Things I often wonder about…

* Is it wrong to spend upwards of an hour on an exercise bike watching…the food channel?

* When men say they like a woman with ‘a bit of meat on her bones’, do they really mean it or do they only say it because they think that’s what we want to hear? I mean, I’ve never seen a woman with ‘a bit of meat on her bones’ in playboy, a porn movie or on anything on tv except “The Biggest Loser”.

* Should I make creme brulee, tart tatin, a flourless chocolate cake, a lemon meringue, a caramel tart, a citrus tart or a cheesecake for dessert on Sunday?

* If food and bondage came together in a wonderful fusion, would it be called Foodage?

* Do I spend too much time thinking about food?

*What it will be like having Master home every night from now on…it’s been nearly two years, so it’s kind of like learning to live together all over again.

* Was I as annoying when I was a teenager as the 30 or so teenagers I have the unfortunate pleasure of sharing the bus with every morning?

* Does Kim Kardashian’s butt look as big in real life as it does on tv?

* Can I psyche myself into cleaning the house if I drink enough caffeine?

* Why does the poodle pup insists on sitting in front of the fire until he overheats and starts panting…and why he doesn’t move away so I can get some heat FFS!!!??

* How much butter is in a stick? (our butter comes in 250g packets)

* In the same vein, how much ice cream is in a quart? (our ice cream comes in 2 litre, 4 litre and 6 litre tubs)

* Why do people in the UK still talk about weight in pounds and stones, but in the US it’s only pounds?

* Is corn syrup made of corn? (for the record, we don’t really use it in Australia and it’s quite hard to find)

* Why is most cheese in the US a disturbing shade of orange and is it true you can get cheese in cans?

*Do I spend too much time looking at recipes and food blogs?

*Do I spend too much time wondering about really random stuff?

How I manage to fuck myself up the bum

I had a disturbing & at first glance, slightly mysterious text message out of the blue from my sister the other day:

“Now I know why they don’t make butt plugs out of pink latex.”

If you, like me and apparently like my sister, were foolish enough to put your pretty pink vibrator/dildo in a place where it was never made to go, you will know exactly what she was talking about. I don’t really want to go into much detail, but basically it’s Reason #421 of why I’m not into scat:

Poop stains.


Now that I’ve got that off my chest I can move onto other things (I didn’t actually mean to talk about poop, but the title just kind of reminded me about how wonderfully random my sister can be sometimes…)

So, I don’t really want to go into great detail, but if you’ve been reading Master’s blog, he’s been mentioning that I’ve been in a bit of a ‘funk’ i.e. giving him the cold shoulder lately. I had, of course, adopted the timeless woman’s tactic that men all across the world are familiar with known as, ‘If-I-give-him-the-cold-shoulder-for-long-enough-eventually-he’ll-figure-out-what’s-wrong-and-make-it-right.’ Unfortunately, all through-out the ages men have never figured out what’s wrong with their womenfolk and women have never figured out why the hell the menfolk can’t see what’s wrong because it is so bleeding ‘obvious’!!!

Suffice to say, it’s always better to tell the menfolk exactly what’s wrong in short, simple words and don’t give them the cold shoulder because they will just think you have your period – again – and go about life as normal.

My problem was that I’ve been feeling a distinct lack of masterfulness about Master and it had gotten to the stage that I was thinking if he wasn’t going to ‘scratch my itch’ then why the hell should I ‘scratch his itch’? I know it doesn’t sound very slavely and I’m sure I’ll get an e-mail from the Slave Registration people wanting to remove me from their list, but, seriously, the only way a bdsm relationship (or any relationship for that matter) is going to work is if both parties are getting something out of it.

I suppose in a sense I’m a bit more work than other slaves because I don’t have an itch for serving that gets scratched simply by doing things for him. I have a very specific itch for use and play (specifically bondage) and while I can ignore it for quite lengthy periods of time, eventually it gets to a point where I have to have it scratched NOW or I become very unbearable to live with.

Honestly, I’d like it if I didn’t have this itch. I’d like to just have a ‘normal’ relationship and relax in the comfortable haze of being a couple. I also like to trick myself into believing that I no longer have the itch and that I’ve ‘grown out’ of being a slave or that I don’t want that side of things anymore. These last couple of months have essentially been exactly that situation for me and I’ve thought quite seriously that I’d like to give it all away.

But when I’m in the haze and everything is good and I’m happy and I haven’t got a single thing to complain about in Couple-ville, it’s in those quiet times when I’m alone with my thoughts that I always feel like something is missing. It’s something I can’t quite put my finger on, but that I can only attribute to a lack of the D/s side of things. And even though a part of me may not want it there to begin with, its absence is palpable.

I guess it’s an addiction. Quite often I think I’ve kicked ‘the habit’ for good, but I always come back whether it be 2, 3 or 6 months down the track for another hit, another drawl, just to feed my needs. Inevitably coming back means a tighting up of things that had become lax, reinforcement of rules and new challenges. There is always a good injection of stuff that hurts and inevitably things that I don’t want to do rear their ugly heads again. That’s how I fuck myself up the bum – wrapping the chains tighter around myself when all I’d wanted to do up until that point was break free of them.

So that’s where I’m at at the moment. I confessed all to Master today and he’s of the opinion that I need a good beating. I’m of the opinion that I need a good beating- not just the threat of it.

Once again, though, I’m fucking myself up the bum by saying I need a good beating -when I really don’t want one- but I do really need one-but I really can’t take one- but I really do need one- but it’s really going to hurt- and as the thoughts circle around my head the image of a darkly-stained, once-pretty vibrator named Mr. Pink, who has gone where no vibrator should have gone before, enters my mind.

Why women don’t bother asking men to help around the house…


Because generally speaking, they do a really half-assed job of it.

I was hanging out some clothes yesterday and was bringing in the dry ones when I saw this Masterful display of hanging out by my domlier half. I just had to take a picture and share it because it was so truly half-assed.

Apparently in a study of 12 developed nations Australia took the prestigious last place in the egalitarian stakes – even behind Japan the country where  ‘women walk three steps behind the men’!!! So pretty much, Australian women have sweet-fuck-all chance of getting the menfolk to do anything around the house.

Master enjoys washing clothes. He’s very good at putting clothes in the machine and turning it on. He’s not so good at the hanging out, bringing in, folding, ironing or putting away that is supposed to go along with the ‘washing of the clothes’. Often he’ll put a load of washing on at 6pm, which, thanks to our uberly slow front-loading washing machine, means the cycle finishes somewhere between 8:30 and 9pm. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be standing outside in the freezing cold hanging out washing in the dark at that time, so I generally leave the hanging out until the next day. And sometimes I forget and that’s what prompted Master to take matters into his own hands and display his finely-tuned, half-assed hanging out skills.

Now if women displayed such half-assed skills doing something that really mattered to the menfolk, like changing the oil in the car or getting scum out from between the buttons on the tv remote control, I’m sure they would be feeling as stressed as women who find a shirt precariously hanging on for dear life on their washing line.

Women: if only half of the women did things half as half-assed as the men, the world would come to a grinding halt.

Body fluids and all that jazz – slightly nauseating topic

The last couple of days I’ve noticed a slightly disturbing trend in the search terms people are using to ‘find’ my blog. Here are just a few of the more worrying ones:

snot blowing bdsm women

master shitting on his slavegirl

vomit slavegirl cleaning

slavegirl toilet

shitting herself

consensual labia removal

Notice the trend? Yes, that’s correct, no-one has mentioned the word bondage in any of them and I’m all about the bondage 😉

(And as for the last one, I just had to list it because it’s worrying for an ENTIRELY different reason and probably deserves an entire post dedicated to it…)

So there seems to be a significant portion of my readership who are interesting in all the grosse things that come out of the human body. Fascinating.

A little while back I mentioned the period blood fetish that some people seem to have and the fact that there are websites about it. I guess based on that, I really shouldn’t be surprised that there are people into things dealing with other bodily fluids. But if anyone can explain to me their fascination with snot, please drop me a line. I’m absolutely aching to understand how anyone can get off watching someone blowing snot out of their nose (and I’m hoping to god that there is a a box of tissues involved.)

Bodily fluids are a bit of a gray area in bdsm. You’ll find a great deal of people list ‘scat, children and animals’ in their list of hard limits, but I’ve rarely seen ‘snot, vomit or piss’. Does that mean that snot-blowing, vomit-eating and piss-drinking are all on the menu?? I doubt it, but I guess most subbly folk assume that they won’t be asked to do any of those things because, well, they’re just grosse. But theoretically, if you’re allowed hard limits and you haven’t listed everything in there, you could be required to do exactly one of those things.

Everyone seems to think that piss is okay, and yes, I’d have to list golden showers as one of my all-time favourite acts that make me feel submissive in a sexual way, but when it comes to drinking, the standard line seems to be, ‘Well, urine is sterile so it’s okay’. A fairly important fact that a lot of people miss, however,  is that urine is only sterile to the person it came out of and not simply to anyone who may drink it. It’s also a fairly big concern if the person who is providing the piss is on any sort of medication, as what goes in, must come out to a certain degree.

Personally, along with scat, children, animals, snot, vomit, piss and spit, I’d be listing a hell of a lot of things on my hard limit list- if I had one-including,

‘Listening to Tom Jones’

‘Watching war shit or anything in black & white on tv’

‘Boots that make me feel like I’m going to break my ankle at any moment’

Unfortunately, I don’t have hard limits, a contract or anything else that governs what I will or will not do. So, in effect, I live in constant fear that Master will make me do something that I don’t want to do. It’s at this point that I would like to smugly say that I know he wouldn’t make me doing anything that’s on my imaginary hard limit list, and therefore it’s not an issue, but quite honestly, I don’t know what he’s going to have for lunch, let alone what he’s going to want to do to me from any given moment to given moment.

It’s also at this point that I’d like to say that I trust him enough that he wouldn’t make me do anything on my hard limit list, but the reality is that I don’t. Of course, it’s within his interests not to do anything to me that sends me to hospital, results in the hacking off of a limb (as then I wouldn’t be able to clean the house sufficiently) or that would get him a jail sentence, but theoretically he still could do it –  especially if I was tied down and couldn’t get the hell away from him.

So the lot of a slavegirl is to live in fear and to try to get on with life as best as you can, ignoring the possibilities of what could happen to you…that and to have a good exit plan when things start looking a bit hairy 😉

Karma boots

Day 14 of continual rain in Perth and what does a girlie do to cheer herself up?

Shopping!!! Squeeee!!!!

I think I have a wee addiction to buying boots:

new boots

Disturbingly enough I went shopping for jeans and tights and somehow came home with boots. I’m guessing this is some sort of indication of the penetration of Master’s boot indoctrination into my brain.

Quite simply, I knew I *needed* to buy boots so I spent a great deal of time wandering from shoe shop to shoe shop looking specifically for boots. Then, when it came close to the time I was supposed to go and meet Master, I started panicking because I hadn’t yet found suitable boots i.e. pointy toe, stiletto heel, at least knee-high. Even though he hadn’t told me to buy a pair, even though he hadn’t even mentioned boots, I wanted to buy something to please him a.k.a. slut boots.

But in the last shop I went into, there was the perfect pair. The last pair of their type, for less than half price. I barely even put them on my foot before handing over the money and racing back to the coffee shop where Master was waiting. I put them on again when we got home and they fit perfectly and are my comfiest pair of boots yet! It was almost like the universe was waiting for me to buy those boots. Mmm…karma boots.

Before we left for the shops, there had been a bit of a ‘jeans incident’. Basically, I’m not allowed to wear jeans or pants or anything that hinders access to his cunt. In fact, I haven’t worn anything but skirts (except when I’ve had dispensation) since I came here. But I’ve been wanting a pair of jeans recently for no other reason than I want to know what size I can fit in to. I want some skinny jeans! Which, on a thirty-two-year-old-henny-penny-chick, may be a bit inappropriate, but I don’t care. I want some skinny jeans!

So I dusted off my old pair of jeans that were hiding in the back of the wardrobe, put on my war-paint and prepared to go out amongst the minions of Perth’s outlet shops. Obviously, Master was neither impressed that I was wearing jeans or that I’d put them on without first seeking dispensation. After a bit of whining explaining that it was cold and jeans were a logical choice and the comment from Master that I had better ‘slut-offset my jeans by getting some whore-horn-bag tights’ ala carbon-offsetting so that the slut quotient of his life would be unaltered, we left the house and he went to his job interview while I did the hard yakka of shopping.

So I didn’t end up buying jeans or tights, but I did buy boots and a cool cap in the style that I’ve been lusting after since I first watched Pretty Woman oh-so-many years ago (yes, I also went through a jacket with jeans phase after watching that movie, but didn’t every one?)

Master even approved of the boots which was great. They’re not exactly in ‘slut boot’ territory owing to the fact that the heel isn’t high enough, but they did make it into the ‘nice day boots category. So even though I had a bit of a shopping-fail on what I wanted to buy, at least one of us was happy (and yeah, I was happy because he was happy and so forth and so on…)

(Note to self: don’t atttempt to buy skinny jeans at an outlet shop because the only cheap ones will be four sizes too small or four sizes too big because obviously they are the ones that don’t sell and therefore get shoved off to the outlet.)

Things that go bump in the night

I’m officially over the rain. It’s been raining for 12 days straight in Perth and I’m announcing that I’m officially over it.

Maybe the rain is what is contributing to my crabby mood…well, at least that is my story and I’m sticking to it. Either that or my plague is coming early. Over the last few months, my plague has ever-so-kindly aligned itself with the timing of the once-a month play party that we usually attend and that is next weekend so it’s a bit early.  Since the aligning of my plague though, I’ve turned tampon strings hanging from naked slave girlies into a fashion statement.

Well, in my head, at least, I have.

The reality actually involves me attempting to shove the offending string up my twat and shuffling along with my thighs squeezed together because I would be MORTIFIED to have it seen. It’s like imagining Princess Diana on the toilet- it just destroys the fantasy utterly and completely.

Apparently Master was amused by the vent I had in my previous post. Which, when your ass is on the line when he’s not amused, is a good thing.


You know how when you don’t do something for a while it becomes all scary again? Yeah, well that’s how I’m feeling about being beaten at the moment. Master mentioned the other day that he was in the mood to beat me ’til I cried. Normally I’d be kind of…umm…excited? full of anticipation? about the ‘challenge’ presented to me by having to endure the beating, but at the moment I’m just scared because I’m completely out of the habit/routine of being beaten. I’ve been secretly breathing a sigh of relief for everyday that goes by when the beating doesn’t eventuate, but I know that eventually my time will come.

One of the drawbacks to losing some weight is that now I have significantly less padding on the places that need it i.e. the places of impact. Often when I sit now, I feel the seat connecting with my tailbone and in the bath I find my shoulder-blades banging into the bathtub. It’s actually quite interesting to feel these new sensations, even though they may not be the most comfortable things I’ve felt. I’ve always had some padding on me to absorb some of the impact in the places that matter – the back and the botty- but now I don’t have as much, so I have a fairly good idea that any beating is going to hurt more than it did before (regardless of the fact that I’m also completely out of practice).

So I’m totally apprehensive about going to the play party and am thinking of ways I could ‘suggest’ that we don’t go. I wouldn’t lie, of course, but I have been known to use a bit of the power of suggestion and some serious batting of my eyelids to ‘encourage’ Master to do something on occasion.

Perhaps I could entice him with another lemon pie and a crackling warm fire dancing on the flesh of a naked & booted slavegirl on what’s going to probably be a chilly, wet Saturday night. 

Or maybe I’m better just to face the beast so I’m not living in constant fear. 

I think this is what Master is referring to when he talks of the ‘price of being a slave’ – too costly to go, too costly not to go. It’s times like this I wish I was a pain slut or at least a masochist and then I’d probably be willing to pay someone to let me go – just to scratch my itch and make all well with the world.

Out of the chrysalis

I’m in an irate mood. One of those ones where everything just grates on your nerves. I thought I was sending out enough vibes to the universe for Master not to ruffle my feathers the wrong way, but no…he still felt the urge to drag his fingernails down my proverbial chalkboard.

It’s been a while since I had a good vent/rant as I’ve been in la-la land recently, writing about M/s fluff and exercising my brain, but it is definitely time for me to have a good, long, hard old-fashioned purge. So here goes:

Master has this absolutely, positively annoying habit of 99.9% of the time phrasing requests as post-failure demands as in, he doesn’t say, “Get me a coffee” or “Can I have a coffee?” he says, “Where’s my coffee bitch???” with the tone of an annoyed customer who ordered one an hour ago and it hasn’t arrived.

Substitute the word coffee with about ten other things throughout the day and you’ll begin to understand how a woman in an irate mood, can begin to plot the slow painful death of her owner.

I’m sure he thinks it’s funny or cute, but god help me, I’m this close to slapping him somewhere the next time he says it because I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!

“Where’s my breakfast bitch?”

“Where’s my remote controller bitch?’

“Where’s my blanket bitch?”

Even writing this I can feel my blood pressure starting to rise.

Sometimes, in exasperation, I’ll ask him,

“Did you ask for it?” knowing full well that he didn’t.

And he’ll answer, “No, but you’re supposed to be anticipating my needs.”

It’s definitely one of my buttons and he knows it – the fucker.

I’ve always hated being entrusted with a job and then being questioned about why it wasn’t done or what happened when things were out of my control. But the one thing I hate above everything else is being accused of not doing my job, when I have done it. That’s why his demanding, questioning tone puts my teeth on edge because how can I fail to do something when I haven’t even been told what to do??? That just annoys the fucking crap out of me. Really. In.a. MAJOR.way.

They don’t teach you how to deal with shit like this at slave school (although obviously they teach it at dom school and Master excelled at the subject) and after three years of swallowing the bitter pill that is endurance, I’m pretty damn close to breaking point.

If I was Master’s girlfriend instead of his slave, this would be point where I would be screeching like a fishwife at him. But I’m not and so we have Reason #365 of why it is difficult to be a slave:

You can’t tell your owner to, “STOP FUCKING DOING THAT FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, MAN!”

Being that Master and I are two different people and all, I realise that we’re going to do things that annoy each other. Just off the top of my head, I’m sure my constant Japan talk and lack of enthusiasm in boot-wearing rub him up the wrong way, while his ‘post-failure-demand-requests’ and ridiculously loud sneezes annoy me.  That coming together of different habits and customs when you live with someone is a really, really big thing.

Think about it, if you’re not a morning person and never in your life have you been able to wake up before 8am, but your owner is a morning person and gets up at 5am everyday, as a slave, you, in the blink of an eye, have to become a morning person too. This may be after 10, 20 or 30 years of doing what works for you. When you live together in an M/s relationship, you’re suddenly thrust into another person’s way of life and you have to accept it and live with it.

Personally, this is what I think breaks more M/s relationships than anything else; it’s not problems with the play or the roles or anything M/s related, it’s simple things like he sleeps on your side of the bed or blows his nose in the shower.

Seemingly unimportant things that are nothing more than the breath of air off a butterfly’s wings.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the most submissive one of all?

Married Man’s Fucktoy was asking a question over on her blog about what act you’ve performed that made you feel the most submissive. The usual submissive act subjects of being used as a toilet and public humiliation were offered up and I thought too that drinking piss and public insertion of butt plug were high up on my list. Then I had a bit more of a think about it and realised that even though those acts made me feel ‘used’, the acts that really made me feel submissive were the simple everyday ones like changing his sheets and cleaning his toilet.

Why do these seemingly simple acts make me feel submissive?

Because I don’t get anything out of them on any level. They don’t scratch my bondage itch, my humiliation and degradation itch or my wanton slut itch. They are just things that need to be done. They are what I would call ‘pure service’ acts that I do simple because I’m the slave and he’s my owner and obeying is what I do.

I don’t get a ‘good girl’ out of them. I don’t get pretty trophies to take photos of and post to my blog. I get nothing out of them except the ability to say, ‘Yes, I have’ when he asks, “Did you clean my bathroom bitch?”

If I was service-orientated, I’d most definitely get my service itch scratched by washing his clothes or cleaning up his messes or putting his stuff away, but unfortunately I don’t have a service itch and if I wasn’t his slave, I’d be telling him to do his own shit because, “I’m not your mother fucktard!” So the fact that I do these things regardless of how I feel about them and, generally speaking, without bitching and moaning incessantly about them is directly due to the fact that I’m wearing the shiny thing.

And weirdly enough, when I don’t bitch and moan about what I have to do, when I do them like it’s the most natural thing in the world, that’s when I feel really, really insanely submissive.

As MM’s Fucktoy says though, this question is totally subjective and each person’s answer will be totally different. What pushes my buttons won’t push another person’s buttons and whoever the mirror shows will depend on who is looking in it.

Why the collars and beatings?

Being inquisitively minded and all like I am, I often think about why things are as they are. I wonder about the origins of customs and question why, in a lot of cases, we simply do things because ‘they’ve always been done that way’ even though it may not be the most economical or efficient way to complete the task. Everything from why we eat cereal for breakfast instead of for other meals to why all the offices are in the centre of town and all the houses are out in the suburbs and everyone spends great deals of time and money travelling to and from work (yes, I have too much time to think in my 3hr daily commutes…)

It’s only natural, therefore, that I think about the usual suspects of an M/s relationship – collars and beatings. Why do they appear so frequently when not everyone is into pain (both giving and receiving) and collars aren’t really practical in the 21st century?

I talked a little bit about this in my previous post, but pretty much, beatings and collars are tools to separate the mundane from the M/s. In consensual slavery you really have to do something that is so removed from ‘normal’ behaviour in order to shake people into their roles, or the feeling that you are “master and slave” will never evolve. The taboo factor of beating and restraining someone (in our culture) also comes into play and helps a possibly ‘normal’ relationship between two people morph into something  ‘unnatural’.

I think most people in M/s relationships spend a lot of time proving that they’re not simply boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife etc., but something else. The only way that you can do this tends to be through doing things that ‘normal’ couples don’t do i.e. play even if you don’t perhaps enjoy the things per se. 

If you have the perfect mix of sadist and masochist, you get the bonus of both enjoying the play. If you have an interest in bondage, great you can enjoy the restraint side of things. But there are people in M/s relationships who don’t enjoy any of that and I feel do it simply because that’s what always has been done/what everyone else does/is expected/is the only thing they can do to reinforce the roles of master and slave.

There are, of course, some ‘perfect slaves’ who don’t need anything to be reminded of their role and everything is rosy, but for the 99.99% of slaves who need a bit of help in this area, collars and beatings can be handy.

Along with the need to reinforce roles, there are also some more tangible reasons why collars and beatings are the tools of choice.

Historically collars were used because they are highly visible and difficult to remove. You can put a wrist or an ankle restraint on someone, but they can be more easily hidden and are easier to remove because the person wearing them can see them. Generally speaking something around your neck also doesn’t get as much in the way as a restraint on another appendage (although among those who wear them this may be debatable…lol)

From a power and ownership perspective, giving your property tangible marks like a collar or bruises/marks is like writing your name on something to signify that it’s yours. Marking people also sets them apart from other folk (linking back to the making the relationship ‘abnormal’ idea) which is why prisoners used to be tattooed or branded, adulterors got the scarlet ‘A’ and limbs were hacked off enemies. It’s can also be bit of a ‘I wuz here’ thing that humans have done for ever and a day.

So pretty much, collars and beatings are tools. They don’t make you a slave, but help reinforce the role you have chosen.

Pink elephants

Thank you everyone for the warm wishes on our anniversary! We appreciated all the comments 🙂

Along with living with the grumpy man and his particular ways Master for three years, I’ve been living with a lump of metal around my neck for almost the same period (3 years minus 10 days to be exact). It’s quite mind-boggling to think I’ve been wearing this thing around my neck for three whole years and I’ve only had two comments from random strangers (two different shop assistants) and three comments from people I was on a talking-to-basis with.

Even after all this time, I’m still very conscious on a day-to-day basis of it, but I guess that’s what Master was hoping to achieve by putting it on me – not allowing me to forget that I’m different from everyone else because I’m a slave. It’s very hard to keep someone in that headspace if they function as a normal member of society and work etc. He has always been adamant that it’s staying on i.e. “I will bury you in that collar” because it’s one of the few tools he can use to help me believe that I am what I am. That belief that I’m a slave is a pretty damn important thing for the whole M/s situation to function and it’s when you struggle with the belief that things start to go south.

Chloe asked me a question (*waves to Chloe – thanks for asking!*) the other day about the whole Master-finding -me-my-next-owner situation that would occur if Master was no longer going to be my owner. I explained it as it’s his duty to ‘pass me on’ and find someone to take up my leash with me having no say in it. She questioned whether that is what actually would happen if we hated each others guts or I decided to up and leave or if he just didn’t want to.

The short answer to her question is no, the duty wouldn’t actually exist if that is how things ended, but at this stage, I have to believe that that is what would happen. As she points out, I could just get the hell out of here and choose myself a new owner at any time, but I’m choosing to believe that I don’t have that option available to me to create the illusion that I am a slave and exist only on the whims of my owner. Like my collar, the belief that I’m property and therefore will be given or sold to my next owner helps me stay in the slave headspace. It’s a tool that we use to help me exist as a slave.

I’ve talked a little bit before about suspension of disbelief (i.e. choosing to believe) and how it is pretty integral to consensual slavery. In reality, I do have rights and choices and if I wanted to, I could go out to the kitchen cupboard, take the allen key and remove my collar right now. But I don’t. I choose to believe that it can’t come off, that I don’t have the right to remove it and I’ve kept believing that for three years – although there have definitely been times that I’ve wanted more than anything to have it off.

Master often says that a choice that cannot be exercised is not really a choice and that is how he explains my ‘no rights, no choices’ existence. I, however, don’t really subscribe to his way of thinking, because I know inside myself I still have the choice and I could exercise it at any time. I’m not so ‘far gone’ into slavery that I no longer have the option to exercise choices. The reality is that there are always lots of pink elephants in the room and I’m just choosing not to see them.

Maybe my collar is also a pink elephant that people choose not to see or maybe most people just like to keep their thoughts about my ‘unusual necklace’ to themselves.

Three years and counting

It’s our three year anniversary today and we celebrated it in grand fashion:

I announced that it was our anniversary on the phone. Master confirmed the fact that indeed it was. He then asked me what I bought him. I asked him what he’d bought me. He said slaves don’t get presents. I said I’m a slave so I have no money of my own to buy presents. He asked if I wanted a beating as a present. I said no.

The end.


We sound like an old married couple don’t we? (except, of course, for the beating part…)

Despite our low-key celebrations – made even more low key by the fact that Master is 300kms away for the next 3 days – it’s a happy occasion. Three years ago today I came to live with Master, but on reflection I have to say it was a very bizarre moment. You really can’t find a more awkward situation that meeting your owner in the flesh for the first time – the owner whom you’re going to be a sex slave to.

It’s kind of like you step off the plane and say, “Hi, I’m your property. I believe you’re my owner?”

In those first few days, I really didn’t know how to act or what to do. I was also nearly beside myself with the thought that he was going to do something ouchie or hurtie to me at any moment. I was oh-so nervous and had no idea what to expect or what he wanted.

I imagine Master was also feeling pretty awkward, although I don’t remember him showing it. He pretty much picked me up from the airport at about eleven o’clock on the Friday night and drove me home with an on-going commentary about Perth and what was where and stuff. Thirty minutes later we arrived home and I met the poodle, there was some feet licking and I was stripped naked. Then I was summarily chained to the camp bed in the back room that was to be my bed until other arrangements were made.

I had one day to settle in and then on the Sunday I had my labia pierced.

The collar came about 10 days later.

It was strange. Hauling your stuff to the other side of the country, to a city you’ve never been to before and don’t know anyone in, to live in somebody’s house that you don’t *really* know and become their property. I was so wound up about the ‘unknown’ factor during the first few weeks that I had a meltdown or two and my collar was removed.

Now I feel like I’ve been with Master for longer than three years. There is very little he doesn’t know about me – every one of my quirks and foibles he has patiently listened to filed away in his mind. He remembers things I’ve told him and then forgotten myself! He does know me better than anyone has ever known me, and probably ever will.

So thank you Master for a wonderful three years. I hope we have many more together xx

By the way side

Last night Master did something that he has not done for a very long time – he came into my room after I’d gone to bed and checked whether I was sleeping with my bed chain attached to my collar. I can’t remember the last time he did that…four months ago? six months ago? last year some time??? I really cannot remember.

I’m not sure why he decided to do it this particular night, but I have my suspicions that it was either prompted by (a) the afternoon we’d spent with another kinky couple discussing some intense play sessions at the recent play party we’d missed or (b) the fact that I’d mentioned ‘the good old days when you used to tie me up and stuff’ when he switched his screen-saver over on Sunday to some old photos of me showing…well, you know…the good old days when he used to tie me up and stuff…lol.

During our discussions with the other couple, we talked about a mutual acquaintance who had recently started a new relationship and how he had ‘worked her over’ at the party even though she’s quite new to everything. Our friends made the comment that she took things ‘really well’. I made the comment that it was because they were still in the ‘honeymoon phase’ and that’s what ‘everyone does at the beginning’ i.e. subbly folk over-stretch themselves and domly folk go all out, using every single tool in their toybox.

It’s only as months pass and the honeymoon period is over and done with that things fall by the way side.

(Do I perchance sound a bit cynical?? Lol.)

I remember when I went to be with my first owner and he started out all hard-ass dom and then the air just kind of went out of him, like I’d popped his domliness balloon or something. Initially, there were rules upon rules laid down about what I could and could not do – no furniture, no touching of the toys, no eating out of anything but my pet bowl, no sleeping or napping without some kind of bondage, no underwear, nakedness in bed, daily enemas…the list went on.

One by one, the rules seemed to become less important and he stopped checking so I felt like he didn’t have a care factor about whether I did them or not and suddenly they’d all fallen by the way side. Every time we had a ‘discussion’ to try and put us back on track when the whole M/s thing started heading down the toilet, the first thing I’d suggest would be putting the rules in place again. He would agree and for a few days, things would be good and then he’d stop checking again, and I’d lose interest because he’d lost interest and we’d be back at square one again. Rinse and repeat for twelve months.

I remember when I first came here and Master was all hard-ass dom as well. While he maintains that my one and only rule is ‘obedience’, there were lots of little rules put in place to govern my life including sleeping chained, no furniture, feet-licking, no underwear, etc. He would periodically check to make sure that I was doing what was required, but once again, over time, a lot of the rules fell by the way side, which is why I was so surprised when he came in to check the bed chain last night seeing that he hadn’t done it for months and months.

To be honest, having fewer rules makes things easier for me. I’m not exactly the most devoted and service-orientated slave that there is, and I can be as slack-ass and lazy as the best of them. I naturally gravitate towards doing the minimum required so having fewer rules is actually great for me. I’m not complaining about things being ‘lax’ at all, what I’m saying is that I think a lot of subbly folk freak when things start to fall by the way side equating it with their domly one not ‘liking them anymore’ or that they are ‘lacking in some way’. It is a catalyst for a great deal of angst sometimes, when really it is a natural easing of the intense, passionate beginning that most relationships (both bdsm and otherwise) have.

Like anything else, nature and people seek a state of equilibrium. Habits and lifestyle will only permanently change if it’s something that can be adopted into your daily life with a minimum of fuss. If there is a lot of fuss involved, people will only continue to do it as long as they get something out of it, so if there is no positive reinforcement or at least acknowledgement of you going out of your way to do something  then everyone starts to think, “What the fuck am I doing this for?”

Subbly folk want to have their efforts acknowledged. They want to be told that they are a good girl for doing such and such, or at least they want to be asked if they’ve done something or have it checked.

But what do domly ones get out of it? Nothing but the ‘chore’ of having to check, having to give praise, having to acknowledge? It’s no wonder their checking, praising and acknowledging falls by the wayside and they start to think, ‘What the fuck am I doing this for?’

I would suggest that for a lot of domly ones, the whole checking & praising thing is too much fuss and they’re not going to continue doing it once the novelty wears off after a few days. It’s not about shirking responsibility or being complacent, it’s about human nature wanting to do as little as possible to keep the equilibrium. Unless they are anal or OCD about certain things, they aren’t going to care whether you’ve eaten your food out of a bowl or off a plate two hours earlier when they weren’t even home.

The theory is that slaves are supposed to follow the rules regardless of feedback. They are supposed to know what is required and do it without question and keep doing it until they are told otherwise. I say if humans were able to follow rules without them being enforced, there would be no need for police, teachers, supervisors, security guards, managers, bosses or anyone else in a position of authority as everyone ‘knows the rules and should be following them’.

It works well in theory, but in reality, it falls by the way side.

Sunday Morning with kitten

I’ve had my big-mother cup of cappuccino to get me started, done my pantry challenge update and now I think I’m awake enough to tackle a blog post.

And I wait for the inspiration….

Still waiting….

*whistles while she waits…..*

Let me entertain you with further thoughts on food and me while I wait for inspiration:

I read Master’s comment on my last post before I went to pay him a visit this morning. I knew he would want to know if I had read it or not, so I thought I’d jump the gun. And of course the first thing he asked me was if I’d read his comment. He asked me to repeat it pretty much word for word. So I did. The he then informed me that if I got down to 55kg,  he would expect me to say there -that it would be my ‘required slave weight’.

For some reason, hearing that made me all teary – and not in a thank-god-he’s-taking-an-active-role-in-my-weight-loss kind of way.

Even though I said yesterday that I lose weight for ‘other people’, I vehemently disapprove of anyone but the individual taking ‘responsbility’ for their diet/health. Firstly, I think people have to take care of their own shit and having someone else ‘do the dirty work’ is a bit of a cop out (and really, if they don’t learn to control themselves, how will they ever learn to be healthy?) And secondly, it comes back to the thing I wrote about before regarding why some rules totally piss me off i.e. don’t try to control stuff I’m totally capable of controlling myself!

I’m guessing he said that in an effort to stop the yo-yo effect. But personally, I think having that pressure to stay at a particular weight is a really good way to get me binging in secret and hiding the evidence and yes, I have been known to do some of the secret eating behaviour.

With my first owner, I wasn’t supposed to eat sweets without permission, but I’d buy them and hide them and tuck in when he wasn’t around. Even with Master, I’ve done some binges that generally involved me buying large quantities of food on the way home from work and eating until the point where I thought I would vomit (but of course I never have…what a waste of good food that would be!) Theoretically I’m supposed to ask Master for permission to eat sweets too, but if he’s not around, then…well…I sometimes take matters into my own hands. I used to do it in Japan too and the Friday night/Saturday morning binge was the thing I looked forward to the most.

Reading back over this, maybe I’m not capable of controlling myself…lol. But I’ve always controlled it, if that makes sense. I’m actually hesitant to call them ‘binges’ because they were carefully planned and I *wanted* to do them. If I decide that I won’t ‘binge’ then I don’t. I was under the impression that a binge is something that you really can’t control, so I’m more inclined to call it ‘eating vast quantities’…Or am I deluding myself? Lol….

This time I’ve thought a lot about diet and exercise and am trying to make it more of a lifestyle change than a temporary fix. Previously I’ve always gone gung-ho about exercise and followed some particular eating plan like low GI or Atkins, but this time I’ve just tried to control my calories (there are no off-limits foods) and exercise when I’ve wanted to. Other than some times where I’ve felt ridiculously hungry, it’s been quite painless and I’m trying to think of it more along the lines of  ‘this is what my life will be from now on’  not, ‘this is what I’ll do only until I reach my goal weight’.

So anyway, I’m hoping that the ‘required slave weight’ comment was said a bit in jest and that I won’t be held to it. Not that I don’t want to maintain my weight loss, of course,  I just want to do it because *I* want to do it, not for someone else.

A weighty matter

Today I reached my goal weight of 60kg and on my 165cm frame that gives me a slap-bang-in-the-middle-of-the-healthy-BMI-range BMI of 22. That’s considerably lower than the BMI of 28 that I started with, but I have to say I’m not happy with the results.

You know how when you’re overweight and you think, “If I only lost 15-20kg, then I’d look much more attractive and I’d be happier”? Well, I used to think that too, but after having lost my ‘magical-body-morphing’ kilos I don’t have the body I thought I’d have and therefore am not feeling all happy and glowing with new confidence. I just look like a smaller version of my old self – still with bits sticking out here and there and things sagging. Apparently, there wasn’t a new, thin person inside me trying to get out, just a little me…lol.

To be honest, I don’t know whether the loose stuff I can grab is skin or fat. I’m sure my skin doesn’t have the same elasticity that it used to have, but I’m worried that if it is skin, that it might never snap back. I suppose it’s the toll of years of yo-yo dieting  that goes hand-in-hand with the stretch marks and cellulite. Sometimes I wish I could just go back and start all over again with a clean body slate knowing what I know now.

So in order to see whether it is skin or fat, I’ve decided to lose another 5kgs, which would take me to the lower end of the healthy BMI range.  I realise that genes and your body frame have a lot to do with how you look, but in an effort to eradicate reduce my stewie-head ass and give me a reasonable buffer for the crazy-mad-eat-everything-in-sight-fest I’m planning to embark on when Master and I go to Japan early next year, I’m thinking 5kg would be a good plan.

I was thinking today about all the times I’ve lost weight and why I’ve done it. Generally it’s always been for someone else.  The first time was when the boy I had a crush on left for a 12mth exchange in Japan. I wanted to impress him when he came back, so that was diet number one. Number two was for my application to the navy. Number three was my wedding. Number four was for my first owner. Number five was for Master. Number six (and my current diet) is also for Master.

I might say that my reason for dieting is because, “I’d like to be healthy”, but the bottom line is I want him to be attracted to me. I want him to have a slave he can ‘show off’ and above all, I want to keep him ‘interested’. I know keenly how much he enjoys looking at the ‘sluts’ we see when we’re out and about with their perfect bodies and legs in the shortest skirts and the tightest tops. I’m always sorry that I’m not like that and I feel ‘guilty’ that he is stuck with me as I am.

I enjoy food *a lot*. I have a large appetite and love, love, love sweets –  especially chocolate, custard and ice cream. I seriously could eat ice cream for three meals a day and be blissfully happy. I suppose when I’m larger,  I’m not comfortable with not fitting into clothes and seeing myself in pictures and things, but the pleasure I get from eating the food itself is generally worth the discomfort. If I was only thinking about me, I wouldn’t bother trying to lose weight – I would just rather eat what I wanted and live with the consequences.

This is probably why I’ve always gained the weight back – because I just want to eat what I want to eat, and once I reach a goal then I eat what I want again and the cycle continues. Perhaps I’ll never really be successful in losing the weight and keeping it off until *I* want to do it for me.

It’s a tough thing to do for someone with an abnormal relationship with food like yours truly. Though maybe realising what I need to do is taking the first step.

Dom Wanted: Apply within.

Position vacant: Dom

Must have: Experience, financial stability, police clearance, care factor for property, own shit together

Desirable: A castle, crisp suits, red sportscar, maid

Nightfall left an interesting observation on my previous post saying that women (whether submissive or domme) want a man with experience and that it is hard to get that experience.

Of course women want someone who is experienced! Doesn’t everyone?

It’s a bit like trying to get a job. Every employer wants someone with 3-5 years experience – even if you’re only sitting at a desk and smiling. In fact, I’ve forgotten the number of jobs I’ve applied for where I apparently haven’t had ‘sufficient experience’ or ‘qualifications’ to answer a phone or type up a letter. I’ve never lied on an application per se, but to get my foot in the door, I’ve been known to jazz things up on my resume a bit, otherwise, how else are you supposed to get experience when no-one will give you a chance?

However, there is a little bit of difference between embellishing your resume in order to work at an office and handing over your body (and sometimes your life) to someone who doesn’t know what they are doing. Even though the majority of play that takes place is never edgy enough to seriously put someone in danger, there is always the possibility of causing injury or irreparable harm in just about everything you do.

Restraints that are too tight can cause nerve damage and if you kill nerves, they never grow back. Hitting someone too high with a flogger can bruise or crack the tail bone. You can also have wrap around that could rupture a kidney. Needles inserted incorrectly can puncture lungs. You could accidently hit someone in the face with a single tail. People fall, things break. There are burns, cuts, bruises, infections….Not to mention the mental side of things.

You wouldn’t go to a doctor who wasn’t qualified, so why would hand your body over to someone who doesn’t know the ‘safe’ bits to hit or the responsibility of a power exchange?

As well as the inherent danger in play, there is also the fact that newbie doms tend to kill the fantasy. It’s okay to be asked, “Is that too tight?” but if your dom is asking you, “How do I tie a square knot again?” it’s just not cool.

Every woman wants a man who can swing a flogger and fix her toilet, while every man wants a woman who can cook and give good head. I know these are blatant stereotypes, but when you cut to the core of things, that’s pretty much how they are. I suppose dommes wanting experienced men has something to do with the men knowing how to treat a goddess properly (a.k.a. can lick pussy and unblock toilets), but I’m sure there are also women who would enjoy ‘training’ a man to their requirements.

So pretty much, yeah, you’re screwed if you’re wanting to be a dom and you don’t have experience. I suppose the only way to get around it is to go to workshops, try to get someone to mentor you, go to play parties and strike up friendships with people you can play with and receive advice from and above all be honest. You don’t have to say that you don’t know the handle of a flogger from the tails, but at least let them know that you don’t have a *huge* amount of experience and therefore will take it slow/ take it light/ are happy for feedback.

Lessons learned

One thing I learned from my abortive first slavery experience was, it’s hard to be a slave to someone who doesn’t have their shit together. I mean really… how can you respect someone and trust them to do what’s right for you when they can’t even look after themselves?

Take it from me, it just doesn’t work. They may think they ‘are ready’, you may think that things will be different *with you*, you may also hope that the responsibility of ownership will somehow set them on the straight and narrow…and then you can just keep on dreaming up yourself a successful bdsm relationship, because in a dream is the only place it’s going to happen!!! In fact, people who haven’t got their shit together when you start a relationship are, generally speaking, only going to get worse because now they’ve ‘got a slave to do it for them’.

An owner doesn’t have to be the perfect man, but he needs to at least have a job, have somewhere to live, not owe $10,000 to the local mafia and not be mentally unstable/drug-dependent/ into doing fucked up things with animals. It’s not a lot to ask and really should be commonsense, but for some strange reason, slave-orientated people tend to lose 100 points off their IQ when collars and cages are mentioned and choose the wrong guy.

Even yours truly. I totally ignored all the warning signs and my gut instinct and chose a man without a job or income, with big debts, who was ‘bunking’ with a friend, had two kids (and really, kids and me don’t mix) and was going through an icky divorce and was borderline manic depressive. It seems like a no-brainer now, but at the time I was all, ‘Oh, it’s okay we’ll make a new life together and we can all live happily ever after!’

That man was never, ever going to have his shit together and therefore had no chance of instilling any kind of trust or respect in me.  A lot of the time I’d come home from working ridiculous shifts and he’d be asleep or locked away in his computer game world and the kids would be spaced out from watching tv for 8 hrs straight and I’d just want to scream at him to get off his arse and do something!!! That’s really not a good headspace for someone trying to be a slave and it’s not at all conducive to a happy and productive bdsm relationship. We could barely ‘live life’ let alone ‘live the lifestyle’.

That’s one of the reasons I’ve always favoured men older than myself. Generally speaking, with age comes wisdom and given enough time, even men – god bless the little multi-tasking-challenged gender – can get their shit together. Not all of them (as evidenced above) but I feel you’ve got a far better chance of finding one with their shit together if they’ve got a few years on you.

Oh, and don’t choose an owner that has attempted to kill someone previously – it’s never a good idea.

It cuts like a knife

Some time on Sunday afternoon I jumped on top of Master as he lay on the couch (which is just something I like to do every now and then when I’m feeling ‘lonely’), kissed him a few times and asked him how he was feeling. He looked up at me and said ever-so-casually,

“I was thinking about advertising for a new owner for you on Fetlife this morning.”

Then he said,

“I thought it was about time.”

The first thing I thought was, ‘WTF??? You could of at least heated up that blade before you thrust it through my chest and twisted it a few times just to make sure you did the job right!!!’ but what I actually said was,

“Oh…so you’re bored of me?”

He had a bit of an enigmatic look on his face which made me very unsure of whether he was joking or not. I got a bit teary and waited for his answer:

“I just thought it was time to get me a real Asian slut.”

And then I knew he was joking. But even now, two days later, I can’t seem to stop thinking about what caused him to say it. You know what they say, where there’s smoke, there’s a slavegirl with her fire mojo.

Recently he’s been talking a lot about who he would get as my new owner when it became time for us to part ways. At the moment he’s very much enamoured with the thought of me having a female owner. Because, he says, ‘they’d be crueler’.

I have no doubt that a woman would be crueler. I’ve always thought that women make the best sadists and the best interrogators. Women give birth to small human beings out their twat and deal with blood and gore on a monthly basis so they know you can always take more – even if you think you can’t.

While the cruelty part disturbs me, the whole girl-on-girl part disturbs me more. When I made my first ever collar me profile, I said that I was hetero-flexible, which then turned into hetero-curious a few months later, and then finally I made the firm decision that I was straight. Plain, simple, straight.

I started out hetero-flexible, because I just assumed that that was what was ‘expected’ of a slave. I assumed that on occasion, some girl-on-girl action would be required so I wrote my orientation accordingly. But over time, I’ve thought I’m not. I can’t even bring myself to imagine eating out another girl’s pussy or even sucking on some breasts.

Dick? yes. Tits? no.

I don’t care about what orientation other people are, it’s just not for me. In fact, I had a very entertaining conversation with my mother last night about her hunt for the perfect vibrator/dildo and her new girlfriend who had ‘mysteriously’ brought over rubber gloves to celebrate her birthday. I think everyone is entitled to find someone who makes them happy, and if that happens to be girl/girl, boy/boy, boy/girl then who cares? I’m just saying, it’s not for me.

“It’s not for me” is a bit of a problem declaration though, when you’re a slave with no rights and choices…

So I’m kind of praying that Master isn’t thinking about getting rid of me any time soon and that I can continue to be what I’m happy at being – a cock whore.

Honey, I found my clitoris!

I’m embarassed to say, but it’s been three whole months too long since I last removed hair from my beaver. Generally speaking, I’m a bad slave because I only remove hair when that part of me is going to be on display and since we haven’t been anywhere to play in public for three months, it had been going feral.

In the intervening time it had grown to a length where I could plait it and quite possibly there might of been a colony of sea monkeys or something living in there. I really wouldn’t know because my bush was that thick. Funnily enough, the longer the hair is, the more it hurts because it gets wrapped around the rings and pulls and yeah, I thought it was time I did something about it.

So I thought I’d grace you with a pic of my clean pussy – sans one barbell.

Clean beaver

I can see a few stray hairs there, but I think I did a pretty good job for a slave who is desperately out of hair removal practice. As you can see, I haven’t taken the other barbell out because I really don’t know what to do, so for a while longer I will be lop-sided.

As I was laying in the bath I was thinking, Should I? Can I be bothered to remove it? Can I live with the itchiness and ouchiness as it grows back in a couple of days? (that prickly feeling between your ass cheeks as you walk along is just the worst!) But then I thought of Master. I thought that he’d enjoy a hair-free slut in boots since he hadn’t been well. And it turns out that he really did enjoy the surprise. Once I emerged from the bath, I was promptly taken to his bed and ravished 🙂

Poodle pup

(Yes, we have a poodle who loves to be in the thick of things.)

Looking at my cunt, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s pretty unique. I have no inner labia to speak of and the outer labia are like these big, thick lips. It’s definitely not the most femine or attractive one I’ve seen and I’ve seen a few. Perhaps putting some jewellery through it was the kindest thing to do 😉

(And is it just me or do my ass cheeks hanging down in the background make me look like I’ve got balls?)

(Day 2 info for the pantry challenge is also up!)

Snot beats slavery

You know what happens when I’m sick?

My slavery exits stage left and doesn’t come back until the snot stops flowing.

I woke up this morning and immediately got dressed in three layers of clothing.  I suppose that’s not unusual except there’s an unwritten rule that I’m to pay a naked bootie call to Master’s bed by 9am on Saturday mornings.

This morning I didn’t even think about getting naked and booted and heading to Master’s bed for our usual Saturday morning ravishing. I was feeling as slavey and sexy as the soggy tissues in my pocket and it just wasn’t going to happen.

“Bitch! Where’s my nakedness and boots?”

Master had spotted me and had the look – the horny look which means something is going to get pinched, slapped or licked unless I get out of there quickly.

As he twisted my arm behind my back to stop any pre-emptive slave escapes, he took a long look at my snotty red nose, the third eye growing off the side of my face and my plague underwear and I could see him struggling with the choice before him:

Do I take this sad excuse for a slave to my bed and have my way with her, or do I give a sick and plaguing girlie some slack?

Even though he’d shaved and had cheeks as smooth as a baby’s bottie (because I always complain about losing several layers of skin during ravishings thanks to his stubble) in anticipation of an hour or so of quality Master-on-slave time, he let me go. So we had coffee and crumpets and chilled in the chilly morning.

I was thankful.

After breathing through my mouth all night thanks to my lovely stuffy nose, my jaw was killing me and I had a pounding headache. I’d had feverish dreams of Master publishing several cookbooks and me complaining that there weren’t any food porn pics in them, just words.

Once the coffee was imbibed and pills popped I felt slightly more human and we started our day.

I just had the divine brazillian pumpkin soup Master made for me and some toasted turkish bread. I’ve got a full tummy and a cozy fire to blow my nose in front of. I don’t think Master or I are in any condition to go to the play party tonight. It’s a shame, but at least I’ve already got my outfit for the next one 😉

(I’ve added Day 1 of the pantry challenge to the tabs.)