A big part of why I do this thing called ‘slavery’ is that I have a need for the feeling of being kept & protected. I wrote previously about the relationship security that I get from being someone’s property, but I’ve also recently noticed that feeling safe and secure – both mentally and physically – play a big part.

As a woman, I like my man to be a man. I’m very neanderthal as far as my thoughts on women’s roles & men’s roles are concerned and as such, I like men to do the stuff that needs doing outside the cave: killing stuff, cleaning stuff, bbq-ing stuff, while I do the stuff inside. I also like men to keep the lions & tigers away from the door and the spiders, snakes & creepy-crawly things with lots of legs out of my bedroom.

When he’s in the mood, I quite like being dragged back to the cave by my hair and he should be able to throw me over his shoulder when he’s wading through quicksand, which requires a certain amount of manly strength on his part, and a certain amount of petite-ness on my part.

I’ve always consciously or unconsciously liked men who are taller than me. Ideally, they also should not be able to fit into my clothes. I’ll never forget the day my ex-husband came waltzing out into the lounge room wearing a pair of my jeans. He was stunned that the button on the fly for girls was on the other side. I, meanwhile, was stunned that the man I married had not only fit into my jeans, but he needed a belt to keep them up.

Being ‘small’ is a fairly important part of being able to be protected and it’s also a reason why I’ve tried so hard to lose weight.

I like it when his hand engulfs mine; when I scrunch my hand into a fist and it fits into the palm of his hand.

I like it when he hugs me and his arms reach all the way around; when he envelopes and surrounds me.

I like it when I have to look up to him; when he towers over me and I feel so very, very small.

You may be a bad slave if…

(1) The floor of your bedroom slavecell looks like this:

bedroom floor

(gonzo may be under there somewhere….)

(2) You call your Master, Owner and Deity:





(4) You respond to every request, order or demand from your Master with:


(5) Your idea of getting ‘down and dirty’ involves you planting a herb garden:

herb garden

(6) He tells you his coffee tastes different and you respond with:

‘That’s because I forgot to spit in it…..this time.’

(7) Your snappy response to his question, “What are you?” is:



‘In pain.’

‘Are we there yet?’

(8) Your owner washes his own car while you take pictures:


(9) People think your collar actually is a necklace.

(10) You leave out number 3 on your list of ten things.

Uncomfortable in my own skin

Master is a very sexual being. He needs at least a daily ravishing and has absolutely no problems talking about how I make him feel. He indulges,  pretty much without fail, in his word porn during every interrogation session and basically, is just very comfortable with the reality of sex between two people.

Me? I like to refer to my pink bits with the non-embarassment-inducing euphemism of C U Next Tuesday and I blush to the roots of my hair when I have to do dirty talk. For all of my naked photos on the internet and a few sessions of public play, I’m just not that comfortable with myself in a sexual role.

I always think it’s great when people can put their sexuality out there. I’m soooooo not like that. Anyone would think I spent 12 years of my school education in a catholic girl’s school for all of my inability to put it out there. Japan was good for me in that the nether region is referred to as ‘that place over there’ and speaking in another language always makes things less real for some reason. Back in Australia with the harsh reality of being a slave for (sexual) use and pleasure, I’m walking around in skin that just doesn’t quite fit.

I desperately want to be that sexual vixen that in my mind’s eye, all slaves are,  but I just feel so childish and inept like I’m playing dress-up in my mum’s high heels and pearls. My bashful years of teenage puberty where the thought of a kiss grossed me out  have somehow seemed to have carried on into my thirties and I still like to snigger at natural phenomena shaped liked genitals. Will I ever grow up?

Master has been on a mission for the last three years to get me out of henny penny mode. He demands that I wear ‘slut wear’, boots, put on bright lipstick in the pinkest trailer-park-trash-pink I can find. While he gets a certain amount of pleasure from the eyecandy effect, I think he is also hoping that one day it will snap me out of my dressing-for-comfort style. So far, if given the choice, I will generally dress for comfort, but there are times I will also dress in slut just because I know he likes me making the effort.

Slavery, is in some ways, an easy way for me to be something I’m naturally not – a slut. As Master’s slave I’m expected to be a slut for his use and pleasure. So even if the original me is not a slut, the new-improved, now-with-granola slut me that is created as a result of wearing the shiny thingie,  can service random men, be dragged through the bilge of sexual humiliation and degradation and have the most basic of personal needs, her own orgasms, taken away. The now-with-granola slut also has a permanent collar pierced through her clithood that, for other women is added to give pleasure, but for her, it’s there simply to remind her that she’s owned property.

While my skin might be a bit loose here or a bit tight there, the shiny thingie makes it all okay.

Except the kissing thing – nothing takes kissing off my uberly high ewwww factor list. It’s just wrong.

A slave worth playing with

I read an interesting little article that was doing the rounds of Fet a while ago but has resurfaced recently. It was essentially a beginners guide to bdsm spelling out how to avoid wanker doms and what to do and not do when playing.

 Amongst the ho-hum-not-again talk of safecalls and safewords, there was a section titled, ‘Be worth playing with’. In it subs were instructed to moan, gasp & cry appropriately during play because playing with someone who responds is much more preferable.

But is it?

I’ve always found the overly dramatic people – gasping and moaning at every little single touch- to be actually really, really annoying. Of course, if something is honest-to-god ouchie and they’re screaming their lungs out, that’s fine with me, but for something that is about as painful as getting a corn kernel stuck between your teeth, please don’t gasp & moan until you hyper ventilate.

I like to be one of the quiet, stoic types. It might hurt like a mother-fucker, but I like to keep my noises to myself. I’m also not one of those people who grunts or counts down remaining reps at the gym. I understand instructors like a bit of enthusiasm and I know some people love getting into the spirit of things, but I much prefer to suffer in silence.

Making noises during play feels to me a bit like faking an orgasm. In my time, I’ve faked a LOT of orgasms so I am well-versed in the mechanics of it. In fact, I have 10 years worth of faked orgasms racked up with my ex-husband and a further year’s worth with my first owner. When I became Master’s slave, I made a firm commitment not to fake another again and I never have.

I can understand that when most people play they want some sort of reaction out of the person they are doing nasty things to. I know there is nothing worse than teasing or tormenting someone and not getting any sort of response, I mean, the only reason you are doing it to begin with is to get a reaction, right? And, yes, I have been told that I should make more noises during play otherwise I might be asleep and they wouldn’t know it…lol. Like you’re going to be beating me with a wooden stick and I’ll be sleeping like a baby? Please!

I might be able to manage some sort of noise that sounds suspiciously like,  ‘Fuuuck!’, but if you want me to tell you I’ve been a ‘bad girl’, I’m sorry, but I’ll probably laugh in your face.

I’m pretty sure it’s a personal preference about whether you want the person you are playing with to react or not. I’m sure some people like stoic silence and others like a bit of theatrics. I’ve just asked Master sitting here beside me what he prefers and his reply was,

“I like you stock still while I beat your arse and when I’m finished, I like it when you cry.”

Lol. Trust him not to be happy with a bit of a whine or a whimper. Oh wait, he gets that *all the time* so obviously when we play he wants something different.

A potato is a potato is a potato

How many times have you started reading a blog, talked with someone online or met someone in r/l and all you’ve wanted to know about them is ‘what’ they are? Are they sub, slave, switch, dom, domme, top, bottom, trans, bi, tri…?? The list goes on…

Generally ‘what’ someone is, is the first thing I want to know because it will *completely* change how I interact with them and the little voice I create in my head when I read their words will indelibly be different according to ‘what’ they are.

In general, I tend to interact with people not as people, but in terms of their role and my role. If you are not something to me, I will ignore you i.e. if you’re a random person on the bus, you may as well not exist. I will not talk to you just because you’re another human being if you are not something to me. For this reason, being able to organize everyone in their ‘place’ is almost as important to me as ear-cleaning…almost, but not quite 😉

In bdsm, where everyone tends not to be someone but something, I would find life a whole lot easier if there was some sort of ‘uniform’ as in, doms in black, slaves in pink, subs in purple, sort of a thing. I find it hard to talk to someone I don’t know if I don’t know what they are, and it’s almost impossible to ask someone what they are.

There’s also that tiny little problem of definitions. If you’re submitting 24/7, but have a safeword does that make you a sub or a slave? If you’re a dom now, but have submitted to someone in the past, does that make you a switch or a dom? I want a nice, clean label that I can stick on people and a definitive category I can put them in, so I can bring a little order to the chaos that is my mind, but it’s not always that easy.

I’d like some dichotomy charts for bdsm to help me with my labelling: sub vs slave, dom vs. top, bottom vs. sub etc., but does the fact that there aren’t any charts belie the fact that these things aren’t mutually exclusive? Perhaps these labels have no intrinsic differential meanings and are simply words we use to talk about the same thing – a ‘you say po-tay-to, I say po-tah-to’ situation.

But we mustn’t forget the fact that names have no power of creation. Just because you call some thing something , doesn’t turn it into that thing. Also how many thousands of words in different languages are there for ‘potato’? And in some places there may not even be no word for ‘potato’, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

Afterall, a potato is still a potato no matter what you call it.

This fact, of course, doesn’t help people like me who are all about the ‘labels’. Maybe I just need to start looking at people as people and think of anything else as simply a bonus.

The one where I watch French porn and think about a kilogram of apples

After Master had watched TopGear and I’d checked that True Blood was on Tuesday night and not Monday night (mmm…Bill…) we decided to see if the porn dvd we’d borrowed from a friend would work in our slightly picky & often moody dvd player.

I inserted the disk and held my breath for a few moments while I watched the blank tv until the words, “Sado Maso Gang Bang” flowed across the screen and I knew everything would be all right.

I have a personal preference for porn in foreign languages and preferably without subtitles. If it’s in English it somehow destroys the fantasy when the bimbos moan about big, thick cocks. I’d rather imagine what they are saying and drool over people doing amazing things with the letter ‘r’.

The only words I recognized in the movie were the oft repeated ones like “oui” and “monsieur”. For some reason, I was absolutely positive I heard the phrase ‘un kilo de pomme’ while I was watching, but that may have just been due to the fact that ‘un kilo de pomme s’il vous plait’ is the only phrase I remember from 2 years of French in high school because I really don’t think the chick in that movie had the time to be composing her shopping list while getting rammed as she was.

This was a LONG porno. I’m used to the usual 20 minutes or so of edited footage in which things come thick and fast. This was the kind of movie where they’d obviously just turned the camera on and filmed everything for the next 2 hrs. Personally, I don’t think we need to see guys moving furniture around and attempting to don a condom without getting their pubic hair stuck in it, but that just may be me.

About 1hr and 10 minutes in, Master attempted to fast forward the movie as the lengthy double penetration scene was just getting boring, but it was one of those movies that won’t let you do anything except use the ‘Play’ or “Stop” buttons so we persevered for another 30 minutes until finally the word “Fin” rolled across the screen.

The friend who lent it to us said there was only one thing in the movie that he’d never done himself. I’m of the opinion that his recent acquisition of a speculum from the medical kink suppliers will soon fix that little oversight.

The movie wasn’t extreme at all, just your typical flogging, nipple clamps, tens unit on pussy, sucking on dildo, fucking self with dildo, insertion of butt plug pony tail, weights on inner labia rings, fucking while in stocks, fucking on couch, face fucking, being peed on, being cummed on etc.

I did like a particular ball-shaped weight that had spikes on it that was attached to one of her rings. I liked the idea that it made her keep her legs open otherwise the spikes dug in and that got me all sorts of juicy. Have I mentioned I’m into the sort of restraints that keep you in uncomfortable positions?

In my opinion the chick was doing a bit too much moaning, and the number of guys in the room kept increasing to the point that you thought that the movie set was actually a tardis, but overall, it wasn’t bad. There was no un-necessary pretense of a story line and enough variety to keep everyone amused. I like my porn with a little bit more of a sense of distress in the girlie and a kilo of apples, but I guess you can’t have everything.

The one where I lament my lack of marks and wonder how you can politely turn down an offer to be fucked

I’d rate the ouchiness factor of my administrations from The Tormentor & Master’s beating on Saturday at a respectable 7/10, however my pretty trophy rating is a measly 4/10. FYI, a 10/10 on my ouchiness factor is something that makes you cry, big, snotty blubbery tears and your brain is screaming, “I can’t fucking take this any more!!!!” You know, one of those times when, if you had a safeword, you would of opened up a vein with a fingernail, written it on a placard with your blood & waved it in your domly one’s face.  A 10/10 on my pretty trophy rating are big, deep bruises that take a good 10 days before fading to yellow and getting so itchy that you have to shove your hand down your pants at work just to give them a scratch and you don’t care who sees you.

I just HATE it when something hurts and you’ve got nothing much to show for it.Does anyone know anything that gives you fabulous swirly bruises in shades of black and blue, but that doesn’t hurt at all?? Because I need it NOW! Seriously…N.O.W.

I’m a bit tender in places, and I keep looking in case a bruise has magically appeared in the last 20 minutes, but alas…no. This is about all I’ve got to show for the evening’s entertainment:


Something interesting that happened after the party was that I got a message from one of the attendees. I opened up the message on Saturday morning and firstly, almost peed myself & then I promptly snorted my coffee across my keyboard. Obviously it was an email written in the depths of drunken-ness, but it conveyed a wish to play with me and was followed up with a not-so-drunk e-mail a few hours later enquiring as to how one goes about setting up a playdate.

I’ve written before about my Mystery Shopper experiences, where Master organized a couple of strangers to come and play with me. They were interesting experiences and it has always been his intention to have me used by others, but the one thing that is different about those and this time is that I actually know this person and will probably see this person again in the future at any local events. I think it would create some uncomfortable moments around the nibblies table:



“So…umm…yeah, I’ve had my cock in you.”

“Yes, yes you have.”

“By the way, this dip is great. You should try some.”

I just don’t know how it would work. I mean there is a certain plus side to being fucked/played with by people you know because, well, you know them. You know how they play and you know they’re not some random freak who just wants to get off. But as mentioned above, I think it also creates some issues on a social level i.e. don’t shit where you eat.

So what does everyone think? Should Use By Others (UBO) be kept strictly to strangers, or can it work with people you know???

Edited to add: 

This post is just theoretical musing on my part without regard to what protocol should be followed or the fact that it’s not up to me anyway. Whatever, if anything, happened it would be up to Master, of course, and he has pretty stringent standards for who is allowed to participate in UBO, so it’s highly unlikely that this particular gentleman would ever get a playdate.

The one where I’m trying to decide whether having to go to a play party dressed as a geek pushes my humiliation button

Yesterday Master purchased a football guernsey in his team’s colours and a matching beanie & scarf for me. The football gear coupled with a pair of slut boots is supposed to be my ‘outfit’ for the play party tonight.

I put on the ensemble yesterday and he snapped a few pictures saying that it was a good outfit for a ‘bogan slut’ like me and he’s hopeful that fans of other football teams will scorn me (to say nothing of the fact that I support a totally different team and putting on his team’s colours is like staking a sparkling one through the heart…)

Now, generally speaking at these play parties, everyone is all dressed up in their leathers, corsets and goth-est looking best and every now and then I arrive in something that is completely inappropriate like the ‘belinda the builder’ outfit and the ‘bogan footie slut’ that I’m going as tonight. I generally feel totally ridiculous as my outfits are like some bad in-joke that only Master thinks is funny and people who don’t know what he is like, just think I’m some bizarro geek.

I realise he gets some sort of twisted pleasure out of seeing me utterly uncomfortable in a social situation, but what I’m trying to decide is whether being humiliated like that – in a non-sexual way – contributes anything towards the pushing of my humiliation button.

I’ve been paraded around naked in rooms full of clothed people drinking coffee, lead around on a leash crawling on my hands and knees and inserted a pocket rocket in front of an assembled crowd and in some strange way those things pushed my humiliation button. I got some sort of pleasure in knowing that I was being humiliated in public.

The couple of times I’ve worn the strange outfits, I’ve felt nothing but a longing for the earth to swallow me up. Seriously, that long walk up the driveway to the front door, where everyone is standing out the front checking out who is coming in, is quite literally my green mile i.e. dead woman walking.

Thinking about those types of humiliation and the ‘other’ type of humiliation, the only thing I can think that is different is the fact that the ‘normal’ types of humiliation are almost expected in a bdsm setting, whereas the strange-outfit humiliation is not. Instead of the ‘knowing’ looks you get from people watching the expected variety, you get the puzzled, ‘Wtf is this chick wearing?’ looks that really make you feel like shit.

So in conclusion, I’ve decided it doesn’t push my button and I’m hoping that Master gets his dose of sick, twisted pleasure out it and removes it quickly so he can give me a nice bruise-inducing beating.

The one where I discuss what I got up to while Master was away last week

Even though I’d been home alone since Wednesday, it took me until Saturday night before I actually got around to psyching myself up for some s&mb (self-bondage & masochistic boobie behaviour).

It was one of those cases where, when you have free-reign to do something, you suddenly don’t feel like desperately wanting to do it anymore, you know that feeling? Yeah…I’m like that all the time. When I have no lollies in my release jar, I feel the need to have a release thrice-daily, but when I’ve got quite a few in there, suddenly I become Miss I-can’t-remember-the-last-time-I-had-a-release and all thoughts of getting down and nasty with myself fly out the window.

So I started out with a bit of a warm-up, which in my case, tends to be porn of the freely-available-on-the-internet variety, and after 20 minutes of watching lithe women getting anally rammed and some ouchie-looking action over at whippedwomen, I was suitably ready.

I gathered up my supplies from Master’s bedroom: rope, ankle & wrist shackles (don’t forget the keys!), lube, Mr. Pink (who is now stained shades of brown, but I put those unsightly bits face down for the pic…), nipple clamps, extra weights and shackles, ball gag, leather collar, extra heavy leash, and then I managed to un-earth Mr. Hitachi from my bedroom floor (the whereabouts of Gonzo are still a mystery though…)

When it was all heaped up in a nice pile, it looked like this:

pile of goodies

You may wonder why I put on another collar when I already have one on. Well, the interesting thing about that is that I like to *feel* that I’ve got a collar around my throat when I’m doing s&mb. My normal metal collar doesn’t really feel like a collar anymore because it’s there all the time, so I tend to put on a nice, wide leather collar and weigh it down with a nice heavy leash.

The rope is utilised for boobie bondage, with the nylon rope for wrapping around body and the hemp for squishing the boobies up nice and tight.

Shackles go on ankles and wrists, ball gag goes in, nipple clamps go on (once I get my mojo going I add the extra weights & chain) then Mr. Pink gets lubed up and inserted in the rear cavity. Finally, Mr. Hitachi goes on clit and I work Mr. Pink in and out by bouncing up and down on the bed on my knees. Approximately 10-15 minutes later, some sounds that seem strangely like a donkey on heat eminate from somewhere inside me and I’m all done & dusted.

The nipple clamps come off VERY QUICKLY once the pleasure stops, I can tell you that. In fact, once I’m done, everything comes off very quickly. This is mostly owning to the fact that 10 -15 minutes of bouncing up and down on your knees in metal restraints cuts off every single bit of circulation in your extremities, but also due to the fact that once I’ve achieved a release, I’m not interested at all in being tied up. Oh, generally by this stage my jaw is also killing me, so the second thing that comes off is generally the gag. Nipple clamps, gag, Mr. Pink, metal restraints, rope –  in that order.

I generally get the feeling that getting everything together and putting it all on takes much longer than the actual act of release. Sometimes the planning and execution can actually be more engaging than the actual deed itself, but with that said, when I RSVP to a party, I make it my business to cum. I don’t think I’ve ever gone to the trouble of setting it all up and not achieving release, but on those rare occasions when I just can’t get my mojo going, I bounce away stubbornly until my feet turn purple and I’m getting cramps in my legs and by god,  I do finally get there.

So that was how I spent a small portion of my time while Master was away. Was that too much information??

The one where I start out with nothing to say and I end up getting all philosophical on your ass

I’ve been feeling like I’ve been hit with a tranquilizer gun these last few nights, so come 9pm I’ve been in bed…fast asleep. Yes, I’m officially on senior citizens time and this has cut quite sharply into my blog posts as I usually put my electric blanket on, get all comfy in a warm bed and get my creative juices flowing between the hours of 9-11pm.

There’s not much to report here anyway other than there is talk about us moving from Perth, possibly to Brisbane or Melbourne in the near future. Having never lived in either place, I can’t really say which city I’d prefer to live in, but they’ve both got their good & bad points. More than that though I’m a little stressed at the thought of moving…again…because as we all know, moving is a complete mindfuck,  and leaving yet another job without even spending a year there.

It’s not that I’m particularly enamoured with my job (generally I’m bored to tears) but they’ve been very accommodating when I’ve changed my work days and hours and things and all these little bits of jobs I’ve been doing just aren’t adding up to any real chunks of experience that look good on a resume. At the moment my resume looks very much like one belonging to a typical Gen Y who can’t make a commitment and has no idea what they want to do with their life (which is 100% due to my inability to stick with anything and because everything I decide to do turns out to be really crap.)

But then again, I’m a slave who isn’t supposed to be worried about stuff like that, aren’t I?

In slavey news I’ve had my mind buzzing with thoughts of what the difference between a consensual slave and a slave is in the bdsm sense. Master says to me all the time that I’m past the point of being able to choose not to be a slave anymore, effectually making me more of a slave than a consensual slave. Thinking of it that way, I become a bit blurry on what the difference between a sub and a slave is, as I’ve always defined a slave as someone without rights and choices. But if you make a distinction between a slave and a consensual slave, saying that a consensual slave still has the choice to be a slave, doesn’t that in effect make them a sub? Now I think I’m confusing myself….

Personally, I’ve always been of the opinion that in most modern, democratic countries in the 21st century true slavery does not exist in the bdsm sense. Yes, there are human traffickers and sex slaves and child slavery and all sorts of other sad and nasty realities in the world, but for the average bdsm practitioner, slavery, by definition is consensual.

So comes the question, can a Master take away your right to not be a slave thereby not making it consensual? Can they say one day, ‘From now on, you’re really a slave, you will be sold when I’m done with you and I’ll do whatever the hell I want until then, so suck it up buttercup’! ?

My answer is no. Confining someone against their will is a crime. Kidnapping a girl, keeping her in a tent in your backyard for years and fathering children with her will see you spending the rest of your life in jail. Theoretically, even consensual slavery could see you end up in jail (as having the other person’s consent to beat their ass is not a defense) but generally you don’t end up in jail because the other person *wants* to be there and therefore won’t call the police while you’re taking a whizz in the toilet.

There is, however, that tiny little problem of being ‘broken’ so much that you feel that leaving is no longer an option even though you may want to and in fact, you probably don’t even realise that you do want to leave because, as mentioned,  it’s not even on the menu anymore. I suppose this scenario is one in which I would call the person a ‘slave’ as opposed to a ‘consensual slave’. This would take some serious mental conditioning and cutting off from the outside world to be even slightly possible though, and in most cases I would say it’s edging into ‘crime’ territory.

Thoughts anyone?

The Secret Time

Wanna know the secret of how to have a successful bdsm relationship?? Do ya? Do ya?

I’m not saying my relationship is the be all and end all of bdsm relationships, the one to be emulated and the one on which the Great Book of BDSM will be written, but from my observations, a 24/7 relationship that lasts longer than two years is a success. So based on that, here’s The Secret to having a successful bdsm relationship….

Do we all have our pens and paper ready???

Ok, here it is…

It has to be do-able.

Ta-fucking dah.

Despite what a lot of people will lead you to believe, bdsm is not rocket science or neurosurgery. As Master has been known to define it:

“There are only so many things you can do. Beat, flog, do a bit of bondage, stick a few needles in. That’s about it.”

A lot of people cringe when the word ‘lifestyle is used in relation to bdsm because they assume that it refers to the fact that you have to live and breathe it – it becomes who you are and what you do – and it seems like it is some unattainable dream. 

But I think the word ‘lifestyle’ is a very apt description of what you have to do to make bdsm work i.e. style it into your life. Do what you can, when you can, how you can.

In many ways, bdsm is like a diet. Generally when you start out, you’re all Miss Perfect and do exactly what you’re supposed to be doing. It’s all so un-natural and forced though. Someone who has lived on chips, chocolate & eight hours of tv a day might be able to eat fruit & veg and exercise everyday for a week…two weeks tops…but then they’ll go back to their old habits because going all gung-ho about it and changing your life 200% is not sustainable. Humans are creatures of habit and will eventually go back to doing what is comfortable and what takes the least effort i.e. chips, chocolate & tv.

It’s the same with bdsm, if you one day become a slave and suddenly your life changes 200% you ain’t going to be able to keep it up for long. Everyone, for some reason, tends to go so gung-ho about bdsm stuff from the word go: the dom makes a million and one rules about everything from no furniture, to constant nakedness and cage time and similarly the dom is now expected to be all bad-ass and god-like 24/7. It’s just not going to happen and there are a few reasons why.

Firstly, there is constant stress from doing things that you don’t normally do. The occasion push outside your comfort zone can be titillating, but being outside your comfort zone all the time just makes you tired from having to constantly adjust on the inside.

Secondly, if you do everything from the start what are you going to do next? If you use every single toy in your collection the first time you meet someone, what the hell are you going to do on the second meet? There is definitely some truth in the saying, ‘too much of a good thing’.

Thirdly, expectations rarely match reality. There are very few women who can wrap their ankles behind their head and there are very few men who can match fucking rhythms enough to sucessfully carry off double penetration. Personally, just to be on the safe side, I wouldnt be having expectations any higher than, “I hope she shaved her legs” and “I hope he cut his nose hair”. With expectations like these, you’re going to be absolutely delighted with what actually takes place.

As mentioned, bdsm can be really tiring because you’re doing things you are not used to and even just from the ‘weight’ of the emotional connection. Even after months & years of doing things that now seem like second nature, without knowing it, the pressure builds up. For this reason, I think it’s really important for both parties to have a break. I’ve actually managed to recharge during these few days that Master has been away. It’s not like I have even a slightly demanding slave schedule to begin with, but emotionally I’ve been able to reconnect with myself and I’m feeling much better than I have done for a while. I’m hoping Master has also enjoyed the time apart – free from whining slavegirl and the feeling that he has to be domly all the time.

So, The Secret is keeping it do-able. Don’t change your life so abruptly that it becomes something you don’t even recognise and causes you stress. Don’t do things simply because other people are doing them or you feel like you ‘should’ be doing them even though they don’t fit into your life. Keep expectations real and achievable. Take a break and recharge when you need to.

That’s it.

Diet time

A few people have been asking me recently how I’ve managed to lose the weight so here’s a bit of a run-down. This entry is totally skippable if you haven’t the slightest interest in food & diet…there’s also no porn or nakedness involved…so don’t say I didn’t warn you!

It’s been exactly 6 months since I started my lifestyle change. I don’t really want to call it a ‘diet’ because then that makes it sound like it has an end point, whereas I’m hoping to make it more of a sustainable eating adjustment (you’ll notice I have used the word ‘diet’ in the title, but that’s only because I’m all about the snappy post titles).

After blazing through the first 18kgs or so and getting rewarded each and every week with a change in the number on the scales with very little effort, I’m now in that icky up-and-down stage where it’s a huge struggle to see any down-ward change. I’m also getting increasingly OCD about food, which is not very good I know, but I guess it’s a natural by-product of scrutinising what goes in and out of your body 110% of the time. Case in point, I’ve been having back and forth conversations in my mind for the past 12hrs about whether I should eat a muffin or not. I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about the muffin. I woke up thinking about the muffin, and now I’m still thinking about it. It’s no wonder I’m in a non-sexual phase at the moment, because there is nothing happening inside my brain except thinking about muffins – and I don’t mean that in a sexual way!! Lol.

I’d like to be one of those people who just thinks of food as fuel and gets on with their life. I’m amazed by people who ‘forget to eat’. How the hell can you forget to eat lunch or dinner or something? Unfortunately, I’m not a person who only eats to live; food has always been very central in my life and now is no exception.

For six months I’ve been controlling my calories and exercising when I’ve felt like it. I keep a food and exercise journal and weigh just about everything. I haven’t put any foods on the forbidden list so if I have something ‘norti’ I just have an amount that fits within my calorie allowance. Pretty much it’s just about portion control and making sure I don’t go overboard with fat or carb counts. I record my weight and measurements each Saturday morning and that’s about it.

This morning I reached a weight that I haven’t been since I was 16 years old and it was quite a surreal experience. Growing up I was a fat kid that got called the lovely nickname of ‘Fats’ and I remember vividly in fourth grade learning about bar graphs in maths class. We weighed everyone in the class and plotted the weights on a graph. Everyone was around the 40-45kg mark and then there was me stuck right out in 60kg land. I think that’s the kind of thing that sticks with you forever. When I was 15, I had a huge growth spurt and suddenly the weight melted off me as I got taller. I ended up being 54kg and for the first time ever managed to finish the running course in PE class, but of course I didn’t stay that weight very long as my eating habits hadn’t changed.

In the intervening years I’ve yoyo-ed up and down, hitting an all time high after spending my first 12 months in Japan – close to 90kg. My lowest weight had been just before I got married 6 years ago – 58kgs. Now I’m under that.

Master has christened my goal weight of 55kg as my ‘slave weight’. He is taking absolutely no responsibility for that target whatsoever, simply saying that I’ve set my own goal and now I have to stick to it. He says he wants me to stay within 2-3kgs of that weight forever and ever. Personally I’m wondering how the man who asks me constantly whether I want to go for all-you-can-eat buffets/ice-cream/muffins/yummy scrummy food of every description is intending to keep me at that weight…lol. I know he’s only trying to be kind and wants to spoil me, but I think I can do without the extra temptation kthanx!

I find exercise to be a real chore. When you control your calories, strictly speaking, you don’t really need to exercise, but exercising allows you to eat a bit more as you’re only worried about net calories (food calories minus exercise calories) and we all know we’re supposed to be doing 30mins of activity a day, right? When I started my eating adjustment I rarely exercised because I found it made me insatiably hungry and angry (I resented feeling like I *had to* exercise when I was already eating much less than usual). I’m exercising more now because my weight-loss has slowed right down and also because I’m trying to tone up a bit more.

When I was in Japan I had AMAZING instructors at my gym. The routines were complicated and challenging and for me, Miss A+++ , I wanted to go to every single class just so that I could prove I could do them. I got to the stage where I was doing upwards of 15 classes a week (yes, slightly obsessive I know, but some of the instructors were damn hot eye candy too!)  Some of the routines you spent a whole month learning because they were that long and involved and the feeling at the end when you could finally do them was indescribable. I had been doing aerobics for several years in Australia before I ever went to the gym in the Japan, but in the beginning there were classes that I had to walk out of after 5mins because they were so far out of my league. I loved the fact that my brain and body were getting a work out at the same time and I’ve tried numerous gyms since I’ve been back in Australia, but sadly nothing ever compares and I get bored after a couple of weeks.

I’m also an on-the-way-home exerciser. After I get home, I don’t want to get off my stewie-shaped ass, so doing something straight after work is the only way. Recently I’ve been hoping off the bus and walking the rest of the way home. It saves a little bit of money and I have a purpose for doing it, which works for me. When I don’t do that, I do interval training on my stationary bike at home for 30-60mins.

I’ll be hitting my slave weight soon and that will open another huge can of worms – maintenance. I’ll be spending some time slowly upping my calorie intake until I work out what my maintenance calorie level is (an amount where I don’t lose or gain weight) then it will just be a problem of me sticking to that and hopefully keeping up the exercise.  Losing weight (and gaining!!) is something I’ve had lots of practise at, but maintenance has always been a problem. Maybe the challenge of it will ignite the Miss A+++ personality in me and there will be hope yet.

Bad karma time

Everything I touch or even just glance at out of the corner of my eye these past couple of days has just gone wrong.

My usual two-hour walk home yesterday turned into a 2 & 1/2 hr battle with the elements as I got thrashed by ridiculous wind, rain and ended up so soaked I had to take refuge in Bunnings ( a hardware store) while I wrung the water out of my socks so I could last the remaining hour. I actually sat on one of their outdoor furniture displays in the middle of the store while I took off my shoes and socks, squeezed what water I could out of my socks and rooted around in my backpack for the pair that I had originally been wearing and had changed out of and put them on instead. There were some people giving me very funny looks for some reason….

I made it home with a heel rubbed raw from wearing wet shoes and was starving so I started cooking dinner and then the power went out…. Have you ever cooked lentil curry in your kitchen using a torch?

The day before I was waiting for the train and this kid came up to me and asked me for $2. I said, ‘Sorry, no’. So what does the kid do? Spits on me, tries to kick me, then hops on the train behind me. Considering this kid would have only been maybe 9 or 10 years old, I hate to think what he’s going to be like in a few years time.

Normally the public transport system in Perth is pretty good. It’s clean and is generally on time, but there are an inordinate number of people who ask you for money when you’re just standing there minding your own business. The funniest time was when I had this guy ask me for a dollar because he was ‘a dollar short for the fare’. I said no, so then he hops on the bus behind me, hands over a five dollar note for the $2.40 fare, takes his change and then sits two rows behind me.  I wonder if I’m sending out ‘easy target’ vibes or something.

Then this morning I went to the supermarket just down the road to get some milk for breakfast and I saw they had red Mars bars on special for 99c. Red mars bars are my treat of choice at the moment as they have half the fat & only 146cal. So I bought one and my 2 litres of milk and when I got home discovered that my mars bar had been crushed into oblivion. It wouldn’t be a big thing if I wasn’t totally OCD about eating any chocolate bar in layers, but I can’t stand to eat it any other way – first chocolate off the ends, then chocolate off the sides, then chocolate off the bottom, then nougat, then caramel then chocolate on top- so my excitement level at having a treat has nose-dived into near-nothingness.

I’ve told Master about my recent bad karma and his slightly amused response is,

‘Well, you should of come to Melbourne.’

Somehow I doubt my karma would of been any better regardless of where I was. In fact, if I had of gone with him, the plane would of been at least 2 hrs late, it would of rained everyday and we probably would of had to do a commando roll off the bed when his parents unexpectedly came home in the middle of a ravishing session like they did last time. No, when a girlie’s got bad karma, a girlie’s got bad karma.

I’m thinking about laying low this weekend and not exposing myself to any possible bad karma situations. Originally I was thinking about catching the bus into town and having a look around but even that sounds too dangerous at this stage. Maybe I should just kitten-proof the house by removing all sharp edges and covering the power points instead.

Quiz time

I had an email waiting for me when I got home from work today from one of my friends in Japan saying that the food parcel I had sent her had arrived today. I’m always impressed with how quickly mail leaves Australia as I only sent it on Saturday afternoon (today is Wednesday) but the mystery still remains of why anything sent from the east coast of Australia takes a shit load of time a.k.a. 7-10 days to get over here to the west side.

But I digress…

In my food parcel I sent an eclectic collection of things that you can’t easily buy in Japan like creme brulee flavoured timtam biscuits, a tiramisu-flavoured block of chocolate, potato chips in a plastic tube, cheese spread, laksa-flavoured instant ramen, a huge anaconda snake made out of gumi, instant cappuccino mix with a chocolate shaker, macadamia nuts, and a few other things.

A couple of months ago she sent me another food package from Japan jam-packed with all the goodies I love. Being the food-blog-obsessed person that I am, I immediately laid everything out on the floor and took a picture – well, actually several pictures.

goodies from Japan

Unfortunately I’ve since eaten 99.9% of everything that was in the package, but I still have some delicious memories.

Now here comes the quiz, I’ve numbered 10 of the items in the photo and I want you to guess what they are. For the things that have English on them, you’ll need to explain what the thing is (i.e. just saying ‘that’s a box of Pockys’ isn’t enough – what the hell is a Pocky?).

Goodies from afar

Here’s a close-up of number four:

Close up

You can click on the pics which will take you to my flickr page where you can see bigger versions (as if that helps! I hear the choruses already…lol.)

The person with the most correct answers will be named the know-it-all-god-of-the-internet-quiz and we will all bow down and worship you (now if that isn’t enough reason for you take the time to answer the quiz, I don’t know what is…)

Happy guessing!

Party time?

So Master has officially left the state and I’m alone for the next 5 days while he visits family in Melbourne. As we snuggled last night he asked what I was planning on doing while he was away:

“Oh, you know, have a few facebook-announced orgies and see how many people turn up & then dye the poodle pup’s woolly coat fluorescent pink and take a video and post it on youtube…that sort of thing…”

I’m not actually planning anything more exciting than going to work, doing some laundry and possibly having lunch with some friends on Saturday, but somehow I think he thought I would be lashing out and partying while ‘the cat’s away’. These days an exciting day for me involves not waking up before my alarm goes off and finding out my dinner had 150 less calories in it than I thought it did. I’m just that OUTRAGEOUS.

The only slightly out of the ordinary thing I might do is watch some porn and do a bit of the ye olde self-bondage as I need a bit of privacy for that. Bondage always leads to horniness and inevitably horniness leads to gonzo for me so I will be breaking out the hitachi too…if I can find it…it’s on my bedroom floor…somewhere.

It’s been…umm…probably a good 6-8 weeks since I last had a release. I think I’m going through a non-sexual phase at the moment as I haven’t had a release and I haven’t even wanted one for all that time. I suppose only having 3 or so releases left in my lolly jar isn’t helping things as I find it really is mind over matter some times, but then again I can have a full lolly jar and not be in the mood either. ‘Tis a fickle thing, a woman’s libido.

It was kind of cute as well, because I came home from work yesterday and Master had made cannelloni as well as a lasagne so I would have something to eat while he was away. The cannelloni was scrummy; filled with ricotta and cooked in Master’s special tomato sauce and I’ve got left-overs for tonight. I kind of felt like a teenager whose mum is going away and there being labelled meals in the fridge for each night so the kid doesn’t starve. It’s lovely that he worries about my needs even when he is only away for a short time. Have I mentioned I’m a spoiled slave?

Or maybe he’s just trying to ensure with a full belly that I’m contented enough not take his range rover out for a spin??


Learning to love what you don’t

Over the years as I’ve matured and my tastes have changed, I’ve discovered that I like things that I never used to.

For example, the list of foods I never used to eat was long and included some of the best foods known to man: olives, tomatoes, mangoes, any fish that wasn’t covered in bread crumbs & shaped like little fingers, anchovies, mandarins, seaweed, miso and pretty much anything that didn’t come out of a bottle, packet or the freezer.

My tastes in music have also been tempered and I find myself enjoying a bit of Simon & Garfunkel, Don McLean and the Australian icon John Farnham from time to time.

But after four years of being a slave, I still haven’t managed to gain an appreciation for service and it’s a continuing reason for me doubting whether I actually am a slave or not. See, I really do think that to be classed as a slave you do have to be into service. I mean, who the hell has ever heard of a slave who wasn’t into serving her owner???

It’s almost an oxymoron: non-service-orientated-slave. It sounds almost as bad as a blood-phobic-surgeon or a star-trek-hating-geek. It’s just not a description you hear everyday and on my slave resume it doesn’t exactly look glowing:

‘Can cook a mean-ass dinner, but you can serve it your fucking self.’

I guess I also have a problem with deciding exactly what constitutes service to begin with. Does it only refer to the sexual stuff or the domestic stuff, or a little bit of both? Is licking your owner’s feet service, but polishing his boots is not? How about making him coffee? (’cause I do that a billion times a day, so am I actually fulfilling my required service quota just by mixing the right amount of coffee with milk and stirring it the prescribed number of times?)

When you’re a live-in slave all the defining lines get a bit blurry. If you only meet on weekends and spend the time together as Master & slave then I guess everything you do can be counted as service, but when you’re doing the M/s thing 24/7 then where do you draw the line between slave stuff & girlfriend/room-mate/domestic help bitch stuff? Surely everything I do as his slave is not service, so what is and what isn’t?

I describe myself as non-service-orientated because I don’t enjoy doing a lot of stuff for Master. Take today, I spent my morning sucking cock and being ravished, but then had to make his porridge & cut his toenails.  The morning bit was good, the stuff after that was not so good. I’d class the sexual stuff as use and the domestic stuff as service, but that’s just me.

I still have yet to gain an appreciation for any alcohol that doesn’t have a cute name like ‘breezer’, blue cheese and slimy things like oysters, fish roe & fermented soya beans (natto) so maybe there will be a time when cutting his toenails makes me go weak at knees as well. One can only hope.

Whenever, however

Being a slave, one of the really tough things to deal with is what to do when there’s something wrong with your man. Of course, in day-to-day life you deal with colds and tummy upsets and other sorts of medical things that be-fall menfolk and generally they act like they’re dying for a few days and then everything is good again once they realise that they’re not headed for Valhalla for eternity, but it’s the more serious stuff that is tricky to deal with.

We had a rather unsettling turn of events at the end of last week that directly affected Master and while it’s not life-threatening or anything that is going to affect us in the next couple of weeks, it was the sort of news that quite literally made my heart stop at 2:45pm last Thursday when he told me. I’m not going to go into details because it’s not my place to say anything, suffice to say that he’s not a happy camper and I don’t know how to help him.

He’s definitely not himself and actually I’m not myself either. All sorts of things went through my mind and while I’m not one to panic when it’s not as yet ‘panic stations’ time, I’m anxious and worried about what will happen and what changes will take place. I’ve never been one to cope well with change and I’d imagine that it’s due to the fact that I’m a planner and I like to know what’s going to happen in advance, with plenty of time to make the necessary adjustments. Now I don’t know what to expect and I’m a bit lost.

There have been times in the past when Master was outof sorts and I worried about whether I was going to be turfed outof the house on my slave behind (because even now, after 3 years I still worry about that…) and there were times when he was a bit depressed or didn’t feel 100% physically or whatever, but after a few days he perked up. When he’s out of sorts I always ask him how he is or if he is ok and his answer is always,

“I’m fine”

Now, to be utterly and frankly honest, as a slave and seeing as he’s my god and a supreme ultimate being, I don’t want to know when he’s worried aboutsomething or whatnot. To me, he should be perfect all the time. As his slave & worshipper, I don’t want to know when he’s worried aboutthe mortgage or that he’s thinking about what is going to happen when it’s time to take the poodle pup to the vet to be euthanised. I don’t want to know about all that icky life-stuff, at all. Period.

But as someone who shares his life and cares ever so deeply for him, I want to do everything I can to make his voyage through life as comfortable and care-free as possible. I want him to talk to me about how he feels, about his hopes and fears. I want him to feel that we’re both on this journey of life together and that I can share the load.

How to reconcile these two roles that I occupy is something that I wish they had taught me at slave school. It’s a skill that is beyond me and I struggle with what to do every single time that Master doesn’t have a smile or at least a twinkle in his eye that shows me he’s ok. When he is sad, worried or down-hearted I wish I could blow the dark clouds away, but so often I can’t. I guess the only thing I can do is remind him that I am here always.

For him.

Whenever & however he needs me.

Is it a phase?

I wonder if a slave in a consensual bdsm relationship has ever woken up one day and thought,

“I don’t want to be a slave anymore”.

Not because they weren’t having their itches scratched, because their domly one had done anything wrong or because there was something wrong with their relationship. Simply because they decided that they were finished with being a slave and that that part of their life was over and done with.

I’ve read about a lot of M/s relationships that have come to an end and most of them have been due to the fact that one person hasn’t kept up their end of the deal. The second most frequent cause of a breakdown has generally involved one partner cheating on the other or not being entirely honest about something. However, in all the break-up stories, I can’t say that I’ve ever read about someone who has just decided to ‘stop’ being a slave or a dom.

Is it something that you can just stop doing because you don’t want to do it anymore?

I guess it depends on how much ‘a part’ of you your slavery is. I’m sure for some people it’s like the air that they breathe, it’s a part of them and they can’t imagine living without it. For others, it’s something that they try on for size for a while and find that ultimately, it doesn’t quite fit.

I think my feelings about slavery fall somewhere in the middle. My slavery was something I longed for with all my heart and soul at a stage when I wasn’t really aware of the realities. It was something I missed terribly for the couple of months I was uncollared for when I decided to put an end to my first relationship. It is something now that I often take for granted and at times resent, but more than anything I don’t know what I’d do if I wasn’t a slave – I would be lost.

On Saturday night someone at the play party asked Master what he would do if I didn’t want to put the collar back on. Master’s answer was very cool and straight to the point:

“It wouldn’t bother me if she wanted to find somewhere else to live. To be under my roof she has to be wearing my collar.”

The reality of my situation if I woke up tomorrow and decided not to be a slave would be that I wouldn’t have any where to live and I would find it difficult to stand on my own two feet. That’s the situation when you have next to zero in terms of assets, property & money. I’m sure I’d get by with the help of friends & family, but it would be akin to starting from zero again. I’ve started over twice before and managed, but as you get older it obviously gets harder and you start thinking about whether you should of had kids or should of gotten married, or should of had a career or should of had a normal life.

In the short term, I’d probably enjoy the ‘freedom’ of living by my rules and doing what I wanted, when I wanted. It might even be a relief  to be back in control again.

At least for a while.

Like everyone I play the ‘what if? game’ on a regular basis and while my life is not movie-script perfect, I’m still happier than I’ve been for quite some time. I don’t think my happiness is a direct result of my slavery, though, but more of a by-product. If Master said to me tomorrow that he wanted to end the M/s stuff I’d probably be okay with it. (I’d still want to do kinky stuff in the bedroom on occasion, but I’m sure I could survive without the ‘trappings of slavery’ and without me being his fetch and carry bitch…) I enjoy my relationship with Master more as a person than as a slave and it would only be if something happened to our relationship as ‘a couple’ that would result in a total break-down of what we have.

So is slavery a phase one goes through? For some, yes.

The only question you should really ask yourself in any relationship though is, ‘Am I happy?’ If your answer is no, then that’s the time you should do something about it.