And we thought the carpet had tales to tell....

Lately my Master has been replacing some of his older (sorry, I mean more experienced) furniture, and a few times now he's given me the task of assembling it. That might sound strange to some, but its a fairly regular occurrence for him to give me household tasks to perform, and completely appropriate. Putting things together, particularly when it involves the use of a screwdriver and a slight struggle that I can overcome, is something I find relaxing and satisfying.

But anyway, I digress. Today's task, after I'd "cum enough to be useful", as he put it, was to dismantle his bed and replace it with the new one, being careful to remove and keep aside all the bondage-related attachments of course. He warned me not to forget any, which I found amusing: as if I would forget any! They might be important to him, but they are the whole point to me. His sleeping space could be nothing but a series of bondage attachments and I'd be perfectly happy - the bed is just an extra to hold them up. Oh, and to keep him more comfortable. I hope I don't regret saying that if he makes me sleep somewhere else later....hmm...

Anyway... (shit, I'm going off on tangents from my tangents today...) it didn't immediately occur to me what a significant task dismantling his bed would actually be. As soon as I began, something became very quickly apparent: this bed had a history - well beyond what the average bed would go through in its lifetime. And I'm not referring to my own knowledge and speculations, either - you could see it. Anyone looking at the shape this bed was in would know, completely ignorant of its owner, that it had been through some rough times.

I found myself marvelling at how much this bed had seen, the stories it might tell. Impossible for me to say how old it was - like some people with so many lines on their face that you don't know their age, only that their experience exceeds it. I wondered to myself, how many times had this bed seen sexual use? Over five thousand? Over ten thousand? And if the original manufacturer saw it now, would they be horrified or impressed?

I realised as I worked that this wasn't just a collection of wood and metal - a whole anthology of Master's life and love was contained within it. A great deal of his creativity and exertion had gone into the works that had formed this bed as it sat today - and I only know a tiny fragment of its story. Yet somehow here I was, responsible for its demise. I felt in awe of it all, and as I walked each piece (minus attachments) out of Master's bedroom, I felt sorrow for a past left behind and disposed of, and thought, that bed is a relic that deserves a place in some kind of museum of debauchery.

Funny the things that occupy my mind while I work hard at something.

The pleasure at finishing the assembly of the new bed was doubled - not just the satisfaction of completing the task, but the significance of replacing its predecessor. It was a fresh slate, and I put it there. How will that bed look in ten or fifteen years time? Whatever happens, I was there at the start of its story. Can't wait to see how it unfolds.

Not mine

I was being held down and used the other day, and a thought came to me that has come in many other forms before, but this time was like it was new. My body is truly not my own anymore. I have, of course, been technically aware of this for a long time, but it hadn't registered in my mind in quite this way before. I know that my body belongs to my Master, he can do with it what he likes (not just my body, but thats what I thought of on this day.) But it had never before hit home in quite the same way that my body is not mine.

I really can't say no. Even if I am being rewarded for good behaviour, I will be used as he wants me to be used. If my Master consents, there is not even the possibility of rape - I have given up the right to deny them.

I want to say it again and again, weigh up how it feels: my body is not mine.

Lots in a name

A while back I was in a study group talking about our characteristics and experiences that make us who we are. At the conclusion, each of the participants was asked to name one thing that they feel defines them in some way, a label or a connection that they feel strongly is "who I am". When it came to my turn, I had to pass. Not because I didn't have an answer, but because the answer would have made the others in the room quite uncomfortable. I don't feel a connection to much - my gender, my age, my family, my career, my home, none of these feel like an important part of me. The only thing that came to mind as a real answer was that I am nadi, my Master's slave-slut.

Master said to me today that he finds it difficult not to call me nadi in the company of people who don't know me by that name. I can certainly relate - I feel so comfortable as nadi that sometimes I almost don't recognise my so-called "real name". When I am asked my name, I often pause for a split second before answering. But when I can say my name is nadi, it rolls off my tongue without hesitation.

It seems quite strange that a name I've only used sparingly until fairly recently has come to mean so much to me compared to the name I was given at birth. Or maybe it makes perfect sense - it is, after all, a name I've chosen, and one that has become attached to some of the most transformational experiences of my life, which I have also chosen, and without which I would not be the same person. If I wasn't nadi, I truly wouldn't be me.

Questions I couldn't ask

How does it feel to own another human being? When I say that I love you, that I am yours, body, mind and soul, does it give you joy? Is having a whole person at your disposal, to do with what you will, anything like the warm bliss I feel at being that person?

Do you think of me, Sir, as tenderly as I think about you? When you ask "how much do you love me?" and I struggle to express it, do you trust that I do love you? Do you understand the fear I feel? Do you know just how much you own me, and how easily you could break me?

When we met, did you decide that this new slut would become your property, or like me, did it take you by surprise? Did you want to rescue me from my self-destructiveness, or was that a side effect? Did you see straight through me the way you seemed to, or was it just confidence and luck? When you stripped away my dignity and exposed my dirtiest self, then praised that, did you know it would make me need you? Did you know it would make me love you? Was it kindness? Was it just a way to bring out what you wanted? Or did you deliberately use my vulnerability, even as I could see what was happening to me, but was powerless to resist it?

When you pointed out the origin of my son's name, did you really know it, or were you just observant and attentive to items in my house? And how did you know my surname?

Some questions that I could never ask, and some that I would never get an answer to if I did. But I surrender to that, as I must - humans all have curiosity, but when we push for it to be satisfied, it is only for a sense of control and power. So I leave these mysteries alone, except in my imagination. None of the answers would make a difference, anyway: because I love you unconditionally, Sir.

"The aim of life is to live!" (Henry Miller)

I just heard a fantastic song on Triple J - a cover sung by Old Man River, originally by Dan Bern.

Marilyn Monroe should have married Henry Miller

And if she did she might be alive

Cause if she did

He'd have taken her to Paris

Tied her to the bed

And eaten dinner off of her

I love it! Such simple truth.

I was shocked the other day to hear Vanilla Betty say she couldn't understand why anyone would want to try new things when they'd found something that was "good enough". Who the fuck wants good enough?! Give me amazing, and delicious, and exquisite, and thrilling... even give me awful, and dangerous, and terrifying - but never give me good enough! Where's the passion in that? Where's the life?

Marilyn Monroe didn't marry Henry Miller

I don't even know if she knew Henry Miller

But if she did he'd have taken her to Paris

And if she did they'd have fucked every day

And if she did she'd have felt like a woman

Not a photogragh in a magazine

Ah, the wonders of nature!

Summer is moving along quickly and I've found myself thinking about the great outdoors. No, not picnics and frisbees, surely you know better than that? lol Theres a unique kind of freedom in sexual acts where anyone could see you - complete exposure. Ever had a dream where you were nude or semi-nude in public, and didn't mind it? Complete freedom, completely open, completely yourself. Being naked in private in front of one or a small group of people is being vulnerable, which has its own appeal. Being nude in front of the world and not caring, though - that is being invulnerable.

I've moved to a house with a pool recently and I am taking great pleasure in swimming nude in the daylight hours, when the neighbours might see. That, combined with an unexpected outdoor experience with Sir the other day is probably what's inspiring me. I want to go on a drive with Master and flash while he photographs me. I want to take a trip to a remote location for an outdoor gangbang. I want to be tied to a tree and semi-adbandoned, then be used and not know who is using me. I want to be staked out in the grass and tortured. I want to be stripped on the beach and pissed on. I want to be given to strangers to use in a park. I want to fuck at night in the middle of a huge oval. I want to fuck on the freeway overpass. And I want photos! lol

A lesson

It is a rare experience for me to be punished by my Master. But last night was such an occasion, and rightly so - I had been very thoughtless. It was a brief lapse of obedience, but a significant one, and I am disappointed in myself.

He made sure I understood what I had done, in a most creative fashion, saying he wanted to be sure I would remember the lesson, in a way that a traditional flogging could not ensure. Probably wise, among other reasons because I have asked for some pain recently, so that would have been too much like a reward. As it was, I can't deny that I did get some pleasure from being punished, as he was well aware. Don't misunderstand: it was unpleasant, and I felt dirty and ashamed at having disappointed him. But I also knew it was deserved, and for that I wanted it. And a part of me felt aroused and satisfied at being reminded of my place. There is a definite comfort that I take from being disciplined: the fact that he bothers to correct me, putting thought into making sure I learn, assures me that I am valued by him. I feel secure to know that he considers me worthy of being taught to avoid future mistakes.

I certainly didn't screw up intentionally, and I would be disgusted with myself if I ever did. His disappointment is not worth it, and I know that if I ever feel the need for a reminder, or a physical act of discipline, I need not misbehave, only ask. If I deserve a reward, I will receive it.

A cumslut awakes

Written 31 December, and blogged today due to being offline for a while.

I never used to really care about cum at all. True, there was a certain satisfaction in having a warm puddle of it sprayed onto my body from time to time, but the lust and joy in it was very much played up for the benefit of the guy involved. I would say all the "Mmmm"s and lick my lips, and moan at the idea of someone cumming on or in me, but my mind was usually elsewhere at that point, and all this acting was designed only to hasten the process and help the guy get off selfishly.

It amuses me now to notice how much a little semen can mean to me. I first noticed my attitude to it had changed during a threesome when Master chose to cum inside the other woman we were with. I felt unexpected, childish envy and a stubborn voice inside my head said "But I wanted it!" Fortunately, I was immediately told to "clean up", and so I was allowed Master’s cum after all, once I lapped up the drips and slurped it out of her.

That was the first time I realised how much of a privilege I regarded it to receive his body fluids. It actually makes me laugh to think it, but strangely, the same sticky mess that I’ve always pretended to admire from other men (while secretly thinking they glorify it much more themselves), really does provoke strong feelings in me when it is his. Master is the only man who can cum inside me, and each time he does, I feel a genuine thrill of pride and gratitude. After a night with him, I want to defer my shower, reluctant to wash away the last traces of it from between my lips. When he occasionally fucks me choosing not to cum, my joy and appreciation is tainted by slight disappointment, having been deprived of his satisfaction, and the proof of it dribbling out of me.

Traditionally, Taoists believed that a man’s semen contained his life force, and that when he came inside a woman, she could absorb that energy, sucking it from him. Is that why I crave my Master’s cum? Does some primitive part of me long to soak up small portions of his power? When I hear him gasp and know he is filling me with cum, if I focus on that thought, I do have a strange fantasy sense that I’m receiving something with magical properties. But my joy is not the perverse pleasure of having taken something from him, rather a feeling that it is an honour for him to have left a part of himself in my body. I thank him, meaning I am grateful for my own pleasure, but even more so for being part of his.

History: How to make a sub-slut in under 30 years

Written 26 December, blogged today due to being offline for a while.

I’ve been a subbie slut my whole life. In early childhood I remember fantasising about abduction, torture, bondage, and rape – before I had any concept of what rape even was. I used to take pieces of elastic and tie my naked barbie dolls in elaborate positions, often suspended outside from small trees – dreaming of such things happening to me.

I was an eager slut, too – I learned all I could about sex long before the opportunity to try it. My initiation was delayed while I was temporarily convinced I was a lesbian, but when I finally first fucked a boy, I became an instant behind-the-scenes slut, somehow managing to remain a "good girl" in reputation.

One day, a group of five male friends offered me a heartfelt collective apology for "taking advantage of me" the night before. I was disappointed in them, but not for the reason they assumed. My only regret was that we had all been too intoxicated to take it very far – I wanted to be gang banged. I had just turned sixteeen.

My first "real" (actually emotional, not just sexual) relationship was a hurtful, twisted affair. I immersed myself in my boyfriend, did whatever he wanted me to, tried to change to please him, and let him treat me coldly in return. Looking back, I now recognise I was trying to be his sub – with no conscious understanding of what I wanted or why. Eventually, Betty stepped in and opened his eyes, prompting the breakup. Significant that she is now so alarmed to find out I am truly owned – perhaps she still feels the need to protect me?

My next relationship was more or less an equal one, but I distinctly remember a conversation where we noted that I had an inexplicable tendency to speak to him with a different tone in my voice than to others. "Yeah," he said, "you talk to me kind of…" he searched for a word, "… submissively." A more significant observation than either of us realised.

It was after several years frustrated in a monogamous (apart from re-discovering my "lesbian" side), vanilla relationship, with an almost asexual man, that I had to concede: I am simply not built that way. I’m a slut to the core. I need to submit to someone. More than that, I’m beginning to believe I will always need to give myself to someone. I can be nothing but myself. Betty asked me recently, "Does he really make you happy?" I said, "Happier, and more content than I knew I could be."

A guest house

Written 24 December, blogged today due to being offline for a while.

When I saw him today I felt swept away. I know that’s when somebody has really gotten into me: I’m suddenly caught up in their every physical detail, admiring with new eyes their now perfect form, regardless of how they may have looked the day before. All at once, he is radiant to me. I want to run my hands over him, caress him, smell him, taste him. If we were vanilla I would do all of that, hungrily, giving him no choice, but ironically if we were vanilla I wouldn’t have this kind of desire. So I content myself to simply gaze at him, indulge in some gentle, permissible touches, and ride that internal wave of feeling.

In most arenas of my life I have been fearless – I embrace change, I forgo caution, I dismiss security and risk anything for something beautiful and inspiring. But not so when it comes to emotional risk. Then, as much of this blog has pointed out, I prefer to hide away in a cool place so I don’t have to miss the heat when it passes. I was terrified when he first suggested I did, or would, love him. But, to my own twisted fascination, it seems my surrender has proven greater than my fear.

And the fear is withdrawing steadily. A small part of me is alarmed to notice this – as if somehow, staying afraid of something could offer protection from it. A bigger part of me is just bemused at the whole situation. Will I ever, in my life, freely offer love to anyone, or will it always be necessary to wrench it out of myself by force? A question I may be able to answer in another twenty years.

To begin with, I couldn’t say I loved him without battling with myself to form the words, and then breaking down into sobs of grief, feeling as though my body would implode. A few times he had to "assist" it out of me. I still hesitate, but now I have been able to offer it once or twice spontaneously – even in writing, shock horror, lol.

So, I’m not quite fearless about this yet – but the fear is offset by a kind of acceptance. I still believe I’ll one day be dismissed, and heartbroken. But it’s true what my favourite musician once wrote; that’s when you know you’re really living.

The wisdom of dreams

Written 22 Decemeber, and blogged today due to being offline for a while.

I had a dream about a wedding – completely unplanned and not the couple’s decision. They had no time for preparations, and nothing appropriate to wear. In an effort to help, friends offered clothing and the couple put them on, but only felt awkward and phoney. Finally they removed the items they had been given, and stayed in their own casual, worn out clothes – not caring about silly ceremonies, the important thing was they were comfortable.

I need to remember what I’ve said to Sista, and others, more than once: a relationship should be defined only by the people in it. What I give to Master, and what he does with me, is for nobody else to judge. I can’t make it conform to other people’s ideas, or even fake it so it will appear that way. It is exactly as it should be - for us, not for friends or family or "scene people" who think they know whats right and wrong for everyone else, and not for silly housemates who are scared by it all.