Stop the wagon, I’m getting on!

kaya’s done it. chloe’s done it. Now I’m doing it, but with some slightly more interesting questions…

1. Fail moment in the last week?

It would either be walking out of the toilet at work with my skirt tucked into my underwear, or not realising that the time on my mobile was 7 minutes late and getting on the wrong bus, then getting off the wrong bus and telling other people that it was the right bus when it was actually the wrong bus.

2. Most memorable job?

This one is a toss-up between being a doughie (the person who goes in at 7am and makes the dough) at pizza hut and being a stand-in-the-hotel-lobby-and-look-foreign chick in Japan.

3. Favourite pizza topping?

Teriyaki chicken with mayonnaise and crunchy seaweed. Yummo.

4. Most embarrassing CD?

Well, it’s not exactly a CD, but the first cassette tape I ever received was given to me by my mother and it was The Best of Bread.

I was 8 years old, it was 1985 and she gave me Bread.

Madonna? Wham? No…Bread.

5. Do you use sarcasm a lot?

Moi? Nev-ah.

6. Favorite ice cream flavor?

Rum and raisin as the most ‘normal’ one and wasabi as the most ‘quirky’ one.

7. What do you miss most?


8. Last thing you ate?

A granny smith apple. I’ve got a thing for granny smiths at the moment – just can’t get enough, but they have to be crispy and pucker-your-lips sour.

9. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex?

Whether they look gay or not.

10. Most painful experience with contacts?

Putting one in and not realising that a piece of hair was trapped between contact and eyeball. Then seeing the hair and deciding to pull it without noticing that said hair was UNDER contact.

11. Movie you want to see?

Toy Story 3 – preferably in 3D.

12. Weirdest thing you’ve had in bed?

Boots and an eggplant.

13. What book(s) are you reading?

Magician (for the 1200th time) in bed and whatever I can grab on the way to the toilet.

14. Word you edge into every conversation to make yourself sound superior?


15. Name you thought would be really cool to give the fruit of your loins without really thinking it through?

Xchyler – or any similar name that requires you to have a good supply of phlegm for correct pronunciation.

16. Thing you think you’re slightly too anal about?

Arranging all the spoons and forks the same way in the cutlery drawer. It drives me insane when M puts them in there the wrong way around!!

17. Thing you wish you were slightly more anal about?

Oral hygiene – I always get in trouble from the dentist for my lack of flossing.

18. Proud moment?

Lighting the fire with only three firelighters *beams*

19. Dish you can cook with confidence?

Anything Japanese -except deep-fried stuff. I’m not a frying girl. Oil scares me.

20. Reason why you’re doing a meme instead of a real blog?

I suck at thinking of blog topics lately and there’s just so much stuff I could blog about but don’t even know where to start.


I have something to say:

It’s better to burn out, than to fade away!

And if you said, “There can be only one!” in response to that, you’re a child of the eighties. Welcome to my era.

Okay, enough reminiscing…

I’m still feeling blah, but I really don’t think there is something wrong with me.

Granted SAD might be a possibility if you’re living in some OMG place where you have two hours of sunlight a day, but I live in Perth which has an average of eight hours of sunshine all year around. Which is exactly why Perth is filled with pommies escaping their infamously bad English weather – that and the fact that you can buy a house ten times the size here for the same money.

I’m just funky and out of sorts. Aren’t I allow to mope around a little and throw surly looks at people, or do I have to wear a t-shirt that says ‘goth’ for it to be okay?

One thing I would like to desperately get off my chest is that when I’m not feeling the best about myself, having really unfortunate pictures of me plastered all over the internet, does not in any way, shape or form make me feel any better about myself. In fact, it makes me feel a shit load worse.

So, if anyone wants to be supportive of me while I’m going through this funk, all you have to do is DON’T TAKE FUGLY PICTURES OF ME!!!



Is that too much to ask?

I think a lot of this feeling bad about myself thing is due to the increasing focus on my looks, my clothes and my weight during my interactions with M.

I’ve never wanted him to get involved in that side of business from the very beginning for the simple fact that they are extremely sensitive topics as far as I’m concerned. I know what I look like. I know my problems. I don’t need anyone else to get involved with them but me.

If I had a dollar for every conversation I’ve had with him that involved ‘slave weight’ over the past few months, I’d be a very rich woman. I try not to wave his flaws in front of him like a red flag and I’m very conscious of not discussing certain sensitive topics because I know they are hurtful so why can’t he do the same for me?

I’m sure he is likely to say in his defence that it’s just ‘wordporn’ or whatever, but I take them all in and file them away. Three or four times a day I still randomly think of an off-the-cuff mark that a friend made months ago. It still hurts.

Not ‘hurts’ in the sense that the words are bad, it’s just that they make me accept reality. It’s not that what was said was not true or particularly insulting or anything like that, it’s just that when I think about it, suddenly I’m slammed back into reality and disappointment that I’m not better/beautiful/sexy/whatever washes over me.

It’s reality and it’s harsh.


I’ve been in a slump about myself for a while now – feeling bad about myself, my looks, my weight, my life.

I get this way every so often and it starts slowly and then starts to spiral down in a great big vortex that sucks up anything and everything around it. At the moment I’m trying to find someway to knock myself out of my self-indulgent reverie, but I’m not being too successful.

When I get like this I get a bit hippy. Generally it’s my appearance that starts to suffer first and I go make-up-less to work in whatever clothes I can find in my general vicinity to put on (usually the exact same clothes I wore last week). My bush and legs revert to au naturel style and I grab whatever I can find in the fridge/cupboard to eat. I don’t really give a shit about anything.

I wouldn’t call it depression so much as apathy. I just can’t seem to give myself that push into care-factor territory that would set me on the straight and narrow.

Just quietly – between you and me – I’ve also been binging…again.

**insert appropriate sigh here**

I just keep screaming at myself in my head , “Stop putting that crap in your mouth!”

But I don’t.

I can’t muster up enough of a care-factor to even stop myself.

I’ve had a Master-imposed eating plan for several weeks now, but I’ve always said that no enforced eating/diet plan will work unless the enforcee actually does it. If you’ve got no access to money and the fridge and cupboards are all locked up and you physically can only eat what you are given, it would probably work. But let’s face it, that’s not what happens and at the end of the day YOU are the one who has to have the will power to stop putting crap in your mouth. End of story.

And at the moment, I don’t.

I feel dirty.

And not in a nice way.

So now I’ve outed myself and I’m sure there will be some form of punishment to follow, but the sad thing is, that I don’t even have a care-factor about that. Maybe I’m outing myself because I’m hoping that some form of punishment will put me on the straight and narrow, or maybe I’m outing myself because I just don’t care.

Who knows?

I’d like to feel clean again.

I’d like to wake up without my stomach being physically being sore from eating crap that I didn’t even taste or enjoy.

I’d like to take pride in my appearance.

I’d like to feel sexy and attractive.


I’d like to be clean and I’m the only one who can do it.



It’s that time of the year when icy mornings and chilly evenings find me either wedged in front of the wood fire or in my bed at grandma o’clock with my leckie blankie on.

So I’m not spending time in front of my computer, not blogging and pretty much ignoring the rest of the world. It’s something I do every year in winter – I just pull into myself and try to make it through the chilly months and then emerge in spring like a chrysalis (except not that beautiful or graceful).

During winter you’ll be lucky to get a reply to a text message from me if my phone is more than five steps away from the heater, let alone a blog that requires me to freeze my ass off for an hour or so in the other room while I get all literary on your asses.

What’s hilarious though, is that Perth doesn’t even get cold! It doesn’t even get a toe onto the ladder of ridiculous cold that most people have to suffer through during the winter months and yet it’s still enough to send me to hibernation central.

To give myself a reality check, I sometimes think back to the minus twelve degree mornings that I regularly walked to school in in the hole quaint country town I grew up in and wonder how I did it. I then think back to the three or four feet of snow that I lived in for several months of the year in Japan and think, ‘How the fuck did I do that?’

I think somewhere along the line I got old and now I just can’t be bothered to be uncomfortable. I think after a certain age, survival stops being ‘fun’ and ‘exciting’ and you just want your warm fires and tall mugs of hot chocolate.

Or maybe that’s just me.

Speaking of uncomfortable (and enough of the old woman surrounded by cats talk) I’m in week two of LOPUMA (lump of plastic up my ass) training.

Last week it was the small LOPUMA and this week I’ve moved onto the medium LOPUMA – which is not really something to celebrate, but I feel the need to give a small yay anyhow…


Apparently next week I move onto Mr. Purple – which is definitely not something to celebrate.

(And just in case you’ve forgotten who all the characters are in my self-pleasure box, there’s a post and pics here.)

And why the LOPUMA training? I hear you all ask. Well, apparently the man has decided that my ass needs to be ready for WOMAD (weapons of mass ass destruction).

(And in case you haven’t noticed, acronyms are my thing this week…)

I’ve mentioned to him that I regularly do my own MAD with Mr. Pink during my releases and therefore there is no need for LOPUMA, but he has been unswayed by my arguments.

Personally, I think he just enjoys seeing me with LOPUMA and struggling to keep my temper in check.

Because that’s what LOPUMAs do to me – make me really, irrationally angry.

Actually I think I’ve just discovered why I’m passive aggressive – I’m constantly constipated and therefore it’s like I’ve got LOPUMA all the time. So I’m just angry ALL THE TIME.


And that’s why I should blog more – I always manage to answer my own questions.

(Just in case you’re wondering how I managed to blog today while I’m hibernating, well, I’m at work with the room temperature set to 26° and another heater under my desk. Mmmm…double heaters.)

Learning to fear

Very shortly it will be my fifth anniversary of being a slave.

Five years that have included, two owners, several collarings, mystery shoppers, play parties and numerous experiences.

So what have I learned after five years?

I’ve learned to fear.

Five years ago I had no fear whatsoever. I felt nothing but excitement over plunging into the unknown and experiencing everything that this lifestyle (for wont of a better word) has to offer.

Basically I had no fear because I was a blank slate. My sexual experiences up until that point had been totally vanilla and what I had done to myself in the privacy of my bedroom never ventured beyond my borders of comfort.

I was totally open to anything and everything.

No limits? Sure!

Three litre enemas? Bring ’em on!

Piercings through my twat? Ummmm……ok….

Seriously, I would have been a sadists dream – knowing nothing, viewing everything without bias and up for absolutely anything.

Then I experienced things; I learned about pain, humiliation and enduring. I also had that awful realisation of the fact that everything isn’t fun and enjoyable and for me, some things are impossible. I can and will fail – whether I like to admit it or not.

So then things got a bit scary.

What I’m trying to figure out now though, is whether I’m fearing things because I know what will happen and what it will feel like or whether I’m fearing the possibility of failure

That’s why doing things to yourself is safe – you can give yourself just enough to get to that point of yummy-hurt without having to worry about over-loading the system. Once things start edging into failure territory, or, as I like to call it, get-those-fucking-nipple-clamps-off-now!!!! territory, if you’re the one in charge, you can.

There’s no need to be stoic through the pain or in fear of what nasty thing will come next that may be too much to bear. When you’re calling the shots, it what you say goes.

But it’s not real, because I’m the one in control, I’m the one calling the shots and that doesn’t let me prove anything to anybody. I want to be pushed so I can prove my submission, but at the same time I don’t because I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to have to say, ‘I can’t take this!’ I don’t want to concede defeat and more importantly, I don’t want to be placed in a position where I even have to.

Fear can be a wonderful motivator, but it can also be an equally impressive de-motivator.

Which one is it for you?


Where is your cervix???

I have to say, I never expected that particular question to come out of my doctor’s mouth when I went in for my bi-annual pap smear today.

Why does your vaginal area look like a scrap metal yard? I would not be surprised by.

But Where is your cervix? kind of blew me away.

It was kind of funny though…in retrospect.

Apparently my cervix is not where it is supposed to be and is very much to the right.

I have a rightie.


Come to think of it, the rest of me seems to lean to the right as well…as Mr. Gonzo will no doubt testify.

And just in case you were wondering, it wasn’t my regular doctor who did it and therefore both of the above questions were asked and summarily answered.

In domestic goddess news, I made Starbuck’s-style blueberry scones from a Japanese recipe I found on the net and they’re close to what you can buy in Japan, but no cigar. I think they need slightly more sugar and perhaps some vanilla essence. Texture-wise they were quite delish though:

In Japan they’re called scones. In Australia we’d call them rock cakes more so than scones because they’re harder than scones and in the States they’d probably be biscuits – or would they still be classed as scones?

Anyway, next on my target list is melon bread. Have oven, will cook.

In new-gadgets-entering-the-house news, I bought myself a new phone (sorry Chloe, it’s not an iPhone…) I haven’t had a new mobile in almost five years so I even though I really don’t use my mobile as anything other than a wristwatch & an alarm clock, I bought a slider touch screen with a keyboard just so I’d be in with all the cool kids.

After using it for 24hrs, I’ve discovered that it’s going to be excellent incentive to keep growing my fingernails because the keys are teeny tiny and I without them my texts turn into something that looks like it was written by an angry Russian. Here’s my baby:

I was also drastically disappointed by the instruction manual because it’s like a tiny brochure of about 20 pages. I need a thick, chunky volume of several hundred pages to understand this sucker. I guess the Korean version is slightly more voluminous, so looks like my Korean language skills need to expand beyond 안녕하세요

In I’m-a-sucker-for-punishment news, I went into my old uni library and borrowed some books on translation theory so I can brush up my translation skills for a test later on in the year. I don’t really need to go back to basics and I’m probably better just doing reams of practise translations, but I’m anal about these things so I figure some foundation stuff again can’t hurt. It’s always so funny that while I’m studying something I loathe it with a passion, but when I’m not studying something and after a break long enough for all the horrifying memories of studying to fade, I want to get back to studying.

I really would like to do a Masters, but what I want to do is only offered at universities in other states and is not offered through correspondence. But then again, I’m positive I’m only saying that now only precisely because I’m not studying.

In what-we’re-doing-tonight news, we’re apparently going out tonight to a kinky coffee night which is (a) good, because it means I get out of a night of butt-plug & nipple clamp wearing and (b) bad, because I’ll probably have to do something as equally as humiliating or uncomfortable as butt-plug & nipple clamp wearing when we get there.

Ah, the life of a slave is never easy.

Itchy twat

Itchy twat.

That’s about all I’ve got on my mind at the moment – my twat that is growing ever more itchy by the second due to the hair starting to sprout through.

I finally removed the hair that M had dubbed a ‘forest’  on Monday after being threaten with a howible, howible punishment if I didn’t (although I would like to point out that it was not long enough to wind itself around my rings and therefore wasn’t officially a ‘forest’ in my books.)

It wasn’t so much the threat of a howible, howible punishment that finally tipped me over the edge to action, it was more his penchant for grabbing the hair and tugging on it at every available opportunity that made me ho-hum my way to Nairville. See, I have such a ridiculously sensitive mound that I can barely even touch myself, so my screams when he started tugging away were not fun, playful screams, but get-your-#&@^@%!-hand-away-from-there-buddy-boy! screams that didn’t actually convey the levels of my discomfort amply.

Due to my sensitivity down there, I have a hard time shaving. I just can’t cope with the feel of the razor blade going over the flesh and the slight tug that you get with even the sharpest razor sets my teeth on edge. It totally freaks me out and so I can’t shave and even the Nair thing is tricky, but I’ve trained myself to cope. Just the mound – mind you. I’m quite happy running a razor over my labia, bum crack and anywhere else but the triangle of the mound.

In the ridiculously sensitive category, M has ridiculously sensitive feet and balls. I’ve often amused myself by doing a ball-grab or a foot-tickle and that generally gets me threats of howible, howible punishments too, but it doesn’t stop my efforts to amuse myself by hearing his voice go up several octaves as he warns me to “STTTTTOOOOOOPPPP THAAAAAAT” at every opportunity. I guess that’s why he loves to do the pubis tuggis – because he loves to watch me squirm (or scream and flail as the actual case may be).

Anyway, I braved the cold of sitting on the side of the bathtub, wet and naked for 20mins while I applied, waited and removed the nair and I even managed to text my sister to get my mind off the burning sensation I had in my general clit area while I waited:

“So are your rings out yet?” she asked.
“Nah, still got four rings and the clithood,” I replied.
“When did you get the clithood?” she questioned.
“It was the first thing I got done four years ago,” I responded.
“Well, fuck me,” came the reply.

I just love it when my sister gets all trippy.

And that was pretty much my Monday – which, incidentally, ended with pony-head harness and a ravishing.

Tuesday was 2hrs of a butt plug and chicken & leek pie.

I wonder what Wednesday will bring.

It’s not all about the whips and chains

It’s also about the cake:

Banana & walnut with buttercream icing to be exact

The pizza:

M's favourite bacon, egg & cheese (a.k.a an 'Aussie')

And the pie:

Chicken and leek with a shortcrust pastry top

As you can see, we spent our Sunday afternoon baking in our fabulous, working and finally installed oven. I can’t wait to get in and try my hand at some bread. Mmmm….bread 🙂


In my 6:30am ravishing this morning, I was informed that the period between 7pm and 10pm each night will now be known as the ‘booting hours’ and boots are required to be worn.

I was also informed that henny-penny fashion was no longer going to be tolerated in the house and that I was required to be naked or in slut wear – no comfy clothes, no pjs, no ugg boots.

Looks like I’ll be stoking the fire to furnace levels so I don’t freeze my tits off for the rest of the winter.

Notes to self:

  • Being dragged from my bed in the pre-dawn darkness by my hair is not because M has made a special breakfast for me – there may be something going in my mouth but it ain’t food
  • If my pussy hair is long enough to grab, it needs to be removed or he will tug on it at every available opportunity
  • A slap accross the face can sometimes hurt less than tmj in pre-dawn relaxation sessions
  • Standing too close to the heater with exposed pussy rings in post-ravishing,  pre-dawn freezingness is a sure way of inflicting a self-brand

(There’s also a new post in the Quirky Japan (57-59) if you haven’t already seen it. Yes, I’ve been a busy girl *nods*)

    Emails in the life of kitten

    First thing this morning I get this email from the man:


     Hope your core body temperature didn’t drop off too much for your walk this morning

     A blog for your morning coffee at the office

     Enjoy your day at work

     If you do get home early after, lighting the fire and sorting out your dinner issues, if you get a chance can you put on the ankle and wrist chain set, after you made sure the keys are found for it so l can release you and also have your small butt plug washed and ready for use after your dinner, also you will be spending an hour in the cage tonight so make sure it has a pillow and doona inside for you as well.


    I think I was enjoying that email right up until I got to the last paragraph and saw the word ‘butt plug’ (or is that two words?)

    I don’t think I’ll ever overcome my loathing for hard immovable lumps of plastic up my ass so I guess I’m just going to have to learn to live with it.

    But I guess things could be worse…I could be wearing one of these t-shirts to celebrate the appointment of a new prime minister in Japan:

    My afternoon was filled with some more email:

    Just entered the Old Gold chocolate competition to win trip to Italy. Scored myself a free block of chocolate too. First 7000 entries get free chocolate.



     Pity you can’t eat chocolate as it won’t fit into your slave bowl



    What about if the chocolate bar is broken up into pieces??


     The only thing your bowl can fit inside it is food designed to achieve and maintain your slave weight goal of 55 kilo +- or – 3 kilo, l don’t see chocolate on the approved list of foods and therefore it doesn’t fit, neither does ice cream.

     You may be hand fed a chocolate treat from time to time as a reward for being good obedient and pleasing but only when l am in the mood to spoil you or l am rewarding you for some nice nakedness and boots and oral service

     You are now a slave and as such shouldn’t be expecting chocolate in your bowl with any sort of regularity


    See, I just knew my day was going to go downhill since it began with butt plugs…

    In training

    M wanted to put his collar back around my neck last night, but I resisted.

    I guess that’s reason #785 why I don’t think I’m a slave – resisting collaring (lol…sounds like something you could be put away for three to five for…)

    I’ve still got a bit of a wall in front of me as far as this whole ‘slave’ thing goes. I’m really hung up on the label of ‘slave’ and thinking that if there is a label, there needs to be a reason for the label. I’m not content to just wear the title, I need to wear the life.

    In my talks with M before we discussed how vanilla stuff had gotten and how treating me as anything but a slave is a bad idea if you want me to be a slave. I know theoretically that as a slave he could tell me an orange is an apple and I would have to go along with that, but that’s only after I’m a slave. At the moment, I’m still stuck on ‘getting there’ and I just can’t accept the ‘you’re a slave’ band aid he wants to keep putting over things.

    So I said that I wasn’t ready for the collar to go back on yet because I didn’t know that I was a slave yet.

    And that of course made him all huffy and he wouldn’t discuss things.

    I was also really tempted to just walk off in a huff and let things be, but I just couldn’t let things slide. I had let things slide for ages and look what good it did me; I ended up nothing but confused and totally lost.

    So I pursued the man to his bed and after all offers of back scratching and bum massaging were declined (which is when you know he really is huffy) I attempted to explain why I didn’t think I was ready for the shiny thing to go back on.

    And he told me I get too hung up on labels and that in my head I will ‘never be a slave’ because I have all these pre-conceived ideas about what a slave is and that I will never accept being a slave unless I’m chained naked to some concrete cell somewhere and only fed gruel because that’s what I think being a slave involves.

    Well, I have to say in my head being a slave does consist of being miserable and yes there are images of concrete and chains and stuff like that, but I’m not totally stuck in that idea because I know realistically that could never happen and that although the idea of being treated cruelly is hot, the reality is not so hot.

    Having said that though, I do think that being a slave has to involve things above and beyond the ordinary vanilla of our lives.

    I need something to separate the mundane from the slavery and now I’m kind of fixated with the idea that I need to earn my collar or be re-trained or something. I can’t just have it put back on and go about life like nothing happened.

    I need the collar to mean something and I need my slavery to mean something too.

    So M has decided to embark on a programme of control to get me into the mindset that I’m not free and that I’m subject to his whim. He is started with something that is near and dear to my heart – food.

    The New Regime

    • Slave must reach slave weight 55kg (+- 3kg).
    • In order to reach slave weight of 55kg, slave must implement eating plan.
    • Slave has special food bowl.
    • Only food in slave bowl can be consumed.
    • Food in slave bowl must be approved by Master first.
    • Slave bowl is to be placed on floor at Master’s feet and this is where food shall be consumed.
    • Slave shall eat when Master gives permission.

    So that’s it. He’s not micro-managing me or telling me what to eat (the slave weight was a goal I set and it’s up to me to plan my food to get there) but there is a bit of control factor involved in the actual eating of the food.

    Physically there is also reinforcement of my place by eating at his feet, lower than him and if he chooses, I will have to wit until he has finished eating before I can start (although I’m not sure how me sitting there drooling and pulling funny faces at him while I watch him eat will go down…lol)

    I like the idea. I like the idea of taking normal activities and putting a slave twist on them. Obviously this can’t happen all the time like when I’m at work and when we go out with friends and things, but I will try to abide by the rules as much as possible.

    It’s not the sort of thing that is going to immediately send me to slave head space, but it’s a start. I’m also supposed to be giving him a slave greeting every day of the week now instead of just on the days I have off so that will help too.

    Small steps to set me in the right direction.

    P.S There’s a new quirky Japan post here

    Tarts & tickets

    I’ve got my ticket, have you got yours??

    And I even went as far as paying the extra $2 online booking fee so I could reserve seats ahead of time…and for a frugal person like me, that just shows you how serious I am. (btw, can anyone explain to me why we have to pay more to pre-purchase tickets online which actually saves the cinema having to pay wages for more staff to be there to sell tickets???)

    It’s a public holiday here on Monday so we’re off to see my movie event of the year, Sex and the City 2. I’ve successfully avoided seeing any trailers, reading any reviews and have changed the tv channel every time something came on even remotely related to the movie. As a result, I’m a blank canvas.

    M is earning extra brownie points by accompanying me to see the ultimate chick flick. He might just get an extra long relaxation therapy session out of it to show him my appreciation 🙂

    We went to yum cha for lunch today at the Welcome Inn Tea House in Northbridge. People had raved about it, but we only gave it a 6/10. It was disappointing but pretty on par for what we’ve come to expect from food in Perth i.e. expensive and quite mediocre. I suppose for 25 plates, $110 was not too bad,  but for lunch, come on, $110??? Many of the dishes came out cold and mostly the same thing over and over again. The squid tentacles were also quite greasy and there definitely wasn’t enough chilli on them.

    The only thing I will say was excellent were their egg tarts. I think I would go there just for their egg tarts in future.

    Tarts for the tart seems very appropriate.

    Finally, a big, huge shout-out to Lexi who correctly guessed this as my pussy. I have to say she was very dedicated for taking up the challenge of combing through various pussies to identify mine. Lexi rocks 🙂

    What’s new?

    Not a lot.

    I spent my day doing loads of washing, cleaning the spa and rescuing the kitchen from the throes of M’s creative woodwork. There are clamps in my kitchen where clamps were never meant to go…

    Oh and last night I had my pussy photographed with a butterfly clit-stimulator for a friend’s webpage.

    Yeah. Just a regular Thursday night.

    Before it would have bothered me if anyone wanted to get all up close and personal with my pussy.

    And it would have bothered me even more if I was less than perfectly smooth down there.

    Now I’m a changed woman. I don’t care if it’s all wild kingdom down there and I’m sitting spread-eagled in a beanbag in front of the tv in the middle of the lounge room while someone snaps away with a camera.

    Which I was….lol.

    Actually it’s not the first time my pussy has been used for advertising purposes. There’s also a pic here on the webpage of the place where I got it pierced. (Warning: There are a lot of pics of female genitalia on that page, but anyone who can correctly guess which one is mine gets a shout-out in my next post!!!!)

    I have to say that pic was really handy for showing my mum, M’s handywork….lol.

    I’ve also done another Quirky Japan post here. It’s been a while since I had done one (a.k.a me not pulling my finger out of my ass) so apologies to anyone who actually lamented the lack of new quirky Japan posts…anyone?….ANYONE??



    I was thinking about this topic a while back when kaya brought it up and it’s something that frequently comes up in discussions about M/s relationships. There seems to be a general belief that subs get into these kind of relationships to somehow better themselves or become something more than they were.

    I have to admit that I started out with similar grand ideas and was firmly of the belief that being a slave would cure my weight issues, end my membership to the social hermit club and would add 20 IQ points.

    Of course, none of these things is ever going to happen – especially that IQ point one. There’s just no hope for me in that department…and I know this because I tend to repeatedly try to put the kettle in the fridge after I’ve poured myself a cup of coffee.

    Recently while doing some thinking a.k.a spending too much time in my head on the bus (btw, there was a highly amusing comment left on my blog a while back saying that I seem to get myself into trouble most on the bus and it’s so true!) I actually realised that my need for a purpose as a slave is another expression of my need for growth.

    Bottom line: I have a need to be pushed, a need to endure and need to add more notches to my belt.

    That’s what makes slavery meaningful for me.

    I think this need for ‘growth’ is also why routines and rituals tend to get stale quite quickly. If you’re repeating things constantly or doing the same things day in, day out – regardless of how edgy or funky they seemed at the beginning – they’re going to stagnate quite quickly. I realise that a lot of the time the rituals or routines are initially implemented in order to create a structure or routine and therefore put you in a slave ‘head space’, but once the challenge is gone or the act becomes a part of everyday life, it stops doing exactly what it was implemented to do in the first place: make you feel like a slave. Once something becomes as familiar as brushing your teeth, it’s not going to impact on you mentally.

    And that’s where the challenge comes in: how to keep the spark when your mind is in “park”.

    I’ve always been a bit of an experience junkie and a fair bit of the attraction to D/s for me was the opportunity to do things, experience things that I wouldn’t in a normal ‘vanilla’ lifestyle. I like to do things and go to places just to be able to say, “Oh, I’ve done that!” or “Oh, I’ve been there!”. It’s not that I like to brag (well, maybe I do…) but lacking anything else to brag about, it’s always good to have something ‘up my sleeve’ to discuss at barbeques like, “Yeah, I’ve got 6 barbells in my pussy and how’s your steak?”

    I don’t think for most people, the ideal of becoming a ‘better person’ by being a slave is something that is truly attainable. There may be some changes that are brought about by being someone’s property such as losing weight or quitting smoking, but really when you think about it, it’s not the owner who is actually doing those things, it is the slave themself. Any real changes made to a person have to come from within and no amount of external pressure will change that (I’m talking, of course, about during the post-formulative years).

    What an owner can do is provide opportunities for new experiences, create challenges and encourage or discourage.

    Growth starts from within, but without the right environment, nothing blooms.

    Indiana Jones & the many things of doom

    It’s probably not the best title for a movie, but it accurately describes the last few days as far as M & I are concerned –except without the hat and whip hot nazi chick.

    The “simple installation” of the oven turned into a three-man-all-day event on Sunday and a couple more hours last night and it’s still not installed. Who would think that putting a shiny silver box into a space could be so difficult? Last night’s after-work 8pm installation session turned into a bit of a shouting match i.e. M yelled at me until I cried. He apologised and I felt silly for not being able to do anything but cry so eventually I stopped adding my ‘helpful’ opinions and left him to his own devices.

    I’ve never handled being yelled at well, although I have toughed up a considerable amount to how I used to be. M doesn’t yell at me a lot, but when his levels of frustration hit peak he tends to want to express things at the top of his lungs – which may be effective if the person you are talking to is deaf, but I’m not, so my reaction tends to be one of ‘flight’ not stay and get yelled at more.

    Part two of doom started this morning when it was an exceptionally chilly morning and warning lights on the car came on. Off we drove to the auto repair place to be told that the alternator was probably on its way out but we’d still be able to drive.


    So we set off to work and stop to get some fuel and then the car won’t start.

    OH CRAP!

    So M calls a taxi to take him home to get the range rover and I walk back to the auto place, drop off the key for them to come and get said heap of shit car and wait for M to come and get me.


    An hour later we’re still waiting in the freezing cold for said taxi.


    So we call a friend who lives nearby (waking him up) and ask if he can come and get us and take us home.


    But eventually finds us, we go home and set out to work again in the range rover that has a piece of plastic instead of glass over the rear window because it is getting fixed.


    I arrive at work 30mins late and M arrives 1.5hrs late.


    M gets a call at work to tell him that’s how much it’s going to fix so I guess that’s not too bad after all.



    In other doom-related news, I woke up yesterday with a really sore toe and upon further inspection discovered that a piece of my hair was tightly wound around my toe and had been cutting off my circulation all night.

    Actually a similar thing happened to my ex-husband several years back except it happened to a more delicate piece of his anatomy. I’m not sure if that means that my hair has homicidal tendencies or whether it just proves that my hair is spethial.

    In non-doom-related news, I’m thinking about trying the Dukan Diet, just for something different to do. I’m a bit fan of not-really-new-ideas-that-make-a-comeback-and-suddenly-everyone-buys-the-book-and-is-doing-them, so I’m thinking about jumping on the bandwagon too.

    If you haven’t heard of it (where the fuck have you been?) think low-fat Atkins. If you don’t know what Atkins is, think high-protein, minimal carb where it’s okay to have full-fat cream whipped together with cocoa powder to make ‘chocolate mousse’….mmmmm….but you can’t eat a slice of bread.

    Atkins was one of the ‘easiest’ diets that I followed I because I was never hungry. What was tricky was living without bread, rice & pasta for months. I very quickly lost a lot of weight doing it, but failed on the maintenance thing – which I always do.

    I’m liking the structure of Dukan and the flexibility later on (it gives you ‘free meals’!!) Considering what has been happening with things the last few days, a new diet is probably doomed to fail at some stage, but it’s okay, I’m used to it…lol.