry with rice and miso soup

I think the whole ‘eating experience’ satisfied me on multiple levels. Even my new chopsticks that I was recently given by a friend (thanks chica!) went perfectly. Now I’m thinking I either need some placemats or obon (lacquered trays) to create a frame for my ‘meal territory’.

Yes, the kitchen princess has been born! Lol.

So after whetting my appetite on that during that week, I decided that on the weekend I’d like to try my hand at making something new – handmade pasta – and Master was more than happy to break out his tools of the trade and walk me through the process.

He brought out his pasta roller (one of two!), ravioli mould, cutters, mixer and showed me his other adjustable cutting wheel, shell-shaped tortellioni mould and gnocchi maker. His glory box kitchen filled with all manner of implements, almost makes me want to start looking for where he is hiding the lace doilies and Home Sweet Home cross-stitch.

We spent the next 2-3 hrs making square ravioli with ricotta stuffing, tortellioni with ricotta stuffing, tortellioni with sundried tomato and tuna stuffing and lasagne sheets.

Spreading the top layer of pasta over the ravioli mould

Making ricotta tortelli

Lasagne sheets after pre-boiling

I’m sure the process would of gone a lot quicker had I not stopped every 5 mins saying, ‘We need a photo, hang on!’ (I can’t actually remember when taking photos started to become a part of the cooking process in the house, but it is now…lol.)

Then he whipped up a batch of lasagne tomato sauce, mixed in the left over ricotta and egg and layered up a lasagne for dinner, adding mozarella and parmesan cheese for extra scrumminess.

Assembling the lasagne

Lasagne before baking

One hour in the oven and I was drunk from the divine aromas wafting out to tantalise me. When I finally got to eat it…OMG…I don’t have words to describe just how perfectly his lasaga hit the spot. It was…truly orgasmic.

Finished lasagne

The remainder of the pasta was split into servings and frozen for later consumption.



We’ve got a good 10 servings of home-made pasta and another lasagne (we made two!) to enjoy in the coming weeks.

That just brings me down to 54740 meals remaining to enjoy life gastronomically. Mmm…the choices are endless with Masterchef.

Pets are people too

A couple of weeks back at the coffee night we went to, I had an extended chat with a friend I’m going call, ‘Devoted‘ because she is – devoted, that is. She’s the kind of person I just stand back and watch or listen to and think, ‘WOW!’

She’s heavily into body modification and we first struck up a friendship over piercings. But while my piercings are fairly tame in the scheme of things, hers are well…devoted. Suspension with hooks and enough hardware through her labia that she’s more metal than woman are just the beginning of this lovely lady’s interests.

On that chilly night over lattes (and I can’t remember exactly how we got onto the topic),  we started discussing the couple of weeks she spent as a puppy in a cage on the back of a guy’s trailer. She was hand-fed and bottle-watered and taken for toilet stops. She spent the time on all fours (with knee pads and hand mittens!) and was muzzled for a majority of it. Communication was via barks and whimpers. She immersed herself in the role, because…well…she’s devoted.

Of course I found the mechanics of it all fascinating, but I was also interested in how she felt during the time. As we talked she got this far-off look in her eyes and said,

 ‘It really messed with my mind, especially the feeding part…after two weeks I was mentally a mess.’

Basically she had immersed herself so deeply into the role that she had gotten to that stage of moving away from who she was. She had become a puppy, a human pet.

As I listened to her talk, I remembered my old feelings about being a slave. I had wanted to be a slave to the extent that I ‘lost’ myself. That’s why I wanted to do the 24/7  thing. That’s why I wanted to be a slave, not venturing outside the house, and why I was willing to be marked and collared. I wanted to ‘be’ a slave and nothing else. I wanted to ‘live the life of a slave’. I wanted to get so deeply into that ‘slave space’ that it messed with my mind. I guess, listening to her talk of her magical two weeks, I was jealous.

After a few years as a ’24/7 slave’, what I’ve come to realise though, is that for 99.9% of people who do M/s, you can be master and slave for limited periods of time but not all the time. You can devote a weekend or a week to doing nothing else but the M/s thing, but you can’t keep up the roles to the exclusion of everything else for any longer – unless you’re so rich you don’t need to work, have no family or friends outside of the D/s world and have people to do the everyday stuff of shopping, paying taxes and going to the drycleaners for you. I’m sure, somewhere in the world, there are people who can ‘live the life’, so that’s why I won’t say 100%. I’m willing to conceed that 0.1% of the kinky folk may have the means to do nothing but live the roles of master and slave, but for most of us ordinary folk, life outside of M/s still needs to be lived.

I believe that my devoted friend did exactly what she said did for those two weeks. I have no reason to doubt her because she said she did it ‘for two weeks’. If she said she’d done it for half a year on the other hand, I’d be wanting letters of reference from her maid, accountant and personal assistant.

Because, afterall,  pets are people too.

I’m an unbeliever

Master and I finally got to watch The Pet on the weekend (thanks carina for providing us with the dvd!)

I haven’t seen a ‘kinky’ video since I last watched Secretary so you can imagine that I was getting all juicy at the prospect of having something that would run longer than my usual 25 second free porn fare.

The dvd for some reason didn’t like our dvd player, but fortunately we’ve got no fewer than five devices that will play dvds in the house, so we knew that eventually one of them would work and it did.

And we watched.

And I cringed.

At the newbie pet-to-be girlie sitting on the floor in a restaurant as her I’ve-only-talked-to-you-for-ten-minutes-and-I-have-no-idea-who-the-hell-you-are owner-to-be hand fed her.

At the naked girlie crawling on her knees across concrete and rock for several days.

At the naked girlie sleeping in a cage smaller than the width of my stewie-ass that had bars on the bottom.

And I said,

“Pfffffft…..!!! As if that would happen!”

I’ve got this problem where I can’t just sit and watch a movie anymore. I have to sit there, pick it apart, point out all the inconsistencies and somehow pass down my judgement on it as though it’s a documentary, when it’s really just a movie and I should be able to accept that.

I do it with movies, books and even blogs. Because I guess, unless I see unbelievable stuff happening in front of my eyes, in the flesh, I find it hard to accept.

But now I’m beginning to wonder whether I don’t believe it simply because *I* can’t do it, and therefore don’t want to accept that anyone else could do it either.

Let’s take the sleeping in the cage example. I’ve spent a sum total of one whole night in my cage because after 8hrs or so I was so cramped up and aching and totally pissed off that I was almost in tears. That is how utterly uncomfortable it was for me. I might add that my cage is about 3 times the size of the smaller-than-my-stewie-ass cage in The Pet and my cage has two inches of foam on the bottom and I had a blanket and a pillow in there.

How can the naked girlie in The Pet be totally butt naked and contorted up ala cirque du soleil, while laying on bars with cold marble underneath and still be happy and chirpy in the morning???

I don’t think I could do it. But does that mean it is impossible?

I see and hear of people doing a lot of things that I feel would be beyond the scope of  my ability (being that I’m a slave and all, I’m not supposed to say that I *can’t* do them…apparently that’s bad form for someone without any limits 🙂 ) Blood and needles and things make me squeamish. I also believe that forks are for eating (sorry, couldn’t resist!) But these are things that I really can’t imagine myself ever doing, so I don’t have a, ‘That isn’t possible!’ opinion about them because…well…I’ve never done them and therefore really don’t know.

But when it comes to things I have done or have experienced (perhaps in some other way or in a similar way) I feel like I have the right to pass judgement based on what I felt and thought. Thus the, “Pfffffft…..!!! As if that would happen!”

I might be tempted to label my feelings as slave pride; like I’ve somehow made a yardstick in my mind based on what I can do/endure and anything that exceeds that is automatically put in the ‘impossible’ bin.

I’m guessing this sort of thing is also bad form for a slave. But how does an A+++, over-achiever, endurance-orientated slave overcome this?

Are forks the only answer???!!??

People are colourful

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, there are some people with truly colourful interests in the world. Here are some amusing search terms for this week:

take away your clothes slavegirls – are you looking for slavegirls with OCD laundry habits? Because if you are, I guess this is not the best time to tell you that I recently got around to washing one of Master’s shirts that he wore in…March…

sex while wearing heavy rubber waders in – I know what they say about safe sex and all, but I’m pretty sure waders would make things V.E.R.Y difficult.

bondage january february october sleep – Is this the opening line for the book, “Hibernation for Kinky Bears“?

pictures of the ear with sharp things in – now if you’d said ‘pictures of the cunt’ I could of helped, but ear? No, sorry, nothing here to see, please move along.

treat me like shit + slavery – greedy, greedy! You’re wanting to be treated like shit AND be a slave?

gonzo bondage – dude you’re doing it wrong…how do you expect gonzo to get in your cunt if you tie him up?

ballet boots criple – I’m glad to see my readers have a keen interest in Occupational Health & Safety. Now all we need to work on is the spelling…

bdsm spit – Am I the only one who thinks this person may also have searched for “two girls, one cup”

mature slave inspection on table – what have I told you people about using the word ‘mature’ around me??? I’m thirty fucking two!

face slapped pussy kicked – I’m hoping you don’t have anger management issues and a cat. Have you met i enjoy being slapped in the face ?

Along with the fifty million searches for ‘retard’ that have hit my blog since I posted my ‘retard wallpaper’ a while back, and the bazillion hits for ‘whale shark’ since I discussed my swim with the whalesharks in May, I’ve also had a disturbing number of searches for haircut slavegirl and bald headed slavegirl since my ‘visit’ to Salon Master.

Maybe Master was right when he said my haircut could of been worse, because it appears that a large number of folk have an interest in trimming the locks of innocent slavegirls….

Be afraid slavegirls….be very afraid.

Of porn and bondage

From the looks of things it seems like I’ve managed to conquer my chocolate addiction (at least four months since I last ate some), my WoW addiction (over two months since I last played) and my obsessive cleaning addiction when people come over (I’ve got a friend coming over for coffee this afternoon and so far I haven’t washed a lightbulb).

Unfortunately, I have a new addiction and it’s slowly taking over my life….

Food porn.

I mean you know that you’re addicted to food porn when you go to visit a friend in hospital who has been diagnosed with throat cancer and as a result of having a tracheotomy hasn’t had any food for 12+ days and won’t be having an food for quite some time to come and you still can’t talk about anything other than food and recipes!

I just couldn’t help myself.

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve ‘eaten through the eyecandy’ of every single cookbook Master owns (and that man has a *lot* of cookbooks) and because I still need my daily fix, I’ve branched out into the www of food porn. I really should give more thanks to the gods of the innernets for supplying me with a seemingly endless source of food porn.

A few recently favourites I’ve been drooling over are:

The Pioneer Woman

Smitten Kitchen

No Recipes

The Daring Kitchen – and all the wonderful daring bakers/cooks out there!

(I’m not going to link them because I’m not sure how they’d feel about getting pingbacks from my porn porn blog, but a quick google will get you to all of the sites.)

Master has his word porn and I have my food porn. They are our secret little behaviours that a lot of other people don’t really ‘get’. Although judging by the number of sites devoted to food porn on the innernets these days, my ‘secret little behaviour’ isn’t so secret and lots of people are also in the same boat of needing their daily gastronomical fix.

Since I started seriously counting calories and doing the weightloss thing in early March, I’ve discovered that vicarious eating is a good way to feel like you’ve had some yummy foods without the additional calories. It’s a ‘safe’ way of indulging.

Thinking about it now, I suppose my self-bondage was/is a vicarious way of playing. Tying yourself up is a good way of ‘giving up control’ while still actually keeping it. It’s a ‘safe’ way of indulging in fantasies as opposed to putting yourself in the hands of another when you really don’t know what they are going to do to you. Not that I feel that Master would harm me or anything, but sometimes it’s nice to be able to take the clamps off when they get too ouchie or give yourself equal measures of pleasure and pain. I find it a good way of  ‘seeing to my own needs’ and use it as more of a stress release than anything else.

Bondage is something that I’ve never really grown out and is something that I’m probably a little bit addicted to. I don’t need it every day of course, but if I go too long without it, like a junkie I’ll feel the itch and ropes, chains and clamps will need to be brought out in a hurry. I don’t need hours and hours of it though, twenty minutes is probably enough to scratch my itch; enough to allow me to feel the sense of being restrained, coccooned and somewhat squeezed. A sense of being a little bit under duress is what I’m after.

Thinking about food porn and bondage while sitting in front of the fire. Does it get any better than this?


Anyone else find it hard to comment on domly one’s blogs?

In fact, I find it hard to even exchange a few jovial lines in an email with someone if I know they’re of the domly orientation.

I find it hard to interact with them regardless of the fact that they are not my domly one, they’re not personally known to me and often they don’t even live in the same country that I do.

But a fellow ‘sister of the subhood’?  Once I’ve read a few blogs, left some comments on their iFet wall or even just exchanged a few words in a chat room with them, I’ll soon after be making jokes, adding them to my list of ‘best-est friends eva’ and sometimes giving them deep and meaningful advice.

Simply because I perceive them as being on the ‘same level’ as me, whereas domly ones are on a ‘different level’ and somehow ‘untouchable’.

Generally, I don’t ‘act submissively’ around anyone who isn’t my owner (and yeah before anyone leaves me a comment, I can hear the choruses of, “but you don’t even act submissively around your owner!!!” across cyberspace.) As I was saying…I don’t call other domly ones ‘sir’ or ‘mistress’ or anything like that, but I do know that I will go out of my way to avoid having a casual conversation with them once I know which way they are inclined – because sitting there chatting with them makes me feel ‘funny’, like my words aren’t important or something. I start listening to myself rambling and think, “What the fuck am I saying? Me?? Slavegirlie me.”

And if they’ve ever had the misfortune (??) to have beaten my ass, that makes casual conversation even trickier. I mean, how do you discuss the weather with someone who has been up close and personal with your ass?

When I first started living with Master I felt totally awkward living with him. For the first few weeks, I just didn’t know how to talk to him because I had come here as his slave, we were M/s from the moment we came face to face and I felt totally insignificant in his domly one aura.

It took a few more months before I relaxed and could have a joke with him and few more months after that before I became accustomed to his particular ways and stopped getting teary every time he raised his voice (I have never and will never like being shouted at, but at least I don’t turn into a blubbering mess anymore…)

Now we discuss everything from our toilet habits to those embarrassing little sexual fantasies I have buried deep down inside and everything in between. We joke and laugh and share deep longings for really good food and unaffordable metal restraints. We also sometimes yell at each other and tell one another to fuck off.

He is my Master and my soul mate.

All I need to work on now is his taste in music 😉

Proving yourself

So you have a collar around your neck and a domly one to whom you say,

‘I’m your slave, your property, you can do what you wish to me.’

But how do you make the differentiation between being a slave and being a kinky sex partner with chunky jewellery?

Just because you say you’re a slave doesn’t magically transform you into one. I find that the only way I have a conscious feeling of being a slave is by ‘walking the talk’ i.e. proving myself to be a slave.

Every now and then I’ll just feel like being beaten into oblivion, grossly humiliated, having my neck squeezed until the world is filled with pretty little stars, having sharp things inserted through my cunt lips, being tied up until I can’t move an inch, or various other things I consider to be a bit ‘edgy’.  I need to be able to ‘go the extra mile’ just to prove that I’m not the kinky sex partner with the chunky jewellery.

And funnily enough it’s generally not Master that I need to prove it to.

It’s just little old me that I like to show my tenacity to.

When it’s been a while between ‘edgy’ sessions I tend to start thinking, “What the hell am I doing?” Without having had the chance to prove myself as a slave, I start to resent all the little things I do on a daily basis which are okay in the context of being a slave, but can quickly become annoying if I’m just a kinky sex partner wearing chunky jewellery, things like: being chained in bed, being his fetch and carry bitch, watching my tone, doing his shit before my shit etc.

The interesting thing about the edgy stuff, is that I don’t particularly enjoy it. If I know something is going to be happening, I’ll get the stomach-churning butterflies that leave me unable to eat and wandering aimlessly around the house and I’ll absolutely dread it from the bottom of my soul until it’s over (because yeah, I’m not into pain and I don’t get into sub-space and it turns into an endurance test for me and I deeply fear not being able to take it.)

I desperately don’t want the edgy stuff to happen, but at the same time I desperately need to be able to do it, just to prove to myself that I’m a slave. So if it doesn’t actually happen, one half of me will be joyously relieved and the other half of me will be bitterly disappointed.

So it’s four years since I ‘became a slave’ and I’m wondering if there will ever be a time when I can stop proving to myself, when I’m satisfied that I am a slave and the thought of being a kinky sex partner wearing chucky jewllery doesn’t cross my mind.

But I guess that the edgy stuff is a bit like relationship maintenance – it’s the stuff that you do to keep the relationship healthy and churning along. I suppose the vanilla folk have their flowers and anniversaries and we have the addition of another hole in our body or another marking somewhere.

Brandings are a slavegirl’s best friend?

Unfortunate Face Friday

I have something deep and meaningful brewing on my brain, but I haven’t quite managed to give birth to a post yet.

So in the meantime, I thought you might enjoy something I like to call,

 “Faces to pull when you are so sick of your domly one taking photos”

I smell a wabbit

(The next one is for those who miss the king of pop – I think it looks a tad Thriller-ish)


(Are you beginning to see a pattern??)

Just wrong

(The next one is titled “Slavegirl with a side of yokel”)

Stoopid slavegirl of gor

And my absolute favourite one:

Don't mess with this bunny

Last time I looked I think Master had something like 5000 pics under his ‘kitten photo’ file and I’ve got to tell you, you start to run out of sexy poses after about 2000 and then you just start pulling faces. There’s also another 1000 photos or so of me where for some reason I just look like I’m off my face drunk.

P.S I just had two releases so I’m feeling a bit euphoric. Yay for the hitachi!!!

P.PS The poodle pup is breathing onto my foot and it’s freaking me out (I’ve mentioned my hate of seeing or feeling people’s breath right? And yes, that includes animals.)

P.PPS I didn’t get a comment from ubu yesterday and now I haz a sad. (She’s been sending me at least one a day cause she’s my genu-whine stalker – so kaya says 🙂 )

P.PPPS I think it’s time I stopped with the post scripts.

RIP cunt piercing

After much struggling over the past three years, one of my piercings finally gave up the ghost. Last week when I was cleaning it I noticed it was a bit of strange colour. Further inspection lead me to realise that it was actually the colour of the stainless post I could see through the skin. It had migrated out to the point that the barbell was being held in there by nothing but a millimetre or so of skin and last night I decided that rather than have it drop off at an unfortunate time, say when I’m standing in a peak hour train or something, that it might be best to remove it now.

I showed Master on the weekend what was happening and he was of the opinion that I should take it out.

‘Afterall,’ he said, ‘We can just wait a couple of months and get it re-pierced.’

(Don’t you just love his optimism?!?!?!?!?!?!!!!!!!!)

But I couldn’t do it on the weekend, it took me a couple more days of thinking about it before I could actually do the deed.

It sucks to have put up with it for three years and then just have it mosey on out of my labia. And what’s worse, is it was the one that was the least painful!!!! I would actually be happy if the other painful sucker migrated out, but no, the relatively pain-free one had to leave the building.

Now I haz a lop-sided cunt.

Today I asked Master whether he wanted me to take out the other one to balance things out (in truth, after smelling the sweet relief of having taken the other one, I wanted to see what it would be like to have the ouchie one out too…)

And he said,


*pauses for reaction*


Normally I’d be uberly excited about the possiblity of removing my cunt rings. Dreams of being cunt ring-free interrupt my sleep almost as frequently as dreams of the perfect baked cheesecake.

But then I did something stupid. I was going back through a few of my old entries and I saw this from Master:

“You knew that I want my slave pierced in her labia with rings and her buttocks tattooed for her property marks and you accepted that these things will be done by my will and command.

As discussed with you since then, I want these things completed and done, I want your body made mine permanently and completely, there shall be no doubt you’re a slave owned by me.

I want you to choose however when these things are done, I want them to be your gifts of submission to me, your sign of acceptance and happiness of your slavery.

I await for the time when you choose to complete yourself.”

He’d written that to me a couple of years back when I’d had a bit of a what I like to call a ‘slave lapse’  i.e. a total panic attack and emotional breakdown. I was freaking about everything that my slavery would entail and after experiencing the first piercings, I was dreading from the depths of my heart having to go back to get the remaining ones done.

So he wrote me that and let me choose when I would submit to the remaining piercings.

Yeah, I just had to go and read that, didn’t I?

Damn. Now I can’t bring myself to take the other one out.

And now I’m thinking about when I can get the other one re-pierced. Damn, damn, damn.

Why I am what I am

Four years ago I became a slave.

I made the decision to be a slave very quickly and simply almost like deciding what to have for dinner:

“Should I have pasta or pizza? Actually, I think I’ll become a slave.”

You would think that such a momentous decision as giving up control of your life and becoming someones property would involve days of angsting and sleepless nights, but in my case (which I realise is totally out of character for this queen of angst), I had nothing but excitement and butterflies that made me lose my appetite for a few weeks.

Since I made that decision I’ve thought long and hard about what tipped me over the edge from vanilla to kink, and while I can’t deny that there was a very strong part of me that simply wanted to be tied up and fucked, there was also a deep-seated fear of not being wanted that made me think that being a slave was a small price to pay for the comfort that security brings.

I mean, how much more secure can you get than being owned by someone?

Master often asks me during word porn,

“Why are you a slave?”

I’ve given him the answer that I assume he wants and is in keeping with the word porn atmosphere:

“Because I’m a slut and whore”

And while that is a small part of the reason, it’s not the biggest reason and if I was to put voice to the main reason why I became a slave it would be something like,

“Because I want the commitment. Because I want to know that I’m not going to be tossed aside once the honeymoon is over. Because I want you to want me so much that you want me to be yours.”

It is not the control or the humiliation, the beatings or the bondage or anything like that that makes me want to be a slave. It is this deep-seated need I have to be wanted that makes me want to be a slave more than anything else.

Which brings about the question, could I get my need fulfilled in a vanilla relationship?

Maybe. To be honest, I don’t know. All I know is that when I was married, I felt very loved, but not necessarily wanted.

Which brings about the question, does an M/s relationship guarantee that the need is fulfilled?

To this I say no. My first M/s relationship ended mostly because I didn’t feel wanted. I was played with occasionally  and we lived together, but there wasn’t a sense of commitment there. I didn’t feel like he needed me so much he wanted to own me. I felt a little sometimes like we were room-mates who occasionally had kinky sex.

So, in the slave scheme of things, my motivation is probably a little unique. Service, use, power-exchange and submission are generally seen as the corner stones of slavery and are all a part of my life, but they are not what makes me remain a slave. Although they are manifestations of my need to be owned and I feel more ‘slavey’ i.e. more wanted, when they are actively a part of my life, I can live as a slave and still be happy without them.

As long as I feel my foundation of being wanted is secure, I don’t need to be beaten or used or have anything else done. I used to get antsy and stressed if we weren’t constantly playing or I didn’t have bruises on my ass, but now I realise I am quite content being what I am.

Because he wants to own me.

“I will never let you go. You will never be free….”

…is something that Master often whispers in my ear.

Those words really are like chicken soup for this slave’s soul.

Q. How do you know you’re getting OCD about cleaning?

A. You find yourself washing light bulbs.

Yeah, it’s sad, but true.

We had a luncheon for some kink-minded lovely people at our house on Sunday, so of course that meant that I spent several days before-hand angsting over cleaning/gardening/making the house appear like nobody actually lives there.

I have to say that my cleaning angst reached new and previously-undiscovered peaks when the toilet actually broke – and I mean part of the porcelain bowl snapped off – during an attempt at removing the old seat in order to attach a new one. 4pm on Saturday the evening before the lunch event and I was thinking, “Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuuuck!”

While thumbing through the phonebook for contacts details of emergency plumbing services, I had a brainwave of re-attaching the broken part with superglue, however, in order to actually do that, Master had to attack the offending wing-nut that was firmly rusted onto the screw with an angle-grinder.

I hate power tools and want to be as far away as possible from anything that could remove limbs/start fires with showers of sparks/take out an eye when something goes flying, so when Master asked me to hold the piece of porcelain so he could hold the angle-grinder with two hands, I ran away and hid.

Obviously he wasn’t impressed with that and once he’d successfully managed to remove it, I came back into the room to find his hand covered in blood. So I freaked, expecting to find a thumb missing or something, but luckily he’d just cut himself on the sharp edge of the porcelain and the injury wasn’t too dire.

But his mood had gone from pissed off to positively dire.

He mumbled many things about me being a wuss and endangering his fingers and I mentioned many things about wearing gloves and safety equipment, but to cut a long story short, the superglue worked, the new seat was attached and everything was rosy.

At 9pm on Saturday night, I decided that I’d better start making the desserts – tiramisu and tofu chocolate mousse.

Everything was going fabulously until I literally read the recipe’s instruction to ‘beat the sugar and egg yolks in a *small* bowl’. My bowl was apparently a tad too small and so I ended up wearing the egg yolks and the sugar and so did the walls and the floor.

Fortunately there were two dozen eggs in the fridge and enough sugar in the pantry to send the city of Perth bouncing off the walls ( have I mentioned Master likes to keep a well-stocked pantry???) so after changing clothes I tried again.

And it eventually worked and everything was rosy and my desserts looked scrummy and so did Master’s trifle:


chocolate tofu mousse

3-layer trifle

(You can just see three out of the four soup terrines in the background. I’ve decided that you know you are living with Masterchef when he has four soup terrines just laying around in the cupboard.)

Master made four scrummy soups and we had several types of bread for lunch. After lunch I became coffee and cheese platter bitch and I attempted to make numerous cappuccinos, flat whites and long blacks and failed horribly at remembering who wanted what, but twenty minutes later everyone at least had something to drink.

Other than pulling up my skirt to bare my botty to the world after he’d had several alcoholic beverages, Master didn’t make me put my beaver on the table or flop out some boobies and for that I was grateful.

All in all, it was a lovely day and I enjoyed chatting with everyone and attempting to be the hostess with the mostess.


I’m generally okay with people telling me how crap I am or who express different opinions to mine, but what I do not like is people using my blog as a springboard to bully other people.

I’d hoped that Ubu could of been less juvenile and his/her/its diatribe would of remained directed at me instead of branching out and affecting others, but unfortunate he/she/it could not contain themselves.

My apologies to everyone who was Ubu-ed and I should of put a stop to this sooner.

Ruling on the rules

There is one thing that I really, really hate and that is being treated like I’m stupid.

And there is one way to easily treat me like I’m stupid and that is to take away my ability to function as an adult.

Now I might be going out on a limb here by announcing this, but here goes:

“I don’t like being told how to live my life!!”

I do, however, need to differentiate here between being told ‘how to live my life’ and being told ‘what to do’ because one makes me want to smack the offending person around the head a few times and the other makes me melt in all the right places. It’s a distinction that seems a bit confusing on the surface, but underneath, it’s really quite simple to understand.

Simply put, I know ‘how to live my life’. It’s a skill I’ve been honing for the last 32 years and includes careers choices, lifestyle choices and those daily things that become habitualized, like what time I go to bed, what I eat for breakfast and when it’s time to get a pap smear. As an adult functioning in society, I know my limitations and what is best for me. I know when I’m not feeling well and should take things a bit easy and I know all about diet, exercise and not walking down dark streets by myself at night. A lot of this stuff is just commonsense and when people try to tell me how to do any of this, I really do feel like they are treating me like a child, which in turn makes me want to get vocal and hit things.

‘What to do’ however, is a slightly different matter. I feel it’s all about service and serving my Master. Being told ‘what to do’ is more like receiving directions on how to be more pleasing to him than being told what is right and wrong in my life. More importantly, being told to ‘suck cock’ makes me feel as far from being a child as I could possibly be (and we don’t want to go down that child route because then I’ll be thinking that you think I’m stupid and shit will hit the fan.)

Tell me to go to bed and I’ll start thinking you’re trying to be my father.

Tell me to crawl to your bed like the bitch I am and I’ll think of you as my Master.

I don’t think being told ‘what to do’ has to necessarily be limited to the bedroom, but obviously that is a place where it’s much easier to make the distinction between ‘how to live my life’ and ‘what to do’; as it’s very rare to be asked if you’ve brushed your teeth when you’re tied to the bed.

I guess to substitute another word for ‘how to live my life’ it would be ‘nagging’. I don’t like to be nagged and so I try not to nag Master too much. I fully believe that he is an adult in control of his life and therefore it’s not my place to tell him to go and get his blood tests done (it’s been months!!!) or buy new clothes or whatever. It’s not that I don’t care about it, I just believe that he’s been doing ‘his thing’ well enough for 51 years and therefore why should I have a right to say anything to him.

Similarly, no-one has been me for longer than I have, therefore don’t tell me how to live my life, just tell me what to do, ok?

(Written in response to the delightful discussion over at kaya’s blog and not because I really have anything to rant about 🙂 )