Winding down

My ‘holiday’ is fast coming to a close and in typical why-the-fuck-didn’t-I-discover-this-earlier? fashion, with two days to go, I stumbled across the most AMAZING organic sourdough bakery and THE cheesecake that I have been searching for for the last…ummm…32 years.

The bread was chewy, dense and baked to perfection in their brick hearth. It was filled with the most divine combination of roasted pumpkin, fetta, olive tapenade and rocket and I was having little forgasms (food orgasms) on the suspiciously-IKEA-looking trendy furniture in the cafe the whole time I was munching away as I sipped my cappuccino made with fair-trade coffee and served with art on top and a delicate antique silver spoon on the side. The cheesecake was a german-style baked cheesecake with a smattering of sultanas in it. It had a hint of lemon, a rich, dense flavour of real cheese and was OMG perfection.

So it’s now official. A two-bit backwater town in the middle of nowhere, kicks the ass off a metropolitan capital city thirty times the size. I’m wondering if this revelation has contributed to my recent thoughts that perhaps my hometown is not so bad after all. If I keep thinking like this, I’ll seriously have to drag myself back here in the dead of winter when everything is dead and frozen just to shake myself out of this un-natural state of, dare I say it, ‘liking’ it.

I had dinner with my sister last night and after her husband disappeared for night shift we had one of those five-hour conversations about what we’ve fucked up in our lives and what we want now. She’s not a happy camper and I’m hoping that somehow talking about it helped her in some way. I pointed out the fact to her that people are constantly evolving and changing and it’s un-natural to stay wanting the same things they did several years ago- let alone seventeen years ago. I really do feel that relationships have a certain expiration date on them and like a dairy product past its use-by-date, if something is not done when that date rolls around, the relationship starts to fester and smell.

It got me thinking about my relationship and what I want. I’m not the same person I was three years ago and what I want now is quite different. Coming out of a failed relationship and being full of self-doubt and confidence issues, back then I wanted something that was purely non-emotional and would allow me to experience what I felt I had originally missed out on i.e. the ‘real’ slave experience full of kinky ouchie stuff. Three years on I’m realising that there really is no ‘real’ slave experience to be had and having experienced a reasonable gamut of bdsm stuff, I’m not as into it as I once was. I’m quite content to have the 99% normal life with 1% of spice to add some flavour.

I’m thinking that being a ‘slave’ in name only is enough for me and that I don’t need the assorted pain, play and accoutrements that go along with being a slave. I’m content with my connection with Master as a person and the mutual bond we share. I enjoy him as a partner on a multitude of levels that don’t involve anything even remotely connected to bdsm and by far, the biggest thing that speaks to me about how I’ve changed is the fact that I don’t mind when we don’t play. I don’t get angsty and I don’t worry any more. In fact, the only thing that stresses me about it now is not having anything juicy to write in my blog because I know it’s what a lot of people come here to read.

I see the stats drop when there are no pics or smutty posts and I really do feel a pressure to ‘perform’. It’s almost like I can feel the expectations around me and I guess having the word ‘slavegirl’ in the title of your blog brings with it a belief that there will be a certain level of slavegirl-related stuff in it; I suppose it really is a bit mis-leading when there’s more food porn than porn porn within its pages. I even started this god-damn post talking about bread and cheescake…lol. What does that say about me???

I don’t think coming home and being ‘away’ from my slavery has exacerbated my feelings. I’ve been having a waning in my interest in things bdsm-ish for quite a while and I really haven’t said anything because Master’s level of interest has been pretty much on par with mine. For some reason though, while I’ve been away Master has decided that when I go back I need retraining and things need to be ramped up with a lot more play and rules being imposed. He’s been busily buying toys and books and has also started constructing a St. Andrew’s cross that he’d been talking about making for quite some time, but never had.

To be honest, I don’t know whether Master is actually thinking that he’d like to do more or whether he’s simply feeling that we should be doing more because we’re “Master & slave”. I also don’t know whether my absence has made his heart grow fonder or his nether regions get hotter, but this past week he’s been more passionate about things bdsm than I have seen him been for a long, long time. It’s great to see him motivated and interested in things because he’s been quite down with his work situation and everything of late, but while he’s charged up and raring to go, I’m ready to curl up and take a nap.

I’ve managed to buy Master something that I’m sure he’ll enjoy when I go back, but as far as anything else goes, this little wind up toy is running out of oomph. Maybe I’m ready just to go under my own steam.

Baggage

I spent most of today digging through the boxes of my stuff that I have littered around my grandmother’s house. It’s a bit like an emotional graveyard with boxes of things representing every single facet of my life; from piles of notes I passed to friends in high school to pamphlets and memorabilia from Japan. There were even a couple of pages of notes from a discussion I’d had with my first owner about reinforcing the rules when our relationship had floundered at one time or another and a card he had given me for ‘Slaventine Day’ (Valentine’s day). It might sound like I’m a bit of a hoarder, but actually I only keep things that build a story of where I’ve been and what I’ve done because the reality is that I have a terrible memory and without things to jog it, I forget things so completely that they may as well have not existed. 

I also found my photo albums as I had been wanting to take them back to Perth with me. I flicked through the pages chronicling my 10 years in Japan (endless photos of drinking and karaoke), some random pics of my Year 10 & Year 12 school formals (ahh..early 90’s hairstyles!) and my wedding. My grandmother even had the programme, menu and schedule of my wedding as well as fifty million photos of me in the big white dress, so looking back over everything was quite a lengthy and emotional trip down memory lane.

Five hours, three bags of rubbish, a huge box of clothes for the good sammies and several “OMG, I can’t believe I’ve still got this!” exclamations later, I finished rifling through my emotional baggage, organized what I wanted to keep in one big box that is to stay at my grandmother’s, and made a couple of small piles of things to take back with me. It felt good to have worked through it all.

Today I also had lunch and dinner with my sister. Lunch was an emotional out-pouring over subway 6-inches about the tatters of her marriage and her fears for the future of her kids, while dinner was a more emotionally-together chat about work and the Twilight movie over turkey steaks and vegetables. We bonded over low-fat, low-cal diets and she announced that she thinks it’s time she came to Perth for a visit and a break from everything.

I mentioned the possibility of her impending visit to Master when I spoke to him a little while ago and his response was truly priceless:

“But I’m going to have to wear pants!”

Don’t you just love men-folk?

Yesterday I caught up with my one remaining friend from high school that I’ve known for 18 years and our five hours of conversation pretty much went like this: twilight movie, true blood, babies, babies, babies, twilight book series, babies, babies, true blood books, babies, babies, babies, babies, babies. I understand that everyone around me is in the prime reproductive age group, but seriously, there are only so many birthing experience stories and toilet training episodes I can take. Considering I haven’t seen or read any part of the twilight series, our conversation topics were stretched to the max, so thank god for true blood.

After my afternoon spent with my friend, the evening was spent with my mother where there was another emotional out-pouring about her recent break-up with her partner of 10 plus years and her inability to orgasm. It was weird, but there I was discussing in great detail what I did to get off and how the thickness of the tissue around my clit called for some pretty heavy-duty equipment and careful placement of said equipment. She said she was thinking about getting herself a dildo and I suggested that if she was built like me, a vibrator would be in order. She then asked what the difference between a vibrator and a dildo was….It was cute.

We then got onto the topic of my ex-hubby and she burst into tears saying how sorry she felt for him after what I did. My grandmother coincidentally has also done the same thing and consistently gets all teary whenever my ex’s name is mentioned. Guilt trip anyone?

Needless to say, all this emotional stuff has pushed my slavery into a tiny little corner in the back of my brain somewhere. Master has given me an instruction to wear something ‘easy to remove’ when I go home on Monday and he has been making noises about snapping my leash on inside the airport when I get off the plane. I think he’s also planning some serious ‘slave re-education’ as I’ve gone about as feral as one can go i.e. I’ve been too caught up in everything around me to give him the attention he deserves.

I think I need a holiday after my holiday.

 

Small town slavegirl

Everything moves slowly in the country except the time I spend here for some reason. Cars seem to crawl along, conversations drag out for several hours, but it seems like I’ve just arrived and already three days have passed.

The flight over was OMG tiring. Master dropped me off at the airport and as I’d already checked in on-line, I breezed through the luggage drop-off in about 2 minutes and headed for security where I held the line up as I unloaded my laptop from my bag and then took my boots and coat off. I then had the standard “You’ll need to take your necklace off” comment from the security dude to which I gave my standard answer of “It doesn’t come off” and then I strolled through the metal detector without it making a peep.

The flight was full without even one seat to spare and after boarding on-time, we spent 30mins sitting on the tarmac while they loaded on luggage. At some time past midnight ‘dinner’ was served and every hour or so the non-English speaking dude sitting next to me had the lovely habit of digging his elbows into my side as he wanted me to move so he could go to the toilet.

I reached Sydney airport at oh-my-god o’clock and headed straight for the Starbucks cafe I knew was in the other terminal for a grande hit of delicious caffeine, only to arrive and find it was GONE!! I dont’ think I’ve been more devastated since I discovered that the USA did actually go to the moon (personally, I find the whole conspiracy theory a lot more satisfying…)

Then it was two hours to kill before boarding another tiny propeller plane and praying fervently to god that we’d make it (have I mentioned I don’t like flying?) But I made it and 12 hrs after I’d left home in Perth, I finally arrived.

It had been 18mths since I’ve last seen my family and everyone looked a bit greyer. My 86 year-old grandmother was looking especially fragile and it’s quite upsetting to see her getting weaker and weaker every time.

I live my life generally in a bubble over on the other side of Australia. I’m not the sort of person to call my family every week and I only get little snippets of information now and then that don’t really impact on me deeply. Yes, I hear when someone has been sick or someone has moved house or something major like that, but I’m not close enough to have an emotional reaction. I get the information and file it away somewhere, but it’s not until I’m physically presented with the reality that I actually feel anything.

 My life as a slave is so very far removed from the realities of my life as a sister, daughter, grand-daughter, aunt, niece and cousin that it is a shock to the system when I’m thrust back into that life. I think that’s why I get so very,very tired when I come home. It’s like a year’s worth of emotional reactions suddenly hit me and I’m overwhelmed. 

But what’s also disturbing is how easily I can slot back into those roles after being so far removed from them and living as nothing more than a slut, whore and bitch. One minute I’m parading around the house naked in boots and chains and the next minute I’m the responsible adult wiping snot off kiddies’ noses and ensuring everyone has their hat. It’s quite mind-blowing.

I’ve already had a visit from my father, whom I try to avoid like the plague, and hopefully now he won’t bother me again. For some reason, people keep telling him when I’m coming home and if they didn’t I’d just slip in and out of town and he’d be none the wiser. I’m hoping he leaves me alone now because  seriously, I don’t think I could listen to another minute of his prattle and feign interest. It’s really torture, in fact, I think I’d prefer to be licked than to have to spend time with him.

So that’s about where I am at the moment.  On a good note, the whole change of scenery has seemed to curb my binge tendencies. I’m not actually even hungry and normally I’m ravenous all the time, and the only thing I’ve purchased is a pair of thongs (no, not the underwear kind, the shoe kind. In fact, I think thongs as underwear are illegal in this part of the country…lol.)

I’ve got a few lunches and dinner dates lined up for the days ahead and I’m sure my holiday will be over before I know it. While family is nice and I love them to pieces, I don’t think I could stand the emotional impact for extended periods of time.

I think I need the simple comfort of my slavery.

I’m off

From tonight I’m heading home to spend some time with my family so posts will be far and few between over the next week and a half or so. My hometown is some far-off place in the mountains on the other side of Australia where country music is king and internet is scarce. At least one of my new outfits included a boot-scootin-hoe-down type of outfit so I’m going to fit right in.

Speaking of far-flung places, Master and I watched the movie ‘New in Town’ on the weekend and it was set in the dead of winter in some tiny place in rural Minnesota. So to all you Minnesotans out there, do all people have a funny accent, have surnames that sound like Schllooomerhaussen and is the first day of ice fishing really a state holiday? Inquiring minds want to know.

And if the answer to all my questions is ‘yes’, I’ll start to feel slightly better about my rural hometown simply because it doesn’t get buried in 12 feet of snow.

You’ll have to amuse yourselves in my absence so make sure there’s lots of juicy stuff for me to read when I get back, ‘k?

Freedom

I started out this thing called slavery thinking that once that collar went around my neck, I really wasn’t going to be ‘free’ anymore. I imagined my every movement being controlled and having very little time or privacy to myself.

In my preparations for ‘becoming a slave’ I remember going out and buying a new wallet. It was tiny compared to the wallet I usually used which was bulging with receipts, coins and cards of every type and description. I bought the new wallet on the proviso that I wasn’t going to *need* money or cards or anything else that a free person needed anymore, so something simple just to keep my driver’s license and medicare card in would be sufficient. I didn’t think that I’d be buying things without permission and if I wanted something, I thought I’d have to ask for the money and be given just what was sufficient to purchase what I needed.

The idea was good in theory, but the reality was that I still needed money. I often stopped by the supermarket on the way home and bought what was on special for dinner and there was always a birthday card to be bought or I would run out of razors or something and it just wasn’t practical for me not to have money at my disposal. Needless to say, the tiny wallet soon became totally impractical for the money, cards and everything else I needed for day-to-day life, so I bought a new one that has ended up being bigger than the ‘kitchen sink’ wallet that I used to own.

I also had an idea that I wasn’t supposed to go anywhere without permission. I was never really told so, but I just assumed that if I wasn’t at work, I should be home and I should come straight home whenever possible. That idea has kind of stuck with me for several years, but recently I’ve been enjoying stopping off in town to shop or going to out-of-the-way pastry shops to check out their goodies. When I go shopping, I come home and show Master my purchases and he’s generally positive about them, saying I’ve bought nice things and he often takes pictures of my ‘fashion shows’. He doesn’t ask how much things were (although I generally tell him because I’m always proud of getting bargains) and I pay for things with my credit card or with money from my bank account.  I’m also the only one in the relationship with a credit card which is an interesting twist. So considering that I’m a slave, I have quite a high level of independence and privacy.

I supposed ‘privacy’ is a subjective term though. Even though I have bank accounts that Master has no access to and I have no access to his accounts, I’m not allowed to close the toilet door when I’m doing my business. He’ll also charge into the bathroom while I’m in the bath and happily snap pictures of me. There was also a time that I wasn’t allowed to release anywhere except in front of him and I had to ask permission and he had to say yes before I was allowed to climax – on pain of punishment. So while we’re not privy to one another’s financial details, e-mail accounts or the names of our imaginary childhood friends, we share pretty much else.

So when can being a slave give you too much freedom?

Master’s style of ownership is a bit on the laissez-faire end of the spectrum. Which is good, because my slavery is located just nearby – right on the corner of half-assed and apathetic. Although I had all these grandious ideas about what, as a slave, I should and shouldn’t be allowed to do, the reality was that I should of only worried about what Master wanted me to do and not do. I was too busy trying to make myself into the image of a slave I had in my head, without stopping to thinking about whether the slave I had in my head was the same one that Master wanted me to be.

I bought another new wallet today. It’s not tiny or big, but somewhere in between the wallets I’ve had previously. I didn’t tell Master beforehand that I was planning yet another shopping trip nor what I was going to buy. When I came home and showed him what I bought, he said it was nice and that was the end of it. Maybe he thinks I’m a big enough girl to decide what I do and don’t do or maybe he’s happy to let me run around at the end of my leash thinking I’m ‘free’ when the reality is that he could tug the leash in at any moment.

I think he knows the leash is firmly in his hand so he’s content to let me be for the moment. Content to let me enjoy my ‘freedom’.

The freedom of being a slave.

The Chipping List

I think there are a few defining moments in everyone’s life and in the life of a slavegirl there are also moments which are indelibly marked on your memory as being instrumental in changing you forever. In my case, the moments are not necessarily the ouchiest ones but most of them are ‘firsts’ and they are all things that I feel have ‘chipped away’ at me, slowly but surely reducing me, crafting me into something new and different.

Unfortunately, most of my ‘firsts’ were with my first owner. My first beating, my first anal play, breath-play, bondage, wax-play, knife-play, piss-drinking, piss-play, you name it,  just about all those things on every slave’s ‘to do’ list, I experienced with him. I’m a bit sad actually that I lost most of my ‘slave virginity’ with someone whom I failed to make an emotional connection with. In hindsight, I wish I could of given Master the pleasure of being the first person to do all those things to me, but what’s done is done and at the time I was hoping that my owner would become my Master but, of course he didn’t.

So without further ado, I present my Chipping List:

1. First bruise-inducing caning: It was the first time I’d watched the ‘Story of O’ and afterwards I was made to lean over the back of the couch and he caned my ass. Up until that point I’d had a bit of light flogging and some cat-o-nine-tails action, but nothing heavy. I ended up with several amazing bruises that I, of course, gushed over for days and immediately posted to my profile in alt.com.

2. Being stripped naked, dragged out to the backyard on a leash, pissed all over, made to crawl to the car and sitting naked and dripping with piss as he drove through town intending to take me to the dog pound and lock me up in one of their cages: Yeah….it was just hot. I still get squishy thinking about how base I was made to feel that night. I was laying stretched out over a rock in the garden and he quite literally pissed all over me, in my hair, in my mouth and then we were driving through town with me in the passenger seat cringing as we passed under each street light. Once we reached the pound, we discovered they’d blocked off the dis-used cages we were hoping to utilize, but even without the cage experience, it was still memorable.

3. Piercing Parts I & II: I’m totally blown away by the fact that I *knew* how much it hurt after my first 3 piercings and then 4 weeks later submitted to going back for the remaining 4 piercings to be done. I really don’t know how I did that. I was pierced with 12 gauge needles and then had 10 gauge rings inserted. For someone who only had ever had her ears pierced (with a piercing gun in a hair salon in the good ol’ days when that’s how you got things pierced), it was a HUGE shock to the system to get those kind of piercings.

4. First nakedness in public: God, I still cringe when I think about this. I was nearly in tears when I realised that I really *was* going to be made naked in public and that it wasn’t a mind-fuck. Not only was I made to strip, but then I was led around on a leash in a house-full of people I didn’t know. Embarrassment factor=200%

5. Public sex toy insertion: I shouldn’t really have been bothered by this because I was an old hand at public play by this time, but for some reason I was just utterly and totally *mortified* by the whole thing. I had a huge crying session when we got home from the party and I remember telling Master that I felt like I’d been ‘raped’.  I moaned about it for days afterwards and was soooo angry. It was nothing in the scheme of things and I have no idea why I reacted the way I did, but it obvisouly had some sort of impact on me.

6. Slave tattoo: I guess once you get “slave” tattooed on your butt (even if it is in Japanese) there ain’t no going back.

7. Begging for my collar back: Master took my collar off at one stage after I had a huge break-down early in our relationship because I had said to him that I didn’t think I could  ‘do it’ anymore. He said he didn’t want to force me to be a slave and that it was my choice. I spent exactly 12 hrs with it off before I knew I’d made a mistake. I was kneeling on the floor at the front door when he came home from work and I asked for it back. He threw the collar on the floor where I was kneeling and said I needed to beg for it back. So I did and he put it back on.

Originally my collar was only going to be a ‘put-on-for-play’ type of deal, but Master enjoyed the look of it so much that once he put it on me, he decided I’d wear it all the time. I had a ‘this-wasn’t-in-the-contract!’ moment and I think that’s what lead to my break-down – I felt so totally out of control.

8. Overnight in my cage: My strongest memory of this is that I was so angry at being left in my cage all night. After about two hours, things started to go numb and I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I had to wait until Master woke before he let me out and it was pure torture.

9: Mystery shopper use: It’s hard to describe the butterflies when you’re naked, bound and hooded waiting for a random person to come and do whatever they want to you.

10: Those things that only your Master can do: Like when he uses your hair as a leash and leads you through the supermarket carpark or when you’re at the checkout after paying for groceries and he gets his change and then holds a two dollar coin above your head like he’s giving a treat to a dog and says, ‘Beg for it!’ and he keeps doing it while everyone in the immediate vicinity is staring, horrified at you. Or when you’ve just served brunch to 10 people and everyone is sitting around the computer after looking at holiday snaps and then he starts a slideshow containing pics of your cunt, ass and boobs.

Ahhh…memories. I’m sure there are more moments that were instrumental in making me who I am today, but that’s enough emotional trauma for the moment I think…lol.

This week’s round-up of the weird & wonderful

I’m busy cleaning for our house guests tomorrow (10 lovely friends for brunch and I’m hoping none of them lick me…) so here’s the most interesting search terms that have helped people find my blog this week to keep you amused until I write a real post:

crickets in pussy – I don’t think they make a cream for that…

im a grown woman and i cant stop pooing – I’m jealous. I poo maybe once every 2  or 3 days…if I’m lucky. What’s interesting about this one though, is that I’ve had multiple searches for it! WTF??!!

how much was a 16 year old slave worth – ummm…20-25 years in a cell with a man called “Butch”?

“my owner is” fuck – I’m trying to guess what the rest of this sentence is. My owner is fucking mean? My owner is fucked up? My owner is fucking my ass with an eggplant..FUUUUUCK!?

buying a real hard bdsm slave girl – Personally, if i had the choice, I’d choose one that’s a bit riper or one that isn’t so difficult.

anal fainting – I could be wrong, but I don’t think your anal passage has a consciousness to lose.

bums 2 fuck – is that next to Toys R Us and Boys 2 Bang?

how to fuck myself if im a boy – I think you should actually know how to do that, but if you can’t figure it out, get yourself an owner and hand them a list of things you hate, things you’re scared of and things you don’t want to do – then you’ll be well and truly fucked.

subtle bdsm armpit – are you specifically looking for my armpit, because at the moment, my armpit is no-where near being ‘subtle’, in fact, the hair is long enough to be in-your-face-ish, or will just any ‘subtle’ armpit do?

slavegirl+worms – as long as they’re not in the slave gruel or being inserted into the pussy ala the crickets, they’re fine.

bad slave rules – might I suggest spitting in any food served and permanently hiding the toys?

I think I have an addiction

Yes, yet another pair of boots have entered the building:

biker chick boots

I officially name these ‘biker chick boots’ and I think this brings my boot tally to…ummm…27 pairs? To be honest I lost count somewhere around 22…

Along with the boots I bought several dresses, corset tops, belts and a jacket which in total came to the lovely sum of my entire week’s pay cheque. Fortunately, I don’t do the ‘shopping thing’ all that much so it’s quite rare for me to spend as much as I did today.

Shopping is hard these days. I always used to know what size of clothes to choose because it was pretty much the largest size that was there on the rack, but now I don’t know. I can’t look at something and decide whether it fits me or not anymore, so every time I like something, I have to get three sizes and haul my ass off to the changeroom. Those “6 item limits” in the changerooms were really not designed with people who don’t know their size in mind, because it means I can actually only take two things at a time, get undressed, try on three sizes to see which one actually fits, get dressed again, go out and find something else I like, then rinse and repeat. I came home with a headache from all the ‘putting on’ and ‘taking off’.

When we came home, I did the girlie thing and put on a bit of a fashion show for Master to show him my purchases and somewhere along the line, the sight of the biker chick boots made him all horny and I was summarily taken to his bed and ravished – with the boots on of course! The boots are a little bit clunkier than he usually likes, but apparently the super high heel pushed him over the edge. I guess his feelings towards boots are a bit like my feelings towards porn – if it does it for me, I want my hitachi and I want it now!

I’m wondering if my sudden urge to shop is somehow influenced by the fact that I’m travelling home next week to see my family that I haven’t seen in nearly two years. Master said, “Girlies always like to have a new outfit to go home in” and he’s probably right. Although, I don’t think my family will be overly concerned by what I’m wearing, they’ll be much more interested in the two dozen Krispy Kreme donuts I’ll be bringing home from the big city…lol.

No longer who I was

From today I no longer have a Japanese surname. Yes, I finally got my new passport after numerous interviews, phone calls and a couple of written statutory declarations. Due to both my marriage and divorce never being recorded in Australia, explaining why I had a Japanese surname on my old passport turned into a huge drama. I had to go through the gory details of my marriage and divorce numerous times and it was all quite unsettling. But at least I’m got a new passport if I quickly need to depart the country once my current 25 day moratorium on licking expires 🙂

Did I mention that Master promised not to lick me for 25 days and then 2 days later promptly licked me? No wonder I have trust issues…lol. However, he explained the licking incident as my fault due to my ‘neck making contact’ with his out-stretched tongue. I guess if he wants to be like that, the Mars bar up the twat incident could also be considered my fault as I ‘impaled’ myself on an uncovered Mars bar that he just happened to be holding near my cunt. I’ve decided that you really can’t win with a Master who negotiates, consults and advises for a living.

(Note to self: get a stupid owner with no case-building skills next time.)

As far as no longer having my married name on my passport goes, it was a very sobering moment when I looked at my new photo and the name next to it. I guess it was akin to realising four years ago that I would never just be a ‘single’ woman again – I’ll just forever be a divorcee. Unless, of course, I got married again and I think you and I both know that that won’t be happening.

Sold? Perhaps. Given away? Maybe. Married? No.

So, at the moment,  I’m no longer who I used to be and quite unsure of who or what I am now. While Master might say that I’m ‘broken’ now because I actually got off my bike – mid-exercise session- to do his bidding this afternoon when he said, “Bitch, come lick my bum” (because he just likes to demonstrate his power by having me do pointless and embarrassing things at random like licking his bum or his feet), I personally feel there’s still a lot more of me to be broken and I’m still a long way off being the sort of mind-less, pliable thing I’ve always imagine a slave to be.

I think most of the time I think too much. This constant questioning and analysing I do may not be as constructive as I’d like it to be. Sometimes it can help me vent some stress or try to label my feelings, but quite often the “Why?” questions I ask are un-answerable and I get so caught up in my own head that I lose sight of what I am.

Me, slave.

You, Master.

Is that all I really need to understand?

Love Our Lurkers IV

Apparently today is the fourth annual ’love our lurkers’ day also known as “LOL” and I’ve decided to take part because I am infinitely curious about who reads my blog.

I was invited to take part by the lovely Hermione of Hermione’s Heart and Bonnie over at My Bottom Smarts is hosting the event. Over on Bonnie’s blog is a list of bloggers participating and a summary of how many lurkers have ‘de-lurked’ over the years.

So, if you read my blog on a regular basis and you’ve never left a comment before, or even if this is the first time you’ve stopped by, please take part!

I’d love to know where you’re from as well so please let me know in your comment (as I’m challenged in the IT department and can’t figure out how to add map widgets…)

Comment away people!!

Oh, and if you have your own blog, why not ‘out’ your lurkers with a LOL day post? If you contact Bonnie she will add your blog to her list of participants.

Masters as pleasers

After much rumination and deep-thinking I think I’ve grasped a concept that has eluded me for many years:

Masters aren’t necessarily doms.

I had the light-bulb moment this morning when I sat down to tell Master my great idea for getting us out of the ‘social rut’ we’ve been in. You see, every morning he asks me where I want to go and what I want to do for the day. Generally, I say ‘nowhere’ and ‘nothing’ because I’m more of your stay-at-home-and-waste-your-day-on-the-internet kinda girl. Then I ask him if there’s anywhere he wants to go or anything he wants to do. He says ‘no’ because he’s more of your stay-at-home-and-watch-tv kinda guy.

So I had this great idea that we should take it in turns to decide something to do for the day and the other person has to go along with the plans. The reason I thought this was a good idea was that I tend to not say that I want to go somewhere or do something because he’s generally not interested in what I want to do (i.e. shopping or going for a walk), but of course he will do it to indulge me. 

Taking turns to decide would completely cut out the guilt factor for me of making him do something I know he doesn’t want to do, so I really thought it was the greatest idea since sliced bread. I immediately bounded into the lounge room to suggest my brilliant idea and he took all of 1.24 seconds to give me his answer:

“No.”

His reasoning behind his answer?

“If there’s somewhere I want to go, I will go. If there’s somewhere you want to go, we’ll go.”

Master is definitely a pleaser. He spoils me, indulges me and takes great pains to ensure that I’m happy. Pretty much I get 99.99999% of what I want, when I want it. He is deeply caring and protective of me and passionate in all ways. In summary, he gets at least 150/100 points in the masterful category. I mean, he is really the type of person you want to be owned by.

In terms of dominance and submission though, unless he’s in the middle of beating my ass, I sometimes don’t know who is the dom and who is the sub. I think that’s why sometimes I get an itch for a beating even though I’m soooooo not into pain. I just need that clear-cut definitive moment when I know I’m the one submitting to his will. It’s nice to really feel that he’s the dom and I’m the sub and he’s the one totally in control because, generally speaking, our dom/sub thing is so blurry that I really don’t know.

The difficult thing about this though, is that the reality is that I enjoy having the power to choose. I honestly do like being able to go somewhere and being able to do or buy something when I want to. Although what I do is done under the theory that he is allowing me to choose and that I don’t have the automatic right to choose anything, the reality is that he only says ‘no’ 0.0000001% of the time anyway, so to all extents and purposes, what I say, goes.

Because I do actually enjoy autonomy, if he was the sort of person where I couldn’t breathe without his permission, seriously, I would go insane. I wouldn’t be able to handle being micro-managed or uberly controlled to that extent, so I’m often grateful that I have the amount of freedom that I do have.  That being said though, I do have moments where I just want to say,

“What the hell do you want? Shouldn’t it be all about you???”

(Because we all know that I have that ‘forced’ fetish and occasionally being made to do something I don’t want to do, makes me go all squishy inside…lol.)

So, after all of this pondering, I’ve come to the conclusion that you can have masters that aren’t very domly, doms that aren’t very masterly and slaves that are too smart-ass for their own good.

I also don’t think you have to necessarily be dominant to be a master and I don’t think you need to be into pain to be a slave. The jury in my mind is still out on the difference between owner/property &  master/slave, and I have a sneaking suspicion that Master and I need to re-evaluate our label, but I guess in a world where you can mix vegetable oil, white colouring, cheese flavouring & gelatin and call it ‘cheesecake’ and where Miley Cyrus is a ‘music diva’,  you can call yourself whatever the hell you want.

Housemates, girlfriends, slaves

I take on numerous roles in my day-to-day life, from surly public transport passenger in the morning, to Master’s ravishing partner at night. In the hours between I’ll also dabble in such roles as: invoice-making bitch, exercise-junkie with bad fashion sense and dishwasher-stacker. The role that is the only inter-connecting thread between this multitude of roles that I play every day is my role of  ‘slave’, so one would assume that when a problem occurs in one of the many roles that I play, that dealing with it by calling on the slave persona as the ‘generic’ role would be the answer, right?

Wrong.

If there is a problem with the way I do something, it needs to be fixed in the role that the problem occurred. If I forget to stack the dishwasher for two nights in a row, you need to talk to me in my housemate role. You need to point out to me that I’m not pulling my weight around the house, that I’m not being fair with the division of chores and that by being part of the household, it’s my responsibility too. Don’t say to me that I’m being a ‘bad slave’, that my slavery is lacking or that a Master shouldn’t have to be doing a slave’s job.

My slave role is not a salve for everything, so when my slavery is not the problem, don’t say that it is.

I think people tend to mix everything up and when there is a problem, instead of appealing to the persona that can fix it, they slap a general ‘bad slave’ sticker on it and suddenly the slave is feeling totally inadequate and stressed. Similarly, constantly leaving the toilet seat up, leaving dirty clothes on the floor or eating the last piece of pie that you had been looking forward to eating all day doesn’t make him a bad dom – it just means that you need to talk to him as a housemate and as someone who shares your life and point out the things that are making your blood pressure rise (of course, whether there is any change in behaviour or not, is a completely different matter, but at least you’ll generally feel better for getting it off your chest…)

When you live with someone for a long time you begin to get comfortable – very comfortable. I always feel that when I can fart in front of someone I like, we’ve moved into married couple territory. I moved into that particular territory with Master a LONG time ago and as a result, there is very little we don’t discuss regarding everything from bowel movements to the consistency of our snot .

I also find in married couple territory that you tend to take each other for granted – you know, when you stop asking questions and stop talking to each other and you tend to just assume everything. In Japan they call this kind of relationship ‘thinking of your partner as air’ – the other person is there, they will always be there, you don’t even need to think about them because they are to you as air. Of course, the air reference is also an indication of how important the person is to you – you might take air for granted, but without it, you die.

When you become comfortable, it’s so much easier to just sweep everything up under the ‘bad slave’, ‘bad husband’ or ‘bad dom’ rug and get the other person to fix it. Because, after all, isn’t the other person wrong? Aren’t they the one who is fucking things up? Or is the person who is slapping the ‘bad’ label on also at fault – by not giving the person a chance to fix the problem in the persona it needs to be fixed in?

Being told you are a ‘bad girl’ can be fun for a play session, but repeated oft enough without just cause, and it can also be the straw that breaks the relationship’s back.

Out of control

So yesterday I totally caved on my diet and had the hugest binge. My stomach is physically sore this morning like I’ve been punched a few dozen times after being stretched so much from the sheer amount of food that I consumed. It’s been many, many months since I had my last binge and the whole thing was not pretty. Fortunately there aren’t huge amounts of binge-able food in the house and I didn’t break into the chocolate stash, but I still ate enough to make myself ill and sore. I wonder if that classes as masochistic behaviour…am I an eater instead of a cutter? Lol.

My diet has been a slowly sinking ship for the last 6 weeks as I’ve hit that dreaded six-month plateau and without the reward of seeing the numbers on the scale change for so long, I’ve lost my mojo. Desserts and ‘treat-meals’ have been creeping in here and there and I even took a two hour journey on public transport on Thursday after work to buy french-style cakes from one of the handful of patisseries in Perth in my pursuit to satiate my craving for ‘something nice’.  I guess a slavegirl can’t live on salad alone afterall.

These last two kilos just won’t budge and before anyone says I don’t need to lose anymore weight, I do. I’ve got to do something about my Stewie ass – it’s so out of proportion to the rest of me. I know genes and body type have a lot to do with it, but when you can still grab big chunks of fat, you know you’ve still got a few kilos to lose.

I’ve tried calorie cycling (where you have a few days of high calories and a few days of low calories, but still have the same total calories in the week), more exercise, less exercise, less sodium, different foods, etc. all the things you normally do when you hit the weightloss wall and nothing. I’m trying to be patient, I really am, but it’s so hard when you desperately want to see those numbers. I also usually weigh-in on a Saturday morning but I’m too scared to see what damage I’ve done from last night and I don’t want to depress myself any further, so I might leave it until Monday. Mmmm…such predictable behaviour for an emotional eater who is sabotaging her own weight loss, isn’t it?

I wouldn’t say that I’m particularly stressed at the moment. My job is very ho-hum and I’m totally over the 3hrs a day I spend getting there and home again, but I don’t hate it with a passion. Yes, I’m worried about our financial situation and the fact that we may have to move, but it’s not like we’re anywhere near going to ‘red alert’ any time soon. Yes, my aging grandmother and my sister struggling with two children with Aspergers and a difficult marriage are constantly on my mind, but it’s not a new situation. I’m probably the least stressed I’ve been for a while, so there’s not really any reason for me to be stuffing myself with food except the novelty of eating how much I want of what I want, when I want it after being in control of it for nearly eight months. Can a person only live under strict control for so long?

I think maintaining just the right amount of control is exceptionally tricky and that goes for diets and M/s relationships. Personally, I think my stress levels would shoot off the scale if I had lists of chores or a rulebook for my slavery that was an inch thick. I’ve never been a fan of the micro-management thing in my work or in my life and I pretty much like to have a job and then be left to my own devices and time-frame to complete it. With my diet I’ve also come to the conclusion that you’ve got to have some treats and some leniency. I don’t drag myself off to the gym when I don’t feel like it and I don’t eat things I’m not in the mood to eat just because they are ‘healthy’.

I’ve played around with the fantasy of ‘high-protocol’ in my head on and off for the last few years and I think it would be fine for a few hours at a play party or something, but if I had to do it all the time I’d go stir-crazy. I’m not quite your talk-in-the-third-person-don’t-make-eye-contact-only-speak-when-you’re-spoken-to kind of slave and I’m not your eat-salad-chocolate-is-the-devil-ice-cream-goes-straight-to-your-thighs kind of dieter.

Balanced control is what it’s all about.

Pushing the limits

The whole thing about being a slave (by my definition) is that you’re not supposed to have limits – you’re not supposed to be able to say ‘no’ to anything. In my mind, that is the whole point of being a slave and what separates you from the players, bottoms and submissives – he says and you do. There is no discussion, no negotiation beforehand and in many cases, you may not like doing it. Whining about the fact that you have to do it, is, of course, optional.

This whole arrangement hinges on a very important fact though: that the one in charge is not going to abuse his power. There may be things he wants to do, things he would like to do, but perhaps they might get you arrested or even harm you in some way. Which makes me want to ask the question:

Can you say ‘no’ when he goes too far?

I think about this question a lot because I have this thing that Master wants to do hanging over my head. He desperately wants to do it, talks about it all the time and I know for a fact that I cannot submit to it. It’s not something I would get arrested for or something so extreme that it would involve me losing a limb or anything like that, but I know for a fact that it would be detrimental to my well-being. I know it would make me suffer and for me, it’s something that I’ve put into my hard limit box.

There is a part of me that wants to do it because I know it’s what he wants, but there is also a part of me that starts screaming inside every time it comes up in conversation. Generally, he only brings it up as a ‘half-joke’, but you know what they say about ‘where’s there’s smoke…’ I can’t help thinking that he might just get it into his head one day to actually do it.

And then I think if he did announce that today was ‘the day’, could I say no? And if I did say no, would I cease to exist as his slave? Would it be the beginning of the end for us?

If what he wanted me to do was just ridiculously extreme like opening a vein or killing someone, I’d feel justified to say ‘no’. That sort of stuff just goes beyond commonsense and is in the this-dom-is-a-twat pile, but if the thing was just an issue for me, if, because of the way my body reacts, it would cause me un-due pain and suffering and possibly give me scarring in a very noticable place for life, is that reason enough to say ‘no’? If other people can do it with no problems, but I can’t and I have evidence to back me up, can I say ‘no’?

At the moment I’m living in hope that, for my sake, he doesn’t have me do it. I have a feeling that if I said ‘no’, it would start a landslide effect and the whole M/s dynamic would come crashing down around us.

For me, slavery is a very black and white thing. There are no ‘maybe’s, ‘might’s or ‘exceptions’ to the rules. You do or do not. You are a slave or you are not. As a slave you cannot say ‘no’.

But what if you need to? What then?

The Prison of my Mind

On my walk home I pass by a local dog kennel & cattery that houses pets while their owners go off and enjoy themselves elsewhere. It’s a depressing-looking place – as most ‘prisons’ tend to be – with concrete floors, high metal fences and inmates sharing communal spaces. Today as I went past there appeared to be a gang-bang in progress and everyone turned to look and bark at me, including the main offender in mid-thrust, as I walked by. It was a disturbing sight and I felt sorry for the small, white fluffy terrier that was quite literally being made into a bitch by all the bigger dogs.

Master and I often go for drives through the Swan Valley, our local wine-growing district that is about 20 minutes drive away. On the way there we pass by a very different sort of a prison – the local women’s prison – and I have to say that I drool every single time we go by. There is something about all that barbed wire and the thought of cells that gets me all hot and bothered. Master knows what a special place in my heart prisons hold and he will generally comment with a glint of humour in his eyes,

“That just makes you all wet, doesn’t it?”

I’ve had prison fantasies for as long as I can remember and love anything to do with them: shackles, cells, prison outfits, etc. I’m sure other kids used to make houses and shops from their lego sets, but I used to make prisons. I’d build a long room and divide it into tiny cells and put beds in them. I’d also take the hair off my lego men so they looked suitably ‘prisoner-ish’ and act out little scenes with the guards.

I’ve never actually been locked up in a cell for an indiscretion (because we all know I’m a good little girl) or even for fun, but it’s something I’ve always wanted to experience. Maybe it’s in my convict blood or something, but I just find the thought titillating. So much so that I’ve even thought of visiting the ‘Lock-up Restaurant’ in Tokyo when we’re there next year as you get to eat your meal in a ‘cell’.

ロックアップ

While I thought the atmosphere and the fact that they handcuff you and lead you to your cell was kind of cool, I’m not too sure about having my drinks served as a chemistry set.

飲み物

I think I prefer my prisons without the ghoulish, Dr Jekyl & Mr. Hyde overtones.

I realise the reality of prisons is quite nasty and it’s far removed from my romantic fantasies. Considering that I get bored in my cage after about an hour, I can’t imagine what it would be like to be locked up in a cell for days and days and…mmm…excuse me while I go and get a towel to lay across my seat.

Locked up for days and days…that’s just such a delicious thought.

Honesty is the best policy

Because I was tagged by Sephani, here are ten things that you didn’t know about me, but perhaps really didn’t need to know…

1)  I occasionally like to flash a boob over a cappuccino in a Dome coffee shop (it would definitely be a Starbucks if Western Australia had them…)

boob flash

Would you like some expressed milk in that?

2) I’m very politically incorrect and believe that (a) an unchecked immigration policy is ruinning Australia, (b) premature babies should not be saved and (c) bogans who have never worked a day in their life should not receive social welfare payments. I also laugh at ethnic and Michael Jackson jokes. If I lived in the US I’d probably be called Sue-Ann, have no front teeth and a bumper sticker that says, “Honk if you love red-necks”.

3) I do not have the black thumb of death with plants that I thought I did. Look!

cress

Those are my watercress babies that I planted last weekend!!! Squee!! The lettuce has also sprouted but I’m still waiting for some movement on everything else.

4) These days I read more food porn blogs than bdsm-related ones. I just find food so much more satisfying and simpler. I’m seriously thinking about taking some cake-decorating or bread-making classes and have been trolling the internet for information.

5) I haven’t changed my bed sheets in about a month. I change Master’s every few days but never get around to doing mine. Ha! Think about that next time you want to lick me people! (not mentioning any names…)

6) We went out with my boss and his wife for dinner and I let loose with wild abandon and had a ridiculous meal that, by my estimate, with wine included, contained something like 2000cals. There was roasted duck, deep-fried spicy squid, king prawns and the food just kept on coming. When everything arrived the table was groaning:

feast

Even though I’d had more than enough, we went for cake and coffee where I ordered the biggest, sweetest, most calorie-laded cake there – the chocolate nut tart –  and ordered extra cream and ice cream on the side.

choc nut pie

It was so sweet and heavy that it quite literally made me feel ill afterwards. I’m guessing something like 2000cals in this baby. It was HUGE! I probably would of felt slightly better about it if it had been scrummy. But it wasn’t. All my brain registered was ‘SUGAR! SUGAR! SUGAR!’

7) I get ridiculously caught up in finding bargains and frequently buy out of date stuff just because it’s cheap. After leaving the supermarket I also spend a good 10 minutes checking the receipt to make sure we were charged what we should of been. I’ve dragged Master back with me to the service desk on many occasions over a one or two dollar overcharge. I’ve gotten to the point that I feel ridiculously guilty over any purchase I make. OCD anyone?

8 ) I have been known to go to McDonalds, up-size a meal and then order…a diet coke.

9) I’ve never really spat in anything I’ve served Master.  Really.

10) I used to cry when I lost at monopoly or at any game in fact. I’m a poor loser and will steal money out of the bank when no-one is looking.

The Club

When I first moved to be with Master, he used to have a lady come in once a week and clean the house for a couple of hours. That arrangement had been in place because his last partner had been working full-time and she had wanted to spend her weekends doing something other than cleaning. Of course, when I arrived, I wasn’t working and whenever I knew the cleaning lady was due, I’d summarily make myself absent from the house. Because, well, if I was home and had nothing better to do, shouldn’t I be cleaning or something? After a month or so of feeling guilty about my timely evacuations from the house, I suggested to Master that perhaps I could clean the house and we didn’t need her services any more and that’s the way it’s been ever since. Except my cleaning mojo has been more out of whack than usual lately and there is a particular reason why.

Normally, I’m not the most fastidious person in the world, but I used to spend a good couple of hours on a Friday washing floors, cleaning the kitchen, changing the sheets and even dusting. Why a Friday? Well, I was home alone and hadn’t seen Master since Wednesday night and I wanted him to come home to a clean house at the end of the week. I was focused to get the ‘job’ done because, well, I was home alone and there really wasn’t anything else to do so I felt that’s what I should be doing.

Now that Master is home every day, I’ve found it really, really hard to get my mojo going. It’s not that I don’t have the time to do it because he has me doing other things or that the house is any messier than normal, I just can’t get into the cleaning mojo mood because I have this amazingly strong feeling that if he is home and I am home then I shouldn’t be cleaning, we SHOULD BE PLAYING! Because, well…isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?

When Master is away I can accept the no-play thing, in fact, I don’t get stressed at all. But when we’re both home and he’s watching tv and I’m pissing away hours looking at people who should not have been allowed to bring children into this world and terrifying pictures of a triple-fried hamburger served with double-fried chips called ‘The Widow Maker’, I wonder why we aren’t spending our precious time together more productively i.e. why aren’t we doing all that fun stuff that masters & slaves are supposed to be doing every minute of every day?

I have a little theory…it states that the amount of time you spend playing correlates directly with the amount of time you *don’t* see each other. So, if you see each other only once a month, you’re pretty much guaranteed a total play & fuck fest for the entire time that you eventually get together. But if you see each other all the time, you’re doomed to days and weeks of nothingness.

All for the simple reason that because you see each other *all* the time, you can play *anytime*…but of course you don’t play all the time because the pressure is not there, the limited time factor is not there, the ‘we-need-to-do-this-now-baby-get-on-your-knees-bitch’ rush never eventuates. You have all the time in the world to put your evil plans into action, so you take things nice and slow.

If you’re not in the mood tonight, it’s okay, you can play the next night or the next and the days roll into weeks and the weeks roll into months. You can afford to wait for the ‘perfect’ time to have that ‘perfect’ session, but somehow the ‘perfect’ opportunity never arises….it’s okay though, because there’s always tomorrow.

That ‘we can do it anytime’ feeling is not just limited to bdsm & play. I’ve lived in numerous places where I’ve never visited anything or done anything because I’ve felt I could ‘do it anytime’. Generally, I’ve ended up moving away before I’ve ever done the things I promised myself I would do ‘one day’. I lived a year in the centre of Australia, a stone’s throw from that big red famous rock and dozens of other fabulous places that people spend thousands of dollars to visit from all over the world and it was 3 days before I was due to leave that I finally made my way begrudgingly to the big red rock. I never made it to any of the other fabulous places before I left and I probably never will.

I used to get very stressed when we’d be home on the weekend, with nothing to do, nowhere to go and nothing but time on our hands but we weren’t playing. I’d imagined when I first became a slave that pretty much play would be the first and only thing on the menu and every day would be a wild, gorging feast. In my early days I’d almost get hysterical wondering, ‘Why won’t he play with me? Is there something wrong with me? Why? Why? Why?’

I spent most of my first twelve months in slavedom tearing out my hair in frustration and feeling so terribly inadequate due to the play ‘drought’ we seemed to permanently stuck in. If we weren’t playing, obviously there was something wrong with me. Why-oh-why wouldn’t it just hurry up and rain? Why wouldn’t the heavens open up and soak my parched land? Why? Why? Why?

Now I realise that it’s not me. I realise that there’s ebb & flow in all things. And I realise that this ‘lack of play’ tends to happen to everyone who is in a long-term relationship. Sometimes it’s a case of the domly one feeling that the ‘state of being’ a slave is a form of constant play, while the slave is expecting something more tangible. Sometimes it’s a case of not prioritising play because life becomes the priority when you are living together i.e. it’s difficult to suspend your life to concentrate on play when living together is what you *do* now. Sometimes it’s because you’ve experienced everything on your ‘to do list’ and it’s hard to rediscover that excitement of the unknown.

There are a lot of reasons why most couples end up being members of the ‘Play-less Club’ at some stage, and I guess it really only becomes a problem when the people involved aren’t happy with what is happening. Some people re-adjust their expectations and are okay with a different level of play, while others might try and ‘encourage’ their domly one to play more often. I’m always a big fan of communication so I think talking about it instead of doing the ‘whine dance’ around the issue is also a very good thing – especially when your domly one is a man and he needs instructions for finding things in the refrigerator. 

As for me, I’ve done a bit of expectation-adjusting and a bit of ‘encouragement’ in my time and I throw the occasional pointed hint out there, but ultimately he is only going to play when he wants to because, after all, I wear the shiny thingie and that’s the only way it’s supposed to be.

It’s that time again!

After consuming a piece of pecan, almond & walnut tart the size of my ass AND scoffing it with cream and ice cream when we went out for dinner last night, I’ve been on such a sugar high that I went to bed at 5am, woke up at 8am and during those insomnia-filled hours around my three-hour ‘nap’, I managed to go back through almost all the archives of the FAIL blog,  This is why you’re fat and Why the F**k* do you have a kid? (damn you aag for making me look at these cesspools of humanity!)

Then, needing even more entertainment for my sugar-fueled brain, I had a look through this week’s search terms on my blog, and oh-my-lord…I’m actually lost for words:

is fingering myself in the bum ok – yes, but make sure you remember to wash your hands afterwards. There’s simply no excuse for bad hygiene.

window ball gag nipple clamp police too – I’m trying to figure out if the police want in on the nipple clamp action too or whether they’re just there to clamp your car because you’ve been enjoying window ball gag and nipple in a no-loading zone.

naked chef – sorry Jamie.

bdsm execution by flogging stories – killing your play partners is just bad form, ya’know?

sex slave girls being torched and pussy –I think the smell of burning flesh might put a dampener on things.

how to manage life without fuck – the simple answer? You can’t. It’s been proven by the clergy.

From the number of people looking for the answer to ‘how can I fuck myself?‘ the lack of a partner appears not to be a valid reason to abstain, so go forth and fuck.

slavegirl under 15 movie –  Hello Mr Pedophile!

cheez whiz australia importation – FAIL.

It’s a kind of magic

Walking across the bridge from the train station to my office this morning, I caught sight of a cyclist who had stopped in the middle of the bridge and was peering avidly down into the water.  Generally speaking, seeing someone standing on a bridge looking into the water in Perth means one of two things: (a) they’ve dropped their keys/ipod/mobile phone or (b) there are dolphins down below.

When I got to the bridge I was delighted to see a family pod of dolphins breaching the water as they chased after a resident school of fish. The brown hue of the water was light enough that I could see the bottom of the river and I swear there were a zillion fish down there. I must be getting more frugal in my old age or something because now every time I see fish, I can’t help but think,

“Dinner!”

I’ve spotted dolphins on exactly three occasions in the almost 10 months I’ve been working here and I have to say that there is something that makes you smile when you see dolphins in the wild. I wouldn’t exactly say it was earth-shattering or magical, but it’s nice to see animals going about their lives undisturbed by mankind. 

When I went swimming with a whaleshark earlier this year, I didn’t find it earth-shattering or magical either. It was more like, ‘Gee, I’m swimming with a really big fish!’ but I had placed it on my list of things to do due to the simple fact that everyone had said it was ‘earth-shattering’ and ‘magical’. I enjoyed the experience, but kept waiting for the mind-blowing, mystical encounter that everyone had raved about and of course, that never ended up coming.

Similarly, I remember the first time I was ever beaten. I kept waiting for the ‘earth-shattering’, ‘magical’ feelings to come but they didn’t. I even tried to hype myself into the feeling that something ‘special’ was being done to me, but it couldn’t erase the reality of a few strands of toughened leather being brought down on my naked flesh with force. After building my expectations up to a point that I was expecting choruses of angels to descend from the sky and sing in unison with each and every stroke because I was so sure that a beating was what I needed and what I wanted, it was a bit of a let-down. The next time I waited even more avidly for the magical feelings to come but alas they still didn’t. In fact, I’m still waiting for those magical feelings that everyone seems to go on about. After all this time I have a suspicion that those feelings don’t really come for anyone and in a mind-over-matter way, people just imagine the angels and think it’s somehow magical.

I have a sneaking feeling it’s a big conspiracy that has taken over bdsmland and in the vein of how women were never supposed to tell mothers-to-be anything in regards to their own child-birthing experiences except how ‘magical’ it was, I think everyone paints a picture that is prettier than reality.

Dolphins & beatings certainly haven’t brought magic into my life, but they do make me smile from time to time.