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.