My week was hard. Push ups are hard. Getting comfortable in ankle cuffs is also hard.

In English, I have to say ‘hard’ or ‘puma’ (pineapple up my ass), but in Japanese I could make an ‘Nnnn!’ sound that kind of sounds like I’m constipated and it perfectly expresses the hard/frustrating/difficult/tiring feeling I want to get across.

I spent most of my week entertaining customers from the land of the rising sun and answering all those sticky marketing questions they like to ask by telling them something without really saying anything at all. I had long days and lots of travelling and missed several nights at gym that left me climbing the walls for some sweat-inducing classes.

I also lost count of the number of times I said ‘It’s difficult’ because in Japanese you don’t say ‘No’, you just say ‘It’s difficult’ and that’s code for ‘Not over my dead body’.

While I do a bit of marketing material translation these days, in another life I was a full-time translator and that involved me doing a lot of freelance work on everything from movie subtitles to instruction manuals for foot spas to corporate contracts (just ask me about torts!) And while law-related stuff is probably some of the hardest stuff I’ve ever had to translate, I have to say manga are pretty damn hard too. Why you ask? Well, they’re full of sounds that describe environments, feelings and actions and they are a nightmare to translate.



Japanese is full of onomatopoeia (sound symbolic words) and they add a wonderful depth to what you’re trying to say and to visual media like manga & tv.

English has a few words like this too – a tummy rumbling with hunger, the car zoomed past, but definitely not the range that Japanese has.

I see most of the time that the translators of manga just ignore the onomatopoeia and leave it as part of the art. I can see why…having the page filled with bubbles saying things like ‘sound of something slippery going through his fingers’ or ‘heavy knocking sound of wooden leg on gang plank’ just kind of distracts the reader.

When I’m writing my story I’m very conscious of the environments I build and the sounds  that should be there (or lack thereof) to make it feel more three-dimensional. I often wonder if the people and places I build in my mind are similar to what other people imagine when they read my words. Somehow I think that what makes me juicy doesn’t necessarily turn on the juice of others.

I’d like one of these plugs for my phone though:


or maybe one of these:


and this is just weird (it’s apparently been made using a ‘real woman’s finger’ as a model?!?!):


Pain is fuel

I spent a large chunk of my afternoon in the cage ala this:



There were some padlocks and copious amounts of rattling of the chain. He took pity on me and let me wear knee boots instead of thigh boots so at least I didn’t have to deal with dead leg as well as crampy leg while I was in there.

About 2 hours in M decided that the chain was too long and shortened it so I couldn’t lay down anymore so I leaned back against the cage and just chilled with the bars making decorative indents in my back. Then he decided that I needed a ‘drink’ and when he told me to open my mouth, I really should have opened my mouth…

I went to gym in the morning and was pretty sore before I even got into the cage, so the whole discomfort thing didn’t faze me too much. The short and deceptively ouchie caning I received before being lead on a chain crawling to his bed was a nice layer of icing on my afternoon cage cake and all was good with the world when it was over.

The cage time did give me some quality thinking time and I was busily writing more of the story in my head. I’m pleased to report that after getting totally bogged down in chapter 6 last week, chapter 7 is almost writing itself. I did have a moment yesterday where I reread all the chapters so far and hated all of it and got totally depressed and then I was in a serious I-need-to-start-again-from-scratch mood, but with an afternoon of cage time, somehow, everything seems better.

Happy milestone to me

This is slightly overdue and I’ve been meaning to post about it for a while, but…meh…you know how I roll.

Last month while I was in Japan, my blog views clicked over the 500,000 mark. Yay. It’s only taken…umm…about 8 years and 1100 posts, but here we are.

I remember the heady days of 2008-2009 when I was a full-time house bitch and had nothing better to do with my time but blog and angst. I was burning through blog views of around 35,000 a month (not that I’m obsessed with numbers or anything, because, you know, that would be uncool) but then I pretty much stopped blogging for 2 years and most of my readers – except the hardcore ones and you know who you are! drifted away.

These last couple of years I’ve felt a bit of a change in the way people consume my blog. It’s become much more of a drive-by consummation. Very rarely do I get a comment or a chance to have a discussion these days (and I always like me a good comment discussion!) But I think that’s reflective of the way that everyone consumes material on the internet these days – yours truly included.

We come, we read (or skim!), we fuck off.

I’ve got quite a few favourite blogs I’ve written over the years and below is a bit of a list of the golden oldies for your revisiting pleasure. I’m not really sure why I picked out these particular blogs, but I suppose they represent different parts of our dynamic at different times over the years (most recent on top, oldest at the bottom)

When the keeper becomes the kept

The Phantom Master 


Boots are his kryptonite

Public vs Private

Tuckus lingus and all things butt

Make believe 

Pulp fiction

Sharing the load

Cracking up

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s UBO

More machine than human


So hard it hurts

Hussy hooker slut

So thanks for reading and commenting and generally hanging around to partake of my ramblings. I hope to get to a million views sometime in the next decade 🙂

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The Cage

I spent last Sunday reassembling my cage and cleaning the months of dust from the bars.



It used to be quite explainable when we had Jacque the standard poodle pup, but now it’s a little bit weird to see this big-ass cage sitting plainly in sight…but no dog in the house.

For quite some time the cage was actually functioning as a toy rack in M’s bedroom. We folded up the cage and used it to hang our assortment of whips, chains, canes, restraints and other devious devices from it. While I was removing the toys from it I was reminded that we have a *crap* tonne of toys. Who buys all this stuff? Oh, me, that’s right. I used to buy things that I hate and then hated every time they were used on me. I don’t even know how to explain that.

Anyway, I’m apparently going to be spending some quality time in the cage from now on. With a chain on my collar while I’m inside the cage, just so I’m secure….because apparently a metal box is not secure enough.



There were also noises being made about being hooded and booted and put into the cage while the latest episode of Arrow was on, so I could only listen to it and not watch it.

That’s called cruel and unusual punishment.

Personally, I’d like to be padlocked into the cage. I always find that having no choice about bondage makes it easier to ‘let go’. If you’re uncomfortable and your foot is going to sleep or you just want to scratch some itch in the middle of your back, it’s great to not be able to.

But with padlocks come problems and M is always worried about the ‘what if’…what if I have some problem and need to get out quickly…what if something happens to him and I need to get out. The ‘reality’ of needing to be safe, just in case, always throws a spanner in my prison fetish.

So I was thinking cable ties… and a pair of scissors. Easy to get out of if I really need to and easy to see if I got out but didn’t really need to.

It still kind of spoils the fantasy though.

Yeah, I need caps

It’s hot and I’ve been finishing up a juicy chapter in the story (chapter 5 to be exact!) and it’s making me all squelchy – oh, wait…that’s just my under-boob sweat because it’s hot and our FUCKING AIRCON IS BROKEN.

We discovered this fact last Sunday when it was 37 degrees (is that like 98 or something for you heathen non-metric folk?). Today it was 36.1, but Saturdays are scone-making days so I had the oven on for baking and that made the house a FUCKING BAZILLION degrees.

Oh and by the way, I’m very testy because I’m ovulating.

So it’s going to cost about $3,500 to replace the aircon because the old one is fried. I also waited almost an hour in the heat and flies for a bus on Friday night after an uber gym session that FUCKED ME UP and I came home to make some iced tea and poured water in the glass pitcher and it split IN HALF!! dumping hot water all over the electrical stuff on the kitchen bench and almost over me.

Oh and did I mention that I found out this week that my boss is returning to work after her maternity leave? OMG. WORST. FUCKING. NEWS. EVER. This is the boss who got me in a place so dark and so completely fucked up that I contemplated some serious shit.

So, yeah, I need CAPS.


Hot & Spicy KFC…mmm…because the temperature has gone down to 34 and need some more hot in my life.

And chicken.

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It’s okay to make me angry

I’ve had this sentence going through my brain all week: It’s okay to make me angry.

And it’s weird because it sounds like the title of a bad after-school special or the name of a book that should be in the Inspirational aisle at your local bookstore (and do people even still go to bookstores anyway?)

I think it’s something I said to M when we had our ‘little chat’ the other night but I’m not sure it had the effect that I hoped it would have. I was trying to point out to him that regardless of how stressed I may seem from my job and general life, there is always room in my life for an appropriate amount of stress caused by him.

And by stress I mean when he’s harsh and cruel and treats me with a callous disregard.

Because if he does that type of thing when I’m feeling like I want to scratch my eyeballs out, it somehow makes things right with the world. It’s a different type of stress and although I may whine, moan and make noises about how he’s not treating me fairly or how can he be doing this when I’m tired/stressed/pissed off, there’s some part of me, somewhere that appreciates the attention that he deigns to give me. That particular type of stress somehow makes the other type of stress less important and actually helps me work through it.

I find that unless my beating window is wide open, pain makes me angry. It makes me resentful and pissy towards him simply because it hurts. Quite often the thought that goes through my head (other than FUUUUUUK! of course) is ‘He’s soooo not doing that right!’ because when I give myself pain, I know exactly how to do it so that it’s ‘nice’ and I can stop it very quickly when it suddenly stops being nice. But when he does it, it’s just a means to an ends, a way of showing me that I’m under his control. There’s no warm up or gentle cool down, it’s just wham, bam, thank you ma’am and the only thing to remind me of our interaction is some niggling pain somewhere after it’s all done.

The other thing that makes me angry is not being able to do what I want, when I want, how I want. But then again, if I’m always allowed to do what I want, when I want, how I want, then…well…that makes me angry too.

And it also makes me angry that I get angry about having to submit and it makes me angry when I don’t have anything to submit to.

In short, it seems like I have anger issues.

It’s weird, you know, because we go about our lives trying not to make people angry or hurt them. But sometimes, just sometimes, that’s exactly what that person may need.


The itch

So M and I had a very interesting chat in bed this morning during which I pointed out that he had been almost as bad a slave as I am. That’s a conversation that is very weird to have while you’re wearing the collar and the boots and have your arm twisted up behind your back and he has his finger through the ‘o’ ring and is about an inch away from your face.

What was even weirder was that then he pointed out that I should know what it’s like to have a disobedient slave and how frustrating it is when you’ve got rules and they don’t follow them.

In summary, think about the other side of what you’re going to say before you say it, especially if you’ve been on both sides of the fence with your SO.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a bit more about this service thing and what slaves are supposed to get out of dynamic. It seems easy enough to say that slaves are supposed to get joy out of service and that is sufficient ‘reward’ for what they do. But is it? That seems a bit cushy for the domly one, don’t you think? Here, as your slave I’ll do everything for you including drinking your piss and wiping your ass and I can just be happy doing that, tyvm.

It might just be me, but it just doesn’t seem to add up.

So what are domly ones supposed to do in return? Or is it really only supposed to be a one-way relationship. Is the domly one supposed to see to the needs of the slave? Are they supposed to give them play or pain or whatever it is that they need as a given because it’s a relationship and there has to be give and take on both sides or everyone starts getting very jaded?

I keep wanting to respond to that question with, ‘But you’re a slave! You get what he wants to give you and you have to be happy with that!’

And that’s why I keep going around and around in circles with this thing.

I have an itch that needs to be scratched at the moment. I don’t really know exactly what is under the itch. It’s different to my beating window and not my usual feeling. I just know I need something ‘more’.

It’s driving me insane.


I think I’m missing the service gene

(Just a caveat on this post: it’s me thinking aloud and getting some stuff off my chest and not trying to air our dirty washing for people to be critical at M, so just bear that in mind as you read, okay?)

I spent the last week very quietly. M was giving me the ‘bad slave’ treatment or as I like to refer to it, having the bare minimal of interactions and not talking to me. It was a stressful week and every time I asked him what was wrong I was met with a ‘Nothing’ or a ‘Fuck off’.

The worst of it started when I got home from work late one night and he was cooking dinner. He asked me if I wanted a plate or a bowl and I answered that I wanted my food in a bowl so he told me to bring one over. I didn’t realise that he didn’t have a bowl and wanted one as well so I only brought over one for my self. When he saw I’d only brought one he exploded in some weird rage that involved telling me to get fucked and he threw down the dinner stuff and stormed into the lounge room and sat down in front of the tv. At first I thought he was joking and I asked him if he wanted me to serve up to which he told me to get fucked so I put food for both of us in two bowls and took them out to the lounge room. I placed his on the coffee table and started eating mine. He never touched his food and I eventually took it back to the kitchen and put it in the fridge.

And thus my week of silence began.

I’m very good at giving people the cold shoulder or in extreme cases, the silent treatment so I know all about how it works. It usually means that they’ve done something to fuck you off and you’re so angry that you just switch off. In this case, I wasn’t really sure what line I had crossed and he wouldn’t tell me no matter how many times I asked what was wrong.

I had some late nights with customers and gym during the week so I spent a fair amount of time out of the house and when I was home, I stayed in my room. He obviously didn’t want me around and was plainly ignoring me. He still cooked dinner, did his normal things around the house and picked me up from gym on Thursday night (all of which I am very grateful for) but there was just zilch communication.

This morning I woke up at some ridiculous time for a Saturday morning – 6:45am to be exact – so I decided to go to gym. I could hear him snoring in his room so I decided to take the bus and not wake him. After class I went to my office in town and picked up some things I’d accidentally left on my desk on Friday then I headed home. I walked back in the door at about 11am.

I asked him if he’d known I’d gone anywhere and he said no. Then he told me that I was never to leave the house again without leaving a note or telling him where I was going. I can understand why I got into trouble for that but honestly, I just didn’t want to wake him when things were kind of ‘iffy’ between us already.

I told him a bit more of my adventures that morning and we started talking a bit for the first time in days. He told me again that I’d been a bad slave for (a) not wearing boots or asking for dispensation and (b) eating things I hadn’t asked permission for. And yes, I’ll readily admit to doing both of those things, but that is really nothing new and I didn’t expect to get a week of silence out of it.

Then we got onto the interesting topic of my binge eating.

So, since my trip to Japan I’ve been struggling to get my eating back under control. While I’ve kept up with my 4:3 fasting and gym, my non-fasting days have been filled with a lot more food than I used to eat. I wouldn’t call what I’ve eaten on some of those days a full-on binge (and as I explained to M, he’s never seen me on a real binge because I tend to do that in private), the amount I’ve eaten has probably looked a bit alarming to him.

I’ve been feeling stressed recently – it’s peak busy season for my business and I get particularly stressed when I have customer visits and I have to entertain them and make conversation for hours and hours. I don’t really do the being social thing with any ease and I dread upcoming social occasions with the same dread I feel when I have a dentist appointment (actually the dentist is okay because I know I’d have all sorts of shit in my mouth and won’t be required to make small talk.)

When I get stressed, I need things to help me take the stress away or more accurately, I get ‘hollow’ when I feel stressed in that I almost feel like I start to lose myself. I resolve this need to feel ‘full’ again by eating or doing things that make me feel strong or special or fulfil some sort of need in me. So food has always been an easy source of hollow-filling comfort. Gym is good for feeling strong, but these stressful times are also when some play would be a welcome diversion.

So at a time when I’m feeling pretty low, getting the silent treatment just makes the hollow bigger and therefore I feel like I need more food to fill it because I’m already going to gym 6 nights a week and there isn’t any play on the horizon that I can see.

What else am I supposed to do to get myself back?

So then we have the ‘talk’ about how my binge eating is not healthy and has to stop and I’m like WTF??

And just on the topic of being a bad slave, is it so bad to want to be corrected or shouted at or punished because you didn’t do the right thing? I understand that in an ideal world all slaves want to do exactly what their owners want and will do it without being reminded but is it so bad to want to be made accountable? If I don’t do what I’ve been told to do, is saying nothing about it and then giving me the silent treatment the way to improve my behaviour? Am I supposed to magically realise what I’ve done?

I’ll admit that I did know I’d been lax on the boots and food. I have very few rules and the boots and the food thing along with me wearing my collar at home, are about the only things he requires. But I didn’t realise that the silent treatment equated to failing those two things.

I really do get the idea that slaves should want to serve, should want to carry out the role they have chosen for themselves and shouldn’t need to be tied in position – they should just do it, it’s what they want right? They shouldn’t need to positive reinforcement every time they do right or negative reinforcement every time they do wrong, should they? After all, they’re a slave, they want to serve, aren’t they doing what they want?

But sometimes, you just need the heat of your owner beating down on you. You need to be corrected, feel his displeasure and know that what you are doing matters. If there’s no ‘good girl’ for doing well and no ‘bad slave’ for doing wrong, it all starts to lose meaning.

Maybe that’s being high maintenance…or is it?

I don’t get recognition when I do the right thing and apparently now I don’t get told when I do the wrong thing either. He said he has told me numerous times about the food and the boots and I just don’t change so why should he bother. Well…yeah, I just don’t know what to say to that.

I’m pretty sure I had a point somewhere in all of this, but after spewing all this down on the page I really don’t know what I was trying to say. Maybe I’ll just end on a question:

What makes you want to ‘serve’?



So…I may have accidentally introduced my boss to tentacle porn

I think the title says it all, but I guess I’d better explain…

Late last week my boss and I were driving to do some work stuff and we basically spent the day alone in the car together. We talked about all manner of topics from thermomixes, to Better Call Saul and then eventually to some work-related stuff that specifically involved discussing our very special group of customers and some of their…ahem…interests.

I haven’t really talked much about doing business with Japanese folk, and obviously your experience will differ from industry to industry, but in my current industry, our customers are mostly male (let’s say 99%) and the average age is somewhere between 40 & 60. That encompasses a very particular, old-school breed of Japanese men who generally enjoy going to girlie bars, occasionally fondling blonde western girls who speak Japanese (!!!) and possibly tentacle porn in all its varied forms.

My boss has been travelling to Japan for the last 12 years or so, but I guess the Japan he sees and the Japan I see are a bit different. He does recall fondly the time he was taken to a sex shop in downtown Tokyo by a customer and he saw all manner of devices that made him ask the question, ‘But where is the rest of the woman?’ and that does make me laugh until I nearly want to pee whenever I think about that, but the kind of stuff he saw barely makes me bat an eyelid because I know about all the other weird and wonderful stuff that proves rule 34 (and possibly rule 35).

We had a customer once come into a petrol station (because we don’t have gas stations and we don’t have convenience stores) with us while we were buying water and snacks for a trip and while we were piling drinks and chocolate bars into the basket, he casually put in a copy of Playboy. That’s weird from an Australian perspective, but not so weird from a Japanese perspective. We also take our customers out to dinner when they visit us and I always feel their sense of disappointment when we drop them back to their hotels afterwards, because I know they are actually expecting to go to a strip club or some other den of pleasure because that is how business works in their world.

So anyway, back to the tentacle porn. We have a customer who apparently delights in porn in all its forms and ‘can’t get enough of the stuff’ and when I commented to my boss that he seemed like a guy who was also into tentacle porn, he asked me, “What the hell is that?”

That was probably when I should have told him to google it and ended the conversation, but being the helpful former teacher that I am, I decided to fill him in on the basics. If he didn’t think Japan was weird before, he thinks it is weird now. He may also think that I know a little bit too much about tentacle porn for my own good.

I’m not entirely sure if tentacle porn started in Japan and neither is Wikipedia. There are some old woodblock prints showing octopi and people doing some weird stuff and there’s also the theory about it being the brainchild of a manga artist who wanted to circumvent the then pornography laws in Japan that prevented people from being shown doing lewd acts ( If we can’t show a penis, let’s use some androgynous tentacles to impale this pre-pubescent looking girl!) but who really knows where it started and why.

All I know is that rule 36 is always true.


Highlights of my week

  • Downloading Maverick iOS and trying to figure out why my mouse was scrolling like an iPad (up pulls the page down, down pulls the page up) Do you know how much that kind of shit messes with your mind, Apple?
  • Finding a gecko in my toilet – while sitting on the toilet
  • Getting very dehydrated and covered in ick and flies – I just *love* my job sometimes
  • Waking up on Sunday morning to find M watching Benson. I’m waiting for the theme song for Diff’rent Strokes to come wafting through the house now
  • Finishing chapter 3 of the new story and deciding on a name for the new character. You really don’t want to know how long I spend angsting over names sometimes.

I had a craving to watch Secretary again on Saturday night so I did. I think watching James Spader in The Blacklist made me want to revisit his particular brand of condescending alpha male-ism in a slightly more d/s setting. I really am on the fence about Secretary; parts of it are inspired, but other parts are just weird and detract from the whole. I remember watching it with my sister once and she turned me and said, “I just didn’t get the carrot and the saddle thing and what’s with that grass bed?”

I don’t know why every d/s orientated thing has to have a weird flavour to it. Is it like when people who don’t really understand something try to recreate it and it becomes decidedly fishy? I’ve lost count of the number of movies/tv shows that were supposed to be set in Japan but end up being dodgy because they were filmed in the Chinese gardens in Sydney or somewhere. And speaking of The Wolverine, this pic from the website just made me smile because the banners from left to right say Karaoke, Charcoal BBQ & some back to front, upside, not-really-sure-what-it’s-supposed-to-be gibberish. Not cool Hugh, not cool.