My boss and I were having a conversation on Friday about how ‘dangerous’ Australia is. Not in regards to how it has more than its fair share of deadliest creatures on the planet including spiders, snakes and sharks, but how life is so quiet and uneventful that you’re in constant danger of being lulled into a coma.

At first I thought it may just be Perth and the fact that it’s one of the most isolated capital cities in the world requiring a journey of 2500km (1500 miles) to get to the next closest capital and therefore new and exciting things are few and far between (we’re still waiting for the arrival of Starbucks and Krispy Kreme by the way….) But after living in two other places in the middle and on the east side of Australia, I can declare that it’s pretty much got the same coma-inducing quietness no matter where you go.

I suppose it’s all well and dandy if you want to live your life in a bubble of stability where the most exciting thing to happen is the shops being open on a Sunday once in a blue moon. And I realise that it’s very crap of me to be flippant about peace and stability when that is a luxury in so many other places on the planet, but sometimes things are just so quiet and same-old, same-old that it makes me want to tear my hair out in frustration.

I miss the rush of new experiences, new foods, new thrills – you know, something that makes you feel alive.

I guess that’s why when you go to Bali, there are more Australians than Balinese. I have a feeling that all the Aussies are there to ‘feel’ something – like the thrill of having a steak in a restaurant that doesn’t cost $50 or seeing countryside that is green instead of the regulation Australian brown. On the other hand I find it amusing that many Australians wouldn’t go any further into the ‘unknown’ than Bali. In Bali you’re almost guaranteed to run into someone that you know and you’re never further away from the ‘homeland’ than 2-3 hours, so it’s still within the comfort zone.

At our luncheon on Australia Day (Jan 26th) five out of the ten people there had recently been to Bali and the topic of conversation turned to ‘funky food’. I’m not talking about eyeballs or intestines or anything, I’m talking jelly fish that had been dried, reconstituted and then added to a stir fry. I draw the line at eating still-beating hearts of cobra snakes and drinking turtle blood soup and truly funky stuff like that, but jelly fish? That doesn’t even make my funky food list.

Apparently jelly fish was just way too funky for some people and they declared that they wouldn’t even try it. I then brought out my packet of dried squid (that admittedly does smell like a girlie with a bad yeast infection) and there was some heaving going on around the table and questions of “How can you eat that crap?” I’m always a big fan of don’t knock it until you’ve tried it and that for some foods, because our palettes aren’t used to them, they are acquired tastes, so I find it really sad that people aren’t open to even the possiblity of something new.

I see this same closed-mindedness everywhere, not just with food. Just because someone does something a bit differently they’re either ‘wrong’ or ‘stupid’. For example, start a thread about breath-play in any forum and I can guarantee that within minutes someone will be chanting the “SSC’ litany and how wrong and stupid it is. As long as you’re smart and safe about it, it can be a wonderful thrill and a stimulating experience.

I wonder if the ones floating around in the comfort bubbles find anything different uncomfortable because it’s a stabbing reminder of just how close they are to lapsing into a coma.

Feeling the need to be bitchy

As I get older I’m noticing a phenomenon where my tongue is getting looser. I like to call it ‘fogey disease’ – the affliction where you have a very strong opinion about absolutely everything, you won’t budge an itch from what you believe and you like to broadcast your thoughts very loudly to all and sundry.

Remember when you were young and your parents used to do it to you? You’d be out in public somewhere and suddenly out of nowhere in a voice that could be heard around the world your mum would say something like,

“That girl’s got a camel toe!”

and you would want the earth to open up and swallow you before the shame burned you to a crisp.

I used to think it was just certain people – like my mum – who had no tact and said things that I would find incredibly embarrassing to say, but apparently it happens to even the most subtle and tactful of us as we put more years behind us.

Recently I’m starting to think that maybe my thoughts should be aired to the world and perhaps ‘tough love’ is not such a bad concept after all.

Take, for example, my comments on blogs. I used to be an empathetic, hug-giving, supportive reader. Now I have a tendency to preface my comments with, ‘This might sound bitchy but….” and then to spear something harsh through the heart of the writer. I’m not sure whether I’ve lost my patience or tolerance or whether I’m just falling victim to ‘fogey disease’ but these days, I get to the point hard and fast. I don’t wrap up what I think with a pretty bow or add some flowers, I’m just in there with a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am and then I leave in whirl of smoke. I don’t set out to be bitchy, I just like to think I’m the harsh voice of reality sent to tell you what’s really happening.

I see a lot of the drive-by-commenting on forums too. I hang out a fair bit on the calorieking forum and I’m generally the harsh voice of reality there too. Someone will start a thread like, “I can’t stop going over my daily calorie allowance!” and my response will be something along the lines of:

“Stop putting shit in your mouth then bitch!”

Well, I don’t really say it quite that harshly, but the sentiment of what I actually say will still be the same. I don’t do the typical girlie thing of saying how I understand the problem and it’s really hard for me too, instead I just give some short, sharp advice and in effect tell them to suck it the fuck up.

This is the very same reason why I don’t post on Fetlife. There are already enough flamers over there without me being a spark to ignite a roaring inferno. So while I pop in every now and then to see what drama is going on and who is being bitchy to who (as it entertains me immensely), I rarely, if ever, participate. It’s just not worth the hassle at the end of the day.

Master, being well and truly of the fogey disease age, has what I would call a ‘penetrating’ voice to go along with his opinions. I don’t think he has ever learned the difference between an ‘outside voice’ and an ‘inside voice’ and he just broadcasts everything on one level – loud. When we go somewhere if you are anywhere within about 20 metres of us, you will hear exactly what we talk about it – well, you’ll hear his side of the conversation, because I know how to talk without everyone else hearing. If he’s on a plane, you are guaranteed that everyone on the plane will hear everything he says. So while he’s great to take to a busy, noisy deli when you’re trying to get 10 slices of prosciutto when people are three rows deep, some other places can be challenging.

Fortunately he has a fair amount of tact and tends to make his often amusing comments in the privacy of our home. Except, for some reason, he felt the need to tell our 10 luncheon guests on Australia Day about my binging over xmas and New Year’s how 10 litres of ice-cream disappeared into one girlie’s stomach.

Vocal masters, you’ve just gotta luv ’em.

Pleasing the pleaser

My horoscope the other day said that new travel plans were in the works. I didn’t think much about it at the time, knee-deep in hotel options, shinkansen timetables and Tokyo restaurant reviews that I was, but then today I got *the* phone call from the travel agent that everyone who booked flights ten months ago and has spent the last six months planning a trip hopes they never receive:

“Malaysian Airlines has cancelled your flight from Perth. They’re doing work on the runway,  so all flights are cancelled.”

Seriously, when I heard that I nearly shat myself and if I hadn’t been on a bus surrounded by people at the time, there would have been no “nearly” in the equation. Everything I’d already booked and planned ran through my head and I had a ‘shit mother-fucker shit shit’ situation on my hands.

But every shit storm has a silver lining and so the travel agent told me the good news:

“To make up for your flight being cancelled the airline will put you on the same flight a day earlier and pay for transfers and a hotel in Kuala Lumpur and then you can catch your original connecting flight the next day.”

Which actually means that we get another night added to our holiday and a mini tour of Kuala Lumper to go with it! It’s actually going to work out better as we’ll be able to have some sleep instead of flying all night and arriving bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in Tokyo at 7am having not slept a wink.

Master has been having a good laugh at the anal-ness of my trip-planning. I’ve spent days and days pouring over hotel choices – angsting about location, bed size, room size, adjacent buildings, connecting train/subway lines etc. I’ve been reading reviews, looking at google earth satellite pics and I’ve even been hanging out on youtube where I found videos that people had taken of the hotels I’d been contemplating making a booking at. Does that all seem a bit anal to you?

The reason my blog posts have been so few and far between recently is precisely because I’ve been coming home every day and planning. After spending several hours at work pouring over the net (have I mentioned I have fuck-all to do in my job??), I then spend several more hours pouring over the net at home. I’ve printed out a virtual ream of maps, info and other assorted stuff off the net and several guide books with more info and more choices arrived by airmail from a friend yesterday.

I’m in info overload and for me, who finds it really, really hard to make a decision at the best of times with limited info and choices, it’s pure torture. The whole thing has been keeping me up at night, I’ve broken out into a stress rash in various places and I have a tic in my eye that I only get when I’m uberly stressed.

The really curious thing about it all is that I’m not so much worried about my experiences on the trip, it’s Master I’m worried about. I want him to have the absolute perfect experience and that’s why I’m going to the lengths I am. I want him to have the comfiest bed, the most convenient hotel, the yummiest food. In short, I want the unattainable for him because I’m a pleaser in my heart-of-hearts.

However, I’ve often described Master as a pleaser too. He will always ask me what I want to do, where I want to go, what I want to eat. I pretty much decide what we do as a couple and his answer to every question I ask him about something is,

“If that’s what you want to do.”

(If he had a shiny thing around his neck I’d swear he was a slave – except for that uncanny habit he has of caning me.)

So he’s pleasing me, I’m pleasing him and it’s just a pleasurable time for all, right?


Saturday morning comes and we do our weekly ‘What will we do today?’ ritual:

He asks me what I want to do and I immediately starting thinking about what I think he wants to do. While I’m weighing up the pro and cons of possible things we could do with respect to what I think he wants to do, I say “I don’t know. What do you want to do?” He says, ‘Nothing’ and asks me again if there’s anything I want to do and by that time I’ve vetoed all the ideas I had for various reasons – it’s too hot, it’s too boring for him, it’s too far away etc. and so I reply, ‘No.’ He will only get motivated about doing something if I want to do it, so after seeing my supposed lack of enthusiasm about doing something he decides not to do anything and we spend yet another Saturday at home watching tv and playing wow.

By trying to please each other we end up pleasing no-one. Lol.

So by planning the ‘perfect’ trip I’m hoping to at least please one of us this time and if I’m really lucky, the pleased one will be Master. (If he can get over the ‘asia-ness’ of Kuala Lumpur that is. He has always had a ‘thing’ about Asia i.e. no interest in going to scary places where they eat funky stuff so I’m just hoping that he doesn’t realise between now and our departure date that Japan actually is in Asia. Shhhhh…keep it quiet everyone.)

All your hole are belong to me

I lose sight of one of the most fundamental things in my life on a regular basis:

Ultimately, I’m a slave by Master’s definition and if that means that I’m a ‘crap slave’ or not even in the slave category according to my and/or other people’s definitions, so be it.

That’s what I’ve been pondering this last week after having a chat with Master and having him tell me, once again, what I had forgotten. It’s not that I set out to conveniently forget the simply fact that he is trying to drill into me: I’m a slave according to him and that’s all that matters. I also don’t go out of my way to toss his ideas aside in favour of my ideas. It’s just that because his definition and my definition are so far apart that I’m fighting all the time to retrain my brain to accept an idea that is completely alien to me.

For some reason I have always had a set of ‘targets’ or ‘minimum requirements’ that I believe makes a slave. My minimum requirement list contains everything from ‘has a slave marking’ to ‘endures pain’ and everything in between. And while I obviously don’t meet all the requirements on my list, I feel that as long as I meet a reasonable amount of the targets, I earn the right to wear the slave badge.

Without the list I really don’t have a way to separate the ‘slaves’ from the rest of the flock and to me, who needs a label for everything and who is an all or nothing girl, without knowing what badge I can pin to my chest, I lose all sense of direction.

It’s also important to me that I earn the badge and don’t just wear it for the fun of it. So when I’m not meeting a certain number of criteria on my ‘slave minimum requirement list’, I feel an immediate need to take off the badge and step down from my soap box.

But of course, all of those points are my thoughts on the matter. They are my ideas, my beliefs, my take on what makes a slave and what doesn’t. In his eyes, I’m his slave and property regardless of what I say or do and if he has a problem with me, he’ll take steps to fix me. I don’t drift from being a slave to not being a slave according to my pain threshold of the week or how moody I am, in the world according to Master, I am his slave. period.

Maybe I’m too honest. Maybe I’m too anal. I don’t know why I start feeling like a fraud and wanting to remove the word ‘slave’ from my vocabulary, but I do. Master says I’m a perfectionist and that I will always, always angst about whether I’m good enough. Perhaps he is right and all I need to worry about is whether I’m good enough in his eyes.

His slave. His property. His rules.

P.S During an interrogation session the other night Master said to me “All your holes belong to me” and I was *this* close to totally losing it laughing because all I could think of was “All your base are belong to us” (read about it here if you’re not a geek gamer and have no idea what I’m talking about.)

I pwned myself

Remember how I announced to the world that I was becoming a new and improved slave (now with 45% more fibre!)? How I wrote up a big passionate thing about how I was going to change my ways and consciously choose to submit instead of simply surrendering? Well, I’d just like to report back that my efforts have been a big, fat FAIL. I had good intentions, but really, I just suck at this being a slave thing. It’s just such a seemingly impossible task and I can see why Master has put me in the ‘too hard bin’. I put myself in the ‘too hard bin’, so I really can’t blame him for doing the same.

I just can’t, for the life of me, consciously put Master first. I can’t put his needs, his wishes, his desires before mine and sometimes, just sometimes, I secretly think, “Why should I have to put him first anyway???” It annoys me to do shit for him. It annoys me when he is doing nothing and I’m doing something, but I have to stop whatever I’m doing to do his bidding. It drives me insane that he gets me to do all the annoying tasks, the time-consuming jobs, the things that obviously he doesn’t want to do and he can do all this, why?, because I’m wearing the shiny thing.

I’m even beginning to resent the shiny thing and how it relegates me to the bottom of the pile. I don’t find serving him hot or being treated like shit titillating. I take everything at face value these days so ouchie things are ouchie, annoying things are annoying and being humiliated just kind of sucks at my soul. Nothing has a kinky overtone and I’m so tempted when he says,

You know you love it,”

to say,

“Actually, I don’t.”

I realise this is a huge no-no in slave girl land, and that’s why I fail at being a slave.

I dunno, I might be just having one of those I-don’t-want-to-be-a-slave mood swings, but just so I’m clear, I’m not pms-ing. The red plague has been and gone and I even made it through the week without killing anyone.

One slight contributing factor to my current mood was probably the removal of my offending labia piercing last week. Have I mentioned how OMG nice it is to feel normal again? I’m even sleeping better because I don’t have to twist myself into funky positions to try and get comfortable. I’m thinking to myself why the hell didn’t I do it sooner? The answer to that,of course was, because I wasn’t allowed to.

That’s not to say that Master didn’t take me to have it checked several times and he allowed me to swap the rings to barbells in a last-ditch effort, but at the end of day, the whole exercise was so pointless. Three years of my life with regular pain all for nothing and it just makes me want to ask the question,

“Why should I have to do what he says?”

It’s a question I come back to a lot. I feel very strongly that no-one knows me better than me and if I had had my way, the piercings would not have been done because I know that my body doesn’t take piercing well. See, I don’t believe that an owner will always do what is best for you and quite often they will simply do what they want to do.

I know everyone goes on about, ‘Well, it’s in my owner’s best interests to look after me, so he won’t do anything to harm me!’ but at the end of day, it’s not always the case. Ultimately a lot of doms will do whatever the hell they want to do simply because they can and their submissives have to take it and it just makes me want to ask, “Why???”

So yeah, I suck at being a slave, but really, I’m wondering whether that is such a bad thing.

The 1200

I’ve been a very bad kitten for several weeks now and it’s time to get my arse into gear. Thanks to a succession of binging episodes over xmas, new year and my birthday, I’ve re-gained 4 kilograms. Yay for me….

In the old days, 4kg was nothing and I could happily be ±10 kilos without me or anyone else noticing much of a differnce, but with four extra kilos now, I can really *feel* the difference. I feel chunky and unattractive and just generally…wrong.

So, with a little over eight weeks until Master and I depart for our trip to Japan, I’m embarking (again) on my 1200 calorie/day eating plan. Last week I also started walking again and I’m planning on doing something exercise-wise every day, whether it be exercise bike, walking or maybe an aerobics class or two. I’m hoping on losing 5 kilos in the next 8 weeks so that I can eat some uberly yummy food in Japan without worrying about whether I’m going to fit into my clothes on my return. Motivation? I haz it.

I’ve been feeling somewhat stressed for a few weeks now and that has lead me down the binge path. I’m not exactly sure why I’m stressed or what I can do to change the way I feel, but I do know I need to stop stuffing my face in an effort to feel better.

Food and I have an interesting relationship. I find eating – and specifically the sensation of food in my mouth to be really comforting and familiar. When I’m stressed, I immediately turn to food because it’s the one constant in my life and provides me with instant gratification. In effect, it’s the perfect band aid to put on my festering wounds.

I think the Japan trip itself is actually making me uberly stressed. There are just too many variables and choices and when I ask Master the 101 questions I need to make some sort of a decision, his response is,

“I don’t care, I just want a bed and some good seafood.”

Which, for some people, might be the most stress-free response they can get, but for me, it just sends me into a worry spiral as it’s like I’m suddenly being thrust into the driver’s seat with a slightly vocal passenger in the back.

I think if I was your average tourist with a guide-book in hand, things would be easier as I would have limited choices, but since I have infinite resources in two languages at my disposal as well as minions in Japan to do my bidding, it’s all too much.

Someone just hand me a packet of tim tams and a tub of English Toffee icecream, please?

Who died and made you my master?

You know how some people can get under your skin and gnaw at you? Just an annoying little inconvenience, but still enough to piss you off? Well, I haz me one of those.

This particular person has said a few things to me that, although reasonably innocent individually, when taken as a group have seriously rubbed me up the wrong way. Last night it all kind of culminated into a big seething mass with an off-hand comment and I was just about ready to slap the guy down.

Master had decided to give me my birthday caning over the table after dinner. He did his usually ‘drum-beat’ caning that’s not particularly hard, but gives me a warm bottie and serves his purpose, to which the person in question commented:

“If that’s your “caning”, you don’t want to be caned by me.”

He then proceeded to show us exactly how it should be done on his girl.

It just made me irrationally angry. Granted I’m plaguing at the moment and breathing makes me irrationally angry, but his tone and the implied message that I was a wuss really bothered me.

This incident is a prime example of the nasty thing called ‘competition’ rearing its ugly head in bdsm. There definitely does seem to be a thing about who can shock the most or who endures the most. I gave up long ago trying to compete in the ‘who can take the most’ competition, but Master and I still have a running joke about one-upmanship where a group of subbly ones are discussing how harsh and cruel their masters are:

“I sleep in a dog cage every night.”

“You get to sleep in a dog cage? Extravagant! I sleep in a hamster cage!”

“You get to sleep in a shoe-box? Extravagant! I sleep in a shoe-box!”

“You get to sleep in a shoe-box? Extravagant! I sleep in a match-box!”

“You get to sleep in a match-box? Extravagant! I sleep on a thumb-tack!”

We just keep on saying stupider and stupider stuff until we run out of small things to say. I don’t think we’ve ever gotten down to a quark, but I’m sure we’ll get there one day.

It was a strange kind of night. Master had a bee up his bum the entire time and kept picking at little things which made me respond in kind and we ended up shouting at each other and in a semi-fight over stupid stuff like whether I’d opened a pull-top can with the tip of a knife. I can best describe him as in a “testy mood” and I didn’t know why seeing that he had been fine all day and that was even before the comment-fest began.

So Master was testy, I was irrationally angry and it was just uncomfortable all-round. Perhaps it’s the ridiculous heat of late that is wearing down on everyone, but I know I definitely need some time to decompress after that night.

EDIT: Master has just shouted at me some more because he wasn’t ‘testy’ he was “angry”. Apparently, opening a pull-top can with a knife IS the worst thing I could possibly do and me talking to our guests while I serve dinner, thereby extending the time it takes to get the food on the table, is the SECOND worst thing I could do.

I’m now a four-ring girl

Following the migration of my first barbell out of my cunt lip and into no-man’s land several months ago,  I finally removed the one remaining barbell on the other-side.

So now I’m down to only four rings in my outer labia and a clithood piercing which makes me extremely sad considering I started out with six, but you know what?


Because for the first time in three and a half years, I’m pain-free!!! Woohoo!!!!

And you know what I feel immensely satisfied about? After I took out the barbell and gave Master a torch so he could look at what was happening he actually said,

“Yeah, that looks nasty.”

I just about wanted to sacrifice a pig and dance naked around the fire, because I was so happy that he had finally acknowledged that perhaps there actually was a reason why I bitched about my cunt so much. God, it felt good! I really can’t describe how fabulous that acknowledgement was.

I’d always had the sense that he thought I was bitching for the sake of bitching or over-reacting or something. At a quick glance my piercing had looked a bit lumpy from scar tissue, but it didn’t look like a seething, infected mass that hurt when the wind changed. On the inside, it was totally red raw and stung and ached and was generally very uncomfortable to live with from the moment it was done.

Three days later, the hole has totally closed up and it almost looks like nothing was ever there. Obviously my body could not wait to get the damn thing out.

As I said, I am a bit sad that I’ve got two less rings than I started out with, because four rings just doesn’t look as impressive as six. I’ve always secretly enjoyed the eye-bulging looks on people’s faces when they heard or saw how much metal was down there. I know there are people with twelve or even twenty rings down there, but six, for me, was something to be proud of.

Granted, now with four, I’ve got some symmetry back, but it doesn’t look as cool. But I guess, I’ve sacrificed coolness for comfort and at the end of the day, I think that is more important.

In case anyone is wondering what Master said was nasty, I’ve posted a couple of pics here. Just be warned, they are kind of grosse with lots of unruly sascrotch (I thought I’d post them elsewhere to save the people who don’t want to look at close-ups of my hairy snatch the unfortunate task of having to look at them here.)

My face smells like a baby’s butt

I made myself an appointment at the optometrist the other day because it’s that time of the year when I need to order more contact lenses. I usually get my prescription checked and then buy a year’s worth of lenses hoping that I won’t suddenly become more blind over the next twelve months (considering my blatant lack of releases, I don’t think there’s even a *remote* possibility of that happening anytime soon.)

The more you buy, the cheaper they are and thanks to the performance of the aussie dollar, contacts from the US are looking particularly cheap at the moment so for the sum of $150 including express postage, I can buy 48 little pieces of silicon hydrogel to insert over my eyeballs. Yay for the global financial crisis!

While I was at the optometrist, he informed me that I have a slight infection in my….wait for it…


WTF??? Trust me to get something funky in some stoopid place.

Apparently oil from the eyelashes builds up and harbours bacteria, causing stinging and swelling. If you don’t take care of it, wearing contacts becomes a bit of a no-no, so I enquired avidly about what I can do about it. So several times a day for the past week, I’ve been washing my eyelashes with baby shampoo. I don’t know what it is with baby products like wipes, shampoo & powder, but they’ve all got that particularly soapy ‘baby smell’. Every time I wash my eyes with my ‘no tears’ shampoo, I can’t help thinking I smell just like a baby’s butt.

I dragged Master along to the optometrist with me because he’s a boy and won’t see any sort of medical professional except under extreme duress. I had been telling him to get his eyes tested for months because I had noticed him having problems, but of course he never did, so eventually I just made an appointment for him after mine and told him to show up. It didn’t take long to ascertain that his prescription has taken a nose-dive and he is in need of a drastically new pair of glasses. Pretty much this means that he has been driving with the force for quite some time now. All I can say is that he still drives much better with the force than I can with 20/20 vision.The force in him, strong it is.

I’ve got me a birthday caning session coming up sometime over the weekend. I’m not sure whether it’s going to be 33 strokes or some dastardly calculation of one year=ten strokes or even just a mind-fuck with no caning actually taking place. It used to bother me no end when he’d say he would do something and not do it, but now I’m grateful for small blessings. I’ve also learned that just because he chooses not to do something, doesn’t mean he’s not interested/he’s going vanilla/ he doesn’t love me anymore. If he doesn’t, he doesn’t and that’s also his right as my owner.

I wonder if his lack of vision was his excuse for not beating me on that fleshy part of the butt where there aren’t bones and other ouchie things? I seriously though that my enormous butt would have been easy enough to hit, but perhaps I needed to mark off the area with a big red marker to give him a more visible target zone to aim for 😉

It’s my birthday and I’ll blog if I want to

Well, officially only for another 3 hrs it’s my birthday, but I’ve always been a big proponent of the ‘birthday week’ and therefore, I’ll be milking my birthday for all it’s worth for the next six days! Yay!

Master was uberly nice to me today. He is always nice to me – attentive, caring and generally an all-round nice guy. But today he was one-step above, driving me from one end of Perth to the other in the heat of our un-air-conditioned ’93 range rover as I checked off things on my ‘birthday list to do’.

For some reason, even though it was my birthday, the day still started out with me naked and booted in his bed before 9am, but after that it was pure girlie indulgence; beginning with brunch at my favourite cafe, Avatar in 3D at the Vmax cinema and followed by cake and coffee at the only decent french-style cake shop in town.

The only part of my day that I’d like to rant about was Avatar. I enjoyed the movie, but two things totally pissed me off: (a) the number of kids under the age of ten years in the cinema and (b) the number of people getting up and moving around in the movie. I understand that it’s a long movie, but seriously, people were coming and going like nobody’s business. I also realise that it’s school holidays now, but the kids sitting in front of us would have only been 6 or 7 yrs old and needed booster seats to see over the seat in front of them. As anyone who has seen the movie would agree, it’s definitely not a kids movie and I was a bit horrified that parents would let kids that young see it.

In terms of the movie itself, I was a little bit disappointed in the 3D effect. I didn’t feel that they used it to the full extent that they could have, although that was probably a good thing because the whole 3D thing gave me a lovely headache that I’ve just managed to get under control by swilling several panadol (or maybe it was the sugar in the truly decadent chocolate gateau I had that gave me the headache…hehehehe)

Thank you Master for a lovely day. It helped soften the blow of turning my scary age 🙂

That thing around my neck

Way back in the mists of time, I had a ‘thing’ about collars. The mere thought of having something around my neck symbolizing that I was ‘owned’ was positively intoxicating to me and I whiled away many hours dreaming of the smell of leather and the jangle of a leash.

I can remember once trying on our family dog’s collar and leash when I was a teenager. Unfortunately,the collar didn’t stay on too long owing to the fact that our dog was a terrier and I’m not really into self-asphyxiation.

The first collar I bought was from the 100yen shop in Japan. At the time, I was having some sort of on-line thing with a guy from Canada that I met on and he wanted pictures of me. Being the obliging sort of person I was (a.k.a. a sucker) I promptly went out and bought a collar and sent him some pics of me in compromising positions. He then disappeared without a trace a few days later, but that’s a story for another time.

My first ‘real collar’ was a metal collar similar to what I wear now. My first owner had me measure my neck and buy it myself. It was delivered and waiting for me when I arrived at the house I had rented for us and incidentally, that was also when I met him for the first time. The collar was put on with a fair amount of swearing and grunting – being that you had to pull the collar apart enough to fit the removable piece in it and then lock it in with the allen key. I didn’t start out with an ‘o’ ring on it, but I purchased one for his birthday and once again there was much swearing and grunting as we tried to get it on.

Master bought me my current collar with hinges and a locking allen key and it arrived a few weeks after I did. Other than the slightly annoying habit of the screw to work itself out and dig into my neck every couple of months, it’s much easier to get on and off. I tie up the ‘o’ ring with hairbands when I go to the gym to stop it jangling so much and generally speaking, hardly anyone notices it.

Actually the collar around my neck is not my permanent collar and it has come off a couple of times during the years I’ve been Master – once after a meltdown a couple of years back and once so I could wear something else around my neck for a change. My neck collar wasn’t originally intended to stay on all the time and it was only after he saw it on me that he liked it so much he decided he wanted it on all the time.

My permanent collar (a.k.a. my clithood piercing) was attached two days after I arrived here and hasn’t come off at all since then. It was always intended to be my permanent collar and was part of Master’s ‘my way or the highway’ plan of things I had to submit to if I wanted to be his slave. The placement had a certain significance in that he was ‘collaring my sexuality’ as it were, and by submitting to the collaring, I was giving over control over one of my most intimate and private parts.

My collars have tended to go on very early in my relationships. For one reason or another, I’ve never been required to jump through hoops in order to have the ‘honour’ of wearing someone’s collar and the collar has always gone on with very little ceremony. In fact, the only explanation I can give about why they went on so quickly, is that my owners have probably always known what I am. They’ve not always necessarily known what to do with me, but they’ve recognised me as a slave.

I don’t have the same collar fever that I used to have because now I’m a little more secure about what I am inside. While a ceremony or symbol is nice in theory,  it doesn’t change who or what you are. Six years ago my marriage ceremony didn’t magically turn me into wife and mother material and if I’d realised that beforehand I could have saved myself $50,000! And today, even without the hunk of metal around my neck or the piercing through my clithood, I’m a slave. Submitting to the piercing or putting the collar around my neck didn’t make me a slave, and at the end of the day, they’re just pretty decorations.

I’m sure some people would argue, however, that I got my collars too quickly and without ‘proving’ my submission, but I am what I am and no amount of time or ceremony will change that.

You’ve never really been beaten unless you’ve begged him to stop

Stroke after stroke, scoring the flesh, scarring the flesh.The burning heat. The jagged sting. The screams, the moans, the tears.

Culminating in a desperate plea, repeated over and over again,

“Have mercy, Master…”

It’s such a hot fantasy, isn’t it?

In my fantasy, the beating is usually followed by several earth-shaking orgasms and my domly one wrapping me up tightly in his arms and telling me how proud he is of me.

However, my reality post-beating usually consists of a bonus nipple-cripple, thigh-slap or face-licking session and an order to fuck off and make him coffee.

Mmmm…the realities of the modern-day slave girl.

My pain never comes with a side of sex. He doesn’t service me or provide me with pleasure, I’m here for his pleasure and his needs. Instead, I can have a release (on those very rare occasions that I’m granted one) but only because he acknowledges the fact that too much pressure can make a dam(sel) burst. He grants them grudgingly and exacts as much humiliation out of it as possible i.e. the writing up of the granted release on the fridge door chart including  the date, the reason it was granted and the gory details of how it was carried out.

I scored myself a release out of my Cirque de kitten performance on Sunday night and it has been duly written up on the fridge door chart. I haven’t used it yet, hoping for a seemingly impossible hour or two at home alone where I can indulge in a bit of self-bondage and associated porn viewing. Privacy is also not something that slave girls are supposed to enjoy so I can’t exactly go to Master and say, “Can you go somewhere for a couple of hours and call me before you reach the driveway??”

I’ve always found it interesting that 99% of M/s couples tend to incorporate some sort of pain play – regardless of whether there’s a masochist or sadist in the relationship. I’m not a masochist and Master isn’t a sadist. And although he tells me the shape of my ass just begs for a beating, sometimes I just think he goes through the motions because it’s somehow expected that he beat me.

I understand that taking pain is one of the easiest/most accessible ways of showing submission. It’s pretty much something you can do anywhere, anytime and if you’ve got a hand and some flesh, you don’t even need an implement. It also generally doesn’t involve the threat of being arrested like walking through your local hardware store in nothing but a pair of boots does, and generally speaking, it doesn’t require a degree in nuclear physics to carry out. I get that that’s why it’s probably on the menu of most couples, but aren’t there other less painful ways of showing submission??

We used to go play parties where there was a couple who did nothing but different poses. He directed her movements with a crop, minutely adjusting the position of her body until he was satisfied with her presentation. They’d be doing that for 20 or 30 minutes, silently, while the sound of other couples playing with paddles and floggers echoed all around them. At the time, I was privately thinking, ‘Pfffffttt!!’ but now I’m kind of understanding what they were doing and thinking it was powerful that they were breaking away from the traditional beatings and pain play that everyone does.

I can’t say I’ve ever been beaten to the point that I begged for it to stop. I’ve been very close to thinking, ‘Fuck, I can’t take this anymore!’ on a couple of occasions, but never to the extent that I was writhing around in excruciating pain asking for mercy. It’s also been the case on a couple of occasions that I’ve fainted before I’ve ever gotten to the point of it being too much. Generally speaking, if I don’t faint, I cry and because tears flip Master’s horny switch like nothing else can, before I know it, I’m being ravished and there’s a wet spot on the bed.

I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be pushed that far  – to be pushed to the point that there’s just the pain and you. I have a feeling though that the fantasy is a lot hotter than the reality ever would be, because, let’s face it, pain hurts 🙂

Cirque de kitten

Master has this thing about making me perform at the most inopportune times. Take last night for example. After a few drinks at a pub with a couple of friends, we came back here for fruit and coffee and ended up in a friendly discussion/argument about collaring ceremonies. Part-way through the discussion, where I was actually being eloquent and asking pertinent questions for once, Master told me to strip and kneel on the seagrass mat (the ecological slavegirl’s equivalent to raw rice) with my head to the floor.

They were kink friends so it wasn’t like they hadn’t seen me naked before or anything, but do you know how hard it is to ask pertinent, probing questions when you’re naked on the floor with a cherry shoved into your ass hole??

If truth be known, I was a little annoyed because I LURV getting into discussions with people in which the only defense for their opinion is, “Because I think so!!” and I especially LURV grilling dominants about their lofty ideas. Trying to get into an argument/discussion with Master is just no fun because he will, no matter how hard I twist, poke or prod, win, hands down, every single time. And if, by some remote chance, it looks like he is going to lose the argument/discussion he can always pull the, “Who wears the shiny thing?” card and that’s the end of that.

I was miffed that I had access to some prime dominant meat that I was going to revel in grilling over a slow flame, but one order by my domly one and there I was kneeling, naked, with all my ability to form a cohesive argument having gone straight out the window. I hate that.

I don’t know what does it. I wouldn’t call it ‘sub space’ or even a ‘happy place’, but I find that sometimes when I’m doing something ‘slavey’ I get all docile or something and suddenly I can’t follow the thread of a conversation or give a proper answer. That’s generally what happens if I have to count strokes too. I will lose the ability to count or add or even work out what’s going on. I wouldn’t say I’m floaty or anything, it’s just like I get a sudden case of the stupids. It’s bizarre and annoying at the same time.

Along with not being able to get my brain into cognitive gear, part of me was also cringing while I was naked on the floor because, really, who wants to see me naked for the fifty-millionth time or hear me say the same old, same old mantra of “I’m your slave, I have no rights or choices, I must be obedient.” I could *feel* them checking their watches, stifling yawns and wondering what a polite way would be for them to exit the house quickly.

I know Master delights in getting me to do stuff like that, but I wonder if he realises that it’s of no interest to anyone but him?? Lol. They’re our friends. We go to play parties together. They know our relationship and who and what we are. Do they need to be hit over the head with it a million times???

And I don’t know. I think getting up all close and personal with someone’s A hole under the harsh and unforgiving fluorescent light while you’re trying to have a chat over coffee may not be the most appetising thing for all people. I think there’s a time and place for all things and just because they are like-minded, doesn’t mean they need a side of my pussy with their latte.

*end rant*

On a side note, the discussion we were having about collaring ceremonies was quite interesting. He wanted one, she didn’t. She wants his collar, he won’t give it without the ceremony. So where do you go with that? Hello, impasse!

It was funny because the domly ones were of the opinion that if she wanted his collar, she would have to jump through the hoops no matter what. The subbly ones were of the opinion that the ceremony has no ‘intrinsic meaning’ so why bother. Of course, if it was going to be a ceremony with some flowery poetry, meaningless vows and eating food with a group of people that’s not an issue, but when the ‘ceremony’ he wants is something that could be detrimental to her health or emotionally damaging, why bother?

It was actually one of those fetlife type of arguments that could just go around and around for hours, so of course no understanding was reached or will probably ever be 100% reached. But I did want to grill him about it, if for no other reason than I recently found out his nickname for me is ‘big nose’ and for that he deserves to feel the full force of my wrath.

Perhaps next time we meet I’ll have a chance to continue my grilling. A time when I’ve got all my clothes on, I’m minus one cherry up my ass and my fires are stoked to sear to perfection.

Scary age

In aught but a few short days, I’ll be thirty-three. It’ll be a day just like any other and the only thing I’d like present-wise is Kushiel’s Avatar – not because I’ve loved the series so much I can’t put it down, but because I’d like to finish the trilogy seeing that I’m slightly OCD about things like that and now I’m half-way through the second book. (I know there are about a billion other books in related trilogies, with Phedre’s daughter and so on and so forth, but let’s not go there, kthxbai.)

So turning thirty-three doesn’t really mean that much to me except it’s my scary age – you know, the age that every girl decides she’s going to get married and have kids by. Not that I ever really wanted to have kids while I was growing up (I used to play endlessly with horses and not dolls…) but I thought somehow by the age of thirty-three, my life would magically work itself out, and I’d have two feet firmly on the path of family hood.

Except what actually happened was, I got engaged at 21, married at 24 and divorced at 28. Now at the ripe old age of 32 yrs and 359 days I’m a slave with no out-clause in my ‘contract’ and rarely a day goes by that I don’t wonder:

“Is this right for me?”

I’m sure if I were married with kids, I’d probably be thinking the exact same thing considering the grass-is-greener phenomenon comes fully into play with stuff like this, but still, the thought goes through my mind often enough to really make me wonder what is right for me.

Sometimes I really get tired of the ‘being kinky’ thing. Not only is it, a lot of the time, like swimming upstream against a raging current for me, but it really complicates everyday matters. Life is filled with land-mines like trying to find a collar-friendly workplace, keeping work/vanilla friends separate from kink friends, hiding the St Andrew’s cross when the lawnmower man comes, keeping my kink identity and my vanilla identity separate, having friends who I can only call by their screen name on Fetlife and who I know nothing about, having five million email addresses, a nom de plume and the list goes on. Sometimes I really can’t be bothered to do it all, I just want to live without worrying about all that stuff and the simplest way to do that, is funnily enough, to be vanilla.

I think a lot of my problem is that I’ve always gone out with older men. They’ve always tended to have ‘been there and done that’ in life. They’ve had their adventures, been through several relationships and have checked lots of things off their ‘to do in life’ lists, whereas I still wanted to climb the mountains just because they were there, without being told not to bother because there was nothing at the top anyway.

I’ve tended to shy away from guys the same age, or younger because I’m a big fan of maturity and it’s good to have a guy with his shit together, but I can also see the attraction of a younger guy now. The adventure is still there and you can discover stuff together. I’ve often thought I would of liked to have been with Master twenty years ago to share in some of his adventures and have some new experiences together. It’s very hard now to find something that’s new for him and many of his ideas and thoughts are set hard in concrete. I’d still like to be able to enjoy my fleeting youth and have some fun, but it’s not quite as easy as that.

So yeah, my scary age is upon me. What I’d really love to know though, is why I’m having to research anti-wrinkle creams, since I’m of that age now, but I’m still dealing with zits??!!?? Whose sick, twisted idea of a joke was that???

Kiddy stuff

Master and I aren’t into age-play. While he may call me ‘girlie’ (among other things…:) ) on occasion, I’m not his baby girl and he’s certainly not my daddy. And although technically with the 19 year age gap and all, he could be my father, we’re just not interested in whiling away the afternoon with a nice session of colouring – not the kind that involves crayons at least.

Having said that, I do find myself subconsciously playing the child sometimes. I like to act cute and girlie and I’m even thinking that my penchant to be bratty is actually just me playing the rebellious kid. Pushing the boundaries can be fun if something edgy is involved, but when it’s simply me pushing the rules and testing how far Master’s patience will go, I can’t help thinking in retrospect that I’m doing nothing that an unruly child wouldn’t do to a parent. We’re two mature adults in a consensual kinky relationship, so why do I feel the need to act like he’s my father?

Just for the record, acting cute and like my IQ is fifty points lower than it actually is, is not something I’ve only started doing since I was a slave. While I was married, I certainly didn’t play the hard-assed career women. I was the woman with Hello Kitty hanging from my cell phone, a Tarepanda appointment book and who routinely handed bottles and jars over to my husband to open without even trying to open them myself because looking strong, independent and in control just wasn’t cute.

That’s kitty as salmon roe sushi in a kappa costume, in case you were wondering.

Tare=droopy. They  just droop everywhere.

(I still *heart*  cutesy characters,  but  don’t tell  anyone…)

So anyway, as I was saying, I’ve been thinking about the whole brat thing and wondering whether a disparity in power in a relationship automatically makes it resemble a parent/child relationship or whether subconsciously I try to make it into a parent/child relationship because I never really had a relationship with my father to begin with.

My father wasn’t abusive or anything like that, he was just emotionally stunted and never had a care-factor for my sister and I. I’m not sure whether he had trouble relating to us because we were girls and things would of been different if we were boys, but considering that I was (and still am) an attention/approval/interaction-needy soul, his total lack of conversation or interest was crushing to me as I was growing up and I’ve never forgiven him for it.

He’s trying to make an effort these days and while everyone else in my family thinks I should build a bridge, I can’t. It’s too little, too late and in my books, being ignored for 28 years doesn’t get erased by some half-assed efforts later in life.

Now that I’ve aired my emotional effluent and once again proven that people into kink are people with baggage, back to the question at hand, does being bratty put you behaviourally on par with a kid?

Well, I think you have to look at the motives behind the behaviour. I’m bratty to get attention or to ‘encourage’ Master to be tough with me or punish me. I’m generally bratty when there’s been no play for a while or when I have an itch that needs to be scratched. It’s a way for me to get the type of attention that I crave and while I’m generally a very good girl and hate to get into trouble, being punished gives me a stomach-churning thrill that is difficult to get otherwise.

I usually hate being treated like a kid. I also hate being treated like I’m stupid (when I’m not trying to be in a cutesy way). I’ve written before about the whole needing-permission-to-go-to-bed thing or having a set bed-time and how it makes me really, really angry because I feel like I’m being treated like a kid. It’s being treated like a kid in a bad way, not the he’s-taking-care-of-me-and-I-feel-protected-and-secure way of being treated like a kid and that difference is the key point behind the brat issue. I think the reason why people sometimes act bratty is so they can re-create a little bit of the parent-child relationship and specifically so that they feel loved and protected. I’m sure that not too many people want to re-visit the frustration of their childhood where they wanted to do things and couldn’t and had curfews, chores and rules a plenty, but most of us, I’m sure, want that feeling of no responsibility and where their parent loves and looks after them in the big, bad world.

I’m sure that some guys like their girls to be independent, ball-busting, leader-type folk, but I’ve always felt that most guys like their girls to be helpless damsels in distress that they can take under their wing and for whom they can be the white knight. And from my experience, batting my eyelashes and telling my man that he is big and strong works well for both of us.

Tuckus lingus and all things butt

Ever since I started my new slave-kick (like a health-kick but with less bran), the butt has been appearing on the menu more and more. I have a truly deep love/hate relationship with the butt and while 70% of my private porn collection is made-up of insanely limber chicks having their asses totally rammed, there are days when the mere thought of putting something up my own ass just makes me want to cry.

To be honest, I’ve never really understood the attraction of butt plugs – either for the inserter or the insertee and I’ve blogged about it on many occasions (in an attempt to have someone explain it to me, but unfortunately I’m still waiting…) I mean, what is there to get out of a big lump of latex or silicon just sitting there? So my complete lack of understanding about what makes them hawt makes it difficult for me to get excited when Master makes the fateful order:

“Go put in the ___(insert size here)___ butt plug.”

But of course, since I’m a new-and-improved slave, instead of ignoring him laughing it off and going to watch tv, I dutifully lube up and insert the sucker and try to clench to hold the damn thing in. It generally doesn’t take anything more than a stiff breeze for it to fall out though and Master keeps saying he wants a harness for me to keep it in. I think we’ve passed two christmases and three birthdays without me buying one as a present for him though, so I’m sure you can see how excited I am about the prospect of my butt-plug not being able to fall out.

Now we’re going to move into the ‘possibly TMI territory’…

In my pre-slave days, I wasn’t very aware of all my holes and their positions and all that jazz. I’d never really looked at myself down there and while I always followed the sound advice of wiping ‘front to back’ I would of found it difficult to direct a guy if he got lost down there. I don’t think I would of ever, ever, ever considered buttsecks as something that nice, married girls do and I can still remember the day when I discovered how close my vagina and anus actually were. For some reason I’d thought my butt hole was a lot further away than it actually was and I discovered that when I’d been watching what I thought was vaginal sex, the sex was actually taking place in a very different location.

I know, I know. How naive was I? But you’ve got to remember I’m a small-town country girl who went to Sunday school and I grew up thinking I wanted to save my first kiss for ‘someone special’. I wasn’t born the slut, slave, ho bitch I am today 🙂

So anyway, several long, hard months of daily enemas practically cured my lack of direction in my nether region overnight and I now spend a lot of time down there removing hair, lubing and inserting butt plugs so I’m very familiar with the area.

(I could give you a little bit TMI here and tell you that I’ve named my hemorrhoid who likes to pop his head out every now and then, “Tom”, but I won’t, because that just makes me sound like I’m insane.)

Master also has this dream of me serving him a can of beer or soft drink by squeezing it out of my ass. He has seen it done and constantly comments to me that if I was any sort of ‘real slave’ that’s what I’d be able to do. I’m sure it’s a matter of practise makes perfect, but the question is, do you want to drink something that has been up someone’s ass, even if it was in a can???

Along with butt plugs and butt cans, Master also has this thing about me licking his ass. I’m not talking tuckus lingus, I’m talking licking his butt cheeks. Why? I dunno. Out of the blue he will shout out to me,

“Come lick my butt bitch!”

So, of course, being the new and improved slave I am, I go and lick his butt. While I’m not a big fan of licking, I can manage to get over my aversion to licking someone much easier than I can my aversion to being licked so I manage.

So that’s my life at the moment – butt licking and butt plugs. Like everyone I have my good butt days – where it can actually start to feel good, and my bad butt days –  where nothing I do makes it feel anything but ouchie and uncomfortable, but I dunno, I think if I understood the attraction more I’d have fewer bad butt days.

It’s like living with a two-year old

That was the fateful statement I made to Master yesterday as I snatched the itunes card out of his hand after observing him trying to peel off the covering over the serial number so he could redeem it.

“It’s like living with a two-year-old!! You’re supposed to scratch it off with a coin because that’s what it says in the instructions!!! They don’t just have instructions for show, you know – that’s actually what you’ve got to do!!”

So I got myself a coin and scratched like it said in the instructions and in the process, managed to scratch off the serial number as well.

“Oh crap…”

“What’s wrong? Read out the number.”

While I had been ‘scratching off the covering’, he’d happily peeled off the labels on the three remaining cards and already redeemed them. Now he wanted the number off the card I’d ripped out of his hands, hoping to prove my superiority by doing the ‘correct’ thing and revealing the offending number.

So we spent the next twenty minutes trying all the possible permutations of what the unreadable numbers could be to no avail only to be presented with the, “This is not a valid code” message of doom innumerable times. Then we were shining torches on it, wiping it, tilting it this way and that and I was invoking the powers of all the higher beings I knew to make that thing readable. Then Master decided to write over the number with a felt pen and wipe it off, hoping that it would make it a bit more readable.

And it was. And he redeemed. And all was right in the world of itunes accounts.

See, I’m a bit anal about the ‘proper way’ to do things. I suppose spending several years pouring my heart and soul into instruction manuals so that they would make sense to the people who used them didn’t help matters, but even before I became an industrial translator, I was anal about stuff like that.

That’s why when I cook, I’m a recipe girl. I won’t make something if I don’t have all the necessary ingredients in the exact quantities. I don’t substitute or adapt, I do everything as it’s proscribed. I also feel the need to have cleaning products for ever separate thing I clean. While I know that what’s in the ‘sink cleaner’ bottle is probably the same as what’s in the ‘bath cleaner’ bottle, I still feel the need to have the correct bottle for the job. That’s also why when I became a slave I had a very fixed image in my head about what I should be doing and what Master should be doing. It was almost like I had a manual for M/s in my head and I wanted to follow it to the letter.

I’m not exactly sure where that manual came from – probably a mish-mash of things gleaned from the internet and movies – but once it was in my mind, it was very hard to accept anything that I hadn’t set down in stone in the manual. So many times I’ve wanted to say to Master,

“But that’s not what you’re supposed to do!”

when he has deviated from my idea of what Masters do and sometimes those words have slipped from my mouth. His response?

“What are you?”

And I’ve had to remind myself that doing what he wants me to do is what I’m supposed to be doing – not me being the slave and him being the Master as per my ideas.

I think everyone gets into M/s with a certain image in their mind and a lot of the re-training that goes on has to do with getting rid of those preconceptions – both on the side of the owner and the slave. In my case, the training has taken a lot longer because the type of person I am makes me want to follow to the letter, the ‘correct’ way I have in my mind of being a slave. Rewriting my manual has been difficult and is an ongoing thing and I’m sure there are many times that he has wanted to say to me,

“It’s like living with a two-year old! You do what I want you to do, right? I’m the Master, you’re the slave. Get it right, bitch.”

2010 – The Year of the Boot

Or so Master proclaimed it to be. To everyone else it’s probably the Year of the Tiger, but because Master has said it’s the Year of the Boot, in this house so it shall be.

Master’s favourite boot of 2009 – The Biker Bitch boots

I would imagine that this means that many new pairs of boots need to be purchased and many hours spent parading them around.

Unfortunately, this year is also the year I turn 33 (in exactly two weeks, I might add). According to Japanese beliefs, this year is my Ooyakudoshi 大厄年 or the year in my life when some serious bad shit will happen. For women it’s the ages of 19, 33 and 37 that you have to be careful of with 33 being the worst. For men, it’s 25, 42, 61, with 42 being the worst. I’m not sure whether I believe in the teachings of some Chinese dude from the fifth century who designated the yakudoshi, but just for good measure, when I’m in Japan I’m going to get my negative energies removed at a temple that deals in this kind of stuff….just to cover all bases. I mean if this year is supposed to be worse than last year, god help me…

We didn’t do anything for New Year’s Eve – no parties, no beatings, no nothing. I did spend about 3hrs in my cage and was summarily mind-fucked when he suddenly turned the lights off and went into his bedroom like he was going to sleep and intending to leave me there all night, but he came back and undid the cage door with a sly smile.

I think I was watching Sex and the City on my ipod in bed when the year changed. Our neighbours were having another one of their thumping-loud parties and I had retreated to my bedroom with earphones in to try and drown out the noise. I’d dozed in and out of sleep for the three hours I was in my cage, so I wasn’t really tired, and somewhere between Carrie confessing that she’d slept with her married ex boyfriend and Charlotte marrying a man with erectile dysfunction, it chimed midnight and a new year began.

Being that it’s a new year and all, like the rest of population I’m jumping back on the diet wagon from today. I’m back to my 1200cal a day and I’m sure I’ll be battling sugar withdrawals for the next week or so. Yay!

Oh carbohydrates, how I love thee!

I’d been in a bit of a down-ward spiral binge-wise since losing the poodle pup and knew that when the new year started, I’d have to do something serious about it before things got totally out of hand. I’m realising that I’m probably always going to have binge cycles and that the most important thing is to reign myself in before my weight gets totally out of hand. Self-mastery and all that stuff, you know.

In preparation for going back on the wagon, I spent the last couple of days like a man on death row eating his last meals. I keep trying to remind myself that I can still eat things even while on a diet, but a part of my brain screams at me to ‘Stock up baby, because you’re never going to be tasting this stuff again!’ It’s quite funny in a unhealthy-relationship-with-food way.

I’ve also started day one of the New Slave project. I’m trying to be more attentive and more obedient and I think Master is having a bit of fun with it. He called me in to him last night to lick his chin where he had dribbled some food down it. Normally I would of told him to fuck off wipe it himself, but I was a good slave and did what I was told.

“See, how much nicer it is when you’re obedient?” he asked.

I had a few choice replies to his question, but being the new improved with 40% more fibre! slave that I am, I held my tongue.

Me thinks it’s going to be an interesting year.