The cycling craze

Although our local council often exhibits a spectacular and occasionally documented lack of foresight, once in a while they get it right. Admittedly their vision takes on an "Alice Through the Looking Glass" quality, but nothing is perfect. See when they marked out the roads they put in large bike lanes. It was a logical move in an area rich in leisure activities.

Now this is where the mirror wobbles just a little bit...

Firstly the few cyclists we have use the waterfront with its wonderful wide paths, which left the roads for motorists. You see the locals peddling along, often with groceries, small pets or fishing gear stuffed in their baskets... all very low key. All of this is done at a leisurely pace, which considering the climate is a sensible thing. Nevertheless it is a good way to get around for the more active citizens... fresh air, sea views, the gentle ting of bike bells so the walkers can move aside, nods and mornings all round... it's positively civilised.

Then this balance changed with the advent of serious cycling. The ones who ride bikes that probably cost as much as a car to maintain. They swarm and teem around like a cloud of brightly coloured insects. Bikes of every hue and colour, ridden by the super fit in lurid shades of lycra. Unfortunately rather like the insects they resemble, they are rapidly becoming a pest.

Not content to ride the bike lanes they spread across the road in a sea of defiance against the two abreast rule. On our winding roads there is no way to pass them. It results in them floating along with a convoy of cars behind them. Often the tail end cyclist will peer around nervously when he feels the warm breath of a car up his clacker, but there is no effort on their part to move over. Honestly is a miracle that more of them don't end up as a hood ornament L

Does not compute

Life round here is hectic, which is strange when you consider that we only work four days a week. In fact we were just talking about this with a sense of wonder... well more disbelief really. The trouble is that when you tack gym onto two of those days, by the time one gets home they are twelve hour days so far. Getting home at in the late evening leaves two hours to cook dinner and eat it (which is often the first time one has stopped moving since a half hour lunch break), get things ready for Him and shower before bed.

The other two working days begin and end with Him... literally. Any spare time is spent running around doing domestic stuff (that last jar of domestic fairies we got are just useless) and a bit of blogging. Honestly one looks at some of the slaves that seem to spend hours on a computer with envy. All one can manage on the group at the moment is the odd quick quip and one liners.

Even our days off are spent... well that is usually quite well documented, apart from stuffing house work and more gym in there. Life just feels like we are speeding down a hill and picking up momentum. And worst of all they seem to have forgotten to install brakes in this particular cart. There isn't even an abort mission button L

While one would just love to say this is a symptom of the modern life, in truth one can point to the real culprit with accuracy. It is the seven odd hours a week spent in the gym that is the time sucker. That the thing essential to health and mental well being is the biggest cause of stress in one's life is not without irony. In fact it deserves a cartoon in its own right... and there probably is one out there... not that one actually has time to look for it.

So what is the point to this ramble you may be wondering? Well this is by way and explanation and apology to the friends who are neglected out there. Please don't think someone else has taken your place... you are all neglected equally. Though you may be pleased to know that one can now curl a 10kg dumbbell with ease. Yeah one would rather be chatting to you too L

A BDSM Fairytale

A cautionary tale for all...

Once upon a time there was a girl who longed to be owned by a twoo master. In her search for Mr. Right she encountered a lot of Mr. Wrongs, but she persisted. She just knew that so long as she kept chanting her mantra of SSC, and kept practising her safewords and other spells of protection, he would come along and save her from the unworthy types, who had to be kept in check with assorted limits. Not that she didn't have a few limits she planned on keeping of course... a girl doesn't want to end up as some sort of a doormat.

Meanwhile to keep a hand in, and to put herself out there, she joined online groups. It started as a bit of fun, but as time passed she realised that some people needed help. They were obviously doing it wrong. In a blinding flash of realisation she understood that her mission was to bring the truth to her subbie sisters and protect them from the unworthy types that abounded online.

Now some of her sisters were just new and needed protection in the form of assorted mantras, but the really worrying ones were those who went out without their spells of protection. Not only were they obviously deluded, but they were dangerous to the others. Unfortunately no matter how she tried to show them the error of their ways, they remained resolute in their positions. Which was just madness of course... it was the only explanation.

In the beginning she tried being reasonable, but they wouldn't come round. They kept citing their long term relationships as proof their way worked just fine for them. In sheer frustration she resorted to the only tactic she had in the face of their stubbornness... she resorted to shock tactics. No kitteh or limb was left intact as she tried to convince others that at the end of their path lay madness. It was brutal, but somebody had to do it.

People changed, they broke their promises, they let you down... you couldn't just go round trusting someone like that. She knew this because it had happened to her. Why just last week her most recent online master had done just that when she found out that he was neither faithful nor sane. She had made it perfectly clear what her expectations had been and everything. Really what man in his right mind would actually think that being in charge was meant to be literal?

Disgruntled by this recent turn of events she returned to her online boards with renewed vigour and purpose. Somebody had to make a stand and show people the error of their ways. So occasionally people tossed around terms like troll... they only did it because she didn't agree with them. Besides it was a small price to pay for setting people on the twoo path, and she had the courage of her convictions.

The knowledge kept her warm at night, as she bemoaned to her likeminded friends how there were so few twoo masters out there. Obviously there was something wrong with them or they would have found her by now. It wasn't like she was hiding or anything. Sighing with discontent she peered at the computer screen...

And so gentle readers we take leave of our heroine, wrapped up in her bubble of fear and loathing. We can find her or someone just like her on any board. Just look for the kittehs being amputated. The twoo masters of it can get to that position about four posts into a conversation. 

Crash and burn

In other places the lovely kaya is bemoaning the fact that her arse is sore due to riding a bike rather than anything kinky. Now as one pointed out to her on Fet, if she had just been wearing her Njoy that little issue could have been solved quite neatly. Honestly though one is here to say that a sore arse is overrated L

As of this week the lift one enjoyed to work has ended, which means one has to leave the rabbit hole half an hour earlier on a Thursday. A change that will mean having to rework our Thursdays so that we can still enjoy the important things... like breakfast and sex together.  So today was a sort of trial run... one that ended with Him giving one a lift to work... OK the trial still needs some work J

Of course as with so many things the trial didn't go quite according to plan. First He came home late due to traffic. Then He took one to bed for some anal... quite a bit of it. Then we had breakfast. Followed by a lot more anal... which is where things went a little wrong one suspects in hindsight.

In fact as one came in a screaming orgasm one did mention that it was going to hurt. You know how you can have a moment of psychic prediction... that was one of them. By the time one arrived at work a sense of ennui had settled in. The clock crawled slowly, people were a nuisance, the light was too bright and the will to live was slowly slipping away. Even a little medicinal chocolate could not relieve the symptoms of the crash.

Later when one was released from purgatory, the feelings persisted. Except that one noticed just how sore the arse was from its morning workout. Sitting in the chair reading kaya's post the Njoy poked and rubbed against the swollen flesh, and it was on the tip of one's tongue to mention that having a sore arse from something other than a bike wasn't that great. At least her way had burnt a few calories... unlike the chocolate aftercare. 

Asylum gags

We have a love hate relationship with gags in this house; He loves them while one feels way less enthusiastic. Not without reason might one add... one of us has a small mouth... shut up! Most gags you can't get in there... with the exception of a few dental types. Subsequently He is always on the hunt for a new one... preferably something simple and quick... one that actually shuts one small slave up... 'cos one can chatter through most of them. Not a word about a rag and gaffer tape from the peanut gallery.

The other day He purchased a couple of Asylum gags... more because they were visual than any real hope one suspects. The first one, a hook claw mouth spreader, was put in first. He diligently did up the straps, one flexed the mouth... and it fell out. Rinse repeat. No amount of positioning helped.

The second one, a patient mouth restraint with metal bit, was a different story. For starters it actually fit in the space and due to its shape one was reduced to garbled noises. The only bright thing about this is that the hole is going to be too small to fit His penis into. Sighs not that it will be enough to save one small slave L

DIY BDSM style

Rolling over the sheer weight, and subsequently pain, of swollen breasts gave one a rude awakening. They are playing let's pretend we still have periods and have inflated to unreasonable levels. Actually they haven't been this bad since before the operation... sleeping in a sports top at night bad. The eyes peeped out from under lashes to find Him looking at one in the same way a cat eyes off a midmorning snack. Are you plugged He enquired by way of good morning. Yes one mumbled as a monosyllabic reply... well it was an approximation of that word... OK it probably sounded more like a groan.

Oh that's fine, you can just climb on then, He replied cheerfully. All thoughts of stumbling out for morning mouse were lost. Though one did make a valiant play for using the bathroom; which was why one hadn't gone back to sleep in the first place. In fact one had been dreaming of using a pet mat and the pee had just spread across the floor in an alarming manner. Strange what our dreams try to tell us sometimes.

All pleas of needing to pee... desperately... were ignored as He pulled one onto his hard on. If anything they seemed to amuse Him. The bastard took his sweet time coming too... gently rocking so the butt plug slipped in and out all the while holding one in place, secure in the knowledge that needing to pee will outweigh any desire to cum.  Actually He took way longer than was needed out of spite. Yes it must have been spite 'cos He is not a sadist... not according to him at any rate.

We spent the rest of the day running around like mad things before ending up at a member of a chain of hardware stores, looking for something to hang His implements of pain on. A DIY project for one small slave, though one isn't sure being made to do things that are ultimately going to contribute to your own demise isn't dirty pool. In fact one is pretty sure there should be some sort of red bunting for that sort of an occasion.

Despite all the potential horror one loves hardware stores... and power tools... and the smell of timber... and the endless possibilities. And they are quite endless for BDSM applications too. Rolls and rolls of gaffer tape, ropes, pull tie downs, saw horses, work benches, clamps, screws, padlocks, chain, traffic cones, aviaries, tool sheds... the mind just swirls around with ideas. Seriously if you haven't been to your local hardware store lately, one does recommend a day there J

This ain't Texas

It was that time of the year. The time when you realise that the growing piles of sex toys need to be addressed, tidied and sorted through. It was a job that had been systematically put off... for some time. Why the reluctance you may be wondering? Well the damn things breed in 50Ltr tubs under the bed... there are boxes that haven't been looked in for months, if not a couple of years.

So yesterday we began hauling them into the light of day and sorting them into things that can be used up someone's arse...

And on someone's arse...

And that group grew...

And grew...

It is amazing that in a house where there isn't a masochist and someone who claims not to be a sadist how many of that last category there were. Enough for us to have to go out tomorrow to find a suitable wall mount for. Oddly enough things that get used in the vagina... barely a box worth. It probably says something about our sex life...

Master says...

Interesting post the other morning. The one about hair? Yes, that one He replied. The whole thing was just daft some of the responses were completely out of proportion to the act. It's hair for fucks sake!

Well just so we are quite clear you will not be shaving yours off. Seriously it is the only way to get this hair back... it's that or grow it out and that is going to look vile. I don't care. If it is done that way you will be wearing wigs until it grows back. You're kidding, right? No I am not.

Sighs what is it about hair that brings out the twooly irrational in people L

Pavlovian rhythms

They say we are doomed to replicate our mistakes until we learn from them. It is not that we are particularly dense... OK some are... its more that humans love patterns and rhythms. Even our bodies love them and can be programmed in certain ways with very little conscious effort. Often we don't realise that we are so fixed until we change something else.

Take the body and gym; generally one hits the place about four times a week. In the past one went on the weekend for the heavy lifting component and He would pick one up on Sunday evening and we would start our weekend together. That got screwed by the timetable changes, and He started picking one up after work to save a nearly two hour trip home. It caused havoc with regularly attending gym on a Sunday.

Not only was it just hard to leave him, but He didn't help. He would whisper lewd sexual offers in one's ear... and frankly who would rather go and lift weights rather than having sex... and bribe one with offers of Zorba's excellent pizza... again who would rather go to the gym than loaf around munching pizza while watching a show. The man fights dirtier than the cat L

So to get round this one started to go to the gym on Friday after work... which is exactly what one feels like doing after what amounts to a 11 hour day by that stage... and on a Saturday. The trouble with this you may be wondering? The body is a day ahead of itself. The eyes open on a Saturday morning and the mind goes- yes, last shift. Leaving one to have to crush its dreams with the reality that there are two more shifts to crawl through. The body is not happy. Even now it is trying to convince itself that it is Sunday afternoon L

Long as God can grow it

There are a multitude of debates on Fet this week about hair. More specifically the removal of hair... at the request/ order of a master or owner. The responses are interesting. Most fall into the hell no category.

It is also interesting that many of the no camp identify as slaves or owned. Obviously their being owned only extends to their hair line. From that point onwards all bets are off... judging by the amount that say they will walk if pushed. Now let us not digress into their arguments about there is no one twoo way... and let us consider both the hair and the arguments against its removal.

Historically being shorn of one's locks was used by a lot of religious orders, and still is used by the armed forces. It is an act that symbolises letting go of old ways and beliefs. It signified new beginnings where you are no longer the person you were. More importantly it lets the recipient understand in no uncertain manner that they belonged to something other than their personal whims.

Now let us look at some of the arguments being used which honestly one doesn't get nor the vehemence being used;

"It's ugly!"

Oh sweetie honestly if you are that superficial, you are just going to love getting older... or sick.

"We aren't into that sort of stupid power trip".

Of course you aren't... no one gives an order if they don't think it will be followed or that they can't back up. If you keep waving the walk card, you both know who is in charge. And it ain't your owner... quelle surprise.

And the personal favourite... drum roll...

"It would damage me psychologically".

Blink. How do you get through life you poor trembling flower of submission? Oh right... you have obviously never been traumatised before. Otherwise you would have realised that the human psyche is a hell of a lot more flexible than you imagine. Well certainly resilient enough to survive a hair cut at any rate.

Mind you one does come at this from a different angle... yes, yes a meaner, snarkier one... Having had hair that was shorn, except for one Alfalfa style curl, and having hair that will grow half an inch in six weeks one knows that nothing lasts forever... least of all a haircut. Let us also not forget that having inherited the family silver since the age of 21, one is also acutely aware that when the time comes to dispose with colour... honestly the relationship with colour has lasted longer than this relationship... the easiest way to revert will be to get the whole bloody lot cut off. Preferably in summer...

Hint, hint for the future J

Aesthetically pleasing lines

As He bent one over the kitchen bench the mind idly noticed that the bench, although the perfect height for anal sex, has a sharp edge that hits you just on the hip bone. Mind you as He slid up to his balls it did take one's mind off the edge. Really the body can only concentrate on one pain at a time... obviously the arse managed to gazump the hip for once. Though for a few moments there they did vie for supremacy.

Let's try this the other way... hop up on the bench and lie back. It was then that the bench bit... hard... on the lower back. As one scrambled back onto the bench He reached out to grab the nipples and one was left see-sawing on the edge. Too far one way and the nipples got hurt... too far the other way and the back got hurt. Finally He came with a satisfied grunt and withdrew.

In the shower one cursed the aesthetic decision we made to have square edges on the bench top. They suited the room and were a hell of a lot cheaper. To be honest though, a rolled edge would have been a hell of lot kinder to one's body. Hindsight is 20/ 20 L

Later in bed as we squeezed in a couple of extra orgasms... one each... before work He says, I like fucking you in the arse when you are on your back. My hands are free and I can reach more. I have better access to your nipples. The poor little things just cringed at that pronouncement... they have been on the frontline of late.

That makes one of us with better access for the record. In that position it is hard to reach anything important... clitoris or orgasm. Unless one is going to be fucked on the kitchen bench on a regular basis in which case we need to consider remodelling. Suddenly the future became clear; anal in the missionary position. Fewer orgasms for one of us, and two inches away from vanilla sex... literally.  

Njoy Eleven

I'll let you come, He smiled reassuringly. When I've finished we can put one of those large toys in and you can masturbate for me. We can see how your begging is coming along. Knew He enjoyed that too much the other day. This is not going to end well for one small slave L

Honestly

There is nothing to see here folks. Keep moving down the page.

Even we have days like this where nothing much happens. Well not nothing, more nothing of interest. Unless some of you have a housework, laundry, grocery shopping or gym fetish. In which case one can chat until your eyes bleed. 

No? 

OK, well in that case move along down J

MEO anal stretching ring

Some weeks ago we purchased a butt plug from MEO. Firstly may one just say they are a pleasure to deal with; fast, efficient and the item was well packed. They have some great looking toys and we wouldn't hesitate to use them again.

The impliment;

• The butt plug is an anal stretching ring made from aluminium alloy. 
• It is designed to be used as a long term/ permanent plug. 
• This is the x-small one and is about 1" wide at the waist, but they are available as a set, and do go up to 2.5" for those that well... want more stretch or are practising to do anal fisting. 
• In this picture you can also see the silicon plug that we also purchased to block the hole.

The pros;

• The anal plug is incredibly smooth and slips in very easily, but the design doesn't allow it to pop in too far or to slip back out.
• It feels very secure when it is in. 
• The surface seems quite impervious to scratching and maintains it smooth slightly glossy surface. 
• As a toy it is a rather sexy thing visually and the possibilities for use are quite endless J
• If the plug is pushed in, slightly below the surface, it will stay in place securely.

The cons;

Ah yes there is always one... The plug that closes the hole is slipped in rather like a cork in the bottom of a salt and pepper shaker. It is a good idea, particularly when you have been filled up with bodily fluids... you do need to be able to transport them to a more suitable environment. Unfortunately when everything is covered in cum and lube the plug pops out. No amount of pushing it in made it stay. 

May one just say that the choice of a leather lounge was an inspired one... this could have been very messy J

Monday morning

We woke up late, shuffled out of bed and got dressed. The plan had been to get up early and go for a walk capped off by breakfast. Instead we did the morning in reverse and trotted round to our local hole in the wall for breakfast first. Inside away from the bright light we stuffed ourselves with excellent food, while watching the world pass by.

When we finished we descended the steps to the beach for a walk off breakfast meander. It was a much needed walk too and the weather was perfect for it. The sky was blue and the sun was warm on our backs. There were people out enjoying the day on bikes, in dinghies fishing and people dangling lines off the breakwaters. All of this peace was only occasionally marred by the truly athletic out jogging... why do women happily spend so much money on shoes and neglect to invest in a good sports bra?

In short it was a perfect morning, spoiled only by the fact that the walk back seemed so much longer. It did however give us a wonderful view of one of the strange trees that dot the landscape round here and provide a riot of large soft yellow flowers in summer. They curve in a way that forms natural tunnels and provide wonderful shelter.

Making our way back home we spent the rest of the day lounging around, one of us in the bloody straitjacket, while He tortured his favourite playthings with some nipple enhancers (small rings that slip over the nipples to keep them erect and increasingly sore). Apparently the instructions to "not leave them on for extended times" were a bit too subjective for someone's liking. Though He did finally agree that blue is not a natural colour for a nipple L

The day was finished up with a little anal, a couple of orgasms and drifting off to sleep... a perfect way to end a day. 

Taking a turn for the strange

Sitting on the bus it was something of a surprise when we suddenly headed right instead of straight ahead. We proceed in a route that circled around until we ran parallel with our normal course before finally rejoining our bus route. All of this neatly sidestepping half a dozen bus stops and gaining 10 minutes.

It also resulted in a couple of passengers walking along, no doubt headed for the bus stop, to start around in shock before waving at the bus frantically. Fortunately he was one of the nicer ones and so he stopped. A small mercy that the passengers were grateful for, as they know only too well what some of the drivers are like. Even someone as pedantic as oneself thinks of a couple of them as rules Nazis L

All of this aggravation was caused by the Jetty to Jetty run. An annual event that, rather like some of the cycling and charity walks, closes a couple of roads. Every time it is the same roads that are closed and every time there is an alternative bus route. Now logic would dictate that the bus company would have the same alternative route. Not our bus company, you see they like to keep things fresh for the passengers.  

See for every event our bus company likes to rise to the challenge and find an alternative route that has never been used before. To be honest one always imagines them huddled over their maps going- oh we did that last year... if we go this way we will miss one more stop. The route is never posted, there are never any notices put up in bus shelters or buses... it is like a mystery event... guess where your bus is going to be. It is a game all the commuters can play L

The imposition of ego

Rule breakers are interesting people. They can be found in any social group at any point in history. In society they occur for a number of reasons, not all of them inherently bad. The anarchistic who hope or work for revolution for the betterment of society being one such example. Then there is the other kind, the ones who resent the imposition rules make on their perceived freedoms. Our group on Fet gets a few of the latter kind.

The divine egoists that truthfully believe that rules don't apply to them because what they have to say is more important than any rule. In fact they are doing you a service. What they don't seem to understand is help like that is right up there with pre-emptive service... and we all know how well that turns out. Personally one looks at these helpful people and wonders what they are like away from the keyboard. What are they like in their BDSM relationship?

They are out there why else would we have terms for this type; brats, SAMS, PITA's. We have evolved or stolen, usually not in the clinical sense, terms to cover this behaviour; they are acting out, exhibiting reactance or testing their boundaries. They do it for a myriad of reasons; they fear the loss of control or they are testing that the one in charge is worthy. In truth what they are doing is imposing their ego on the people around them.

We all have ego... to some greater of lesser degree. It does have some benefits... right up until it starts to take over and tries to impose its views on others. Then it just becomes exhausting to deal with. If you have to fight someone on every little thing, the person dealing with it is eventually going to get jack of it. Which means the egoist is going to spend a lot of time shoved in a gag or gets dumped on the doorstep. Rather like in the group... J

Creative idea #5

You know, He says turning limpid blue eyes in this direction, I've been thinking about how you going to fetch things while in the straitjacket. Really, one enquired with interest, while groaning on the inside. His creative ideas are often less than beneficial to one small slave. In fact some of them are just downright unpleasant L

Yes, what we need is a gag shaped like a pair of tongs or forceps. Something that opens in your mouth to keep you quiet, a strap to keep it in place and off you go. You can depress it with your mouth and bring the item back to me. And you all are going to be so proud of one small pedantic slave... not one logical argument involving the reality of force over distance or the amount of PSI the human mouth could realistically apply escaped one's lips...

Some mornings...

The eyes fluttered open... well it was more that one eye peeked out resentfully from under an eyelid... to see light streaming in from a chink in the curtain. With a casual practised roll one fished the alarm clock off the toy box and peered at it. The brain registered with an internal groan that it was later than one thought. Although not a major drama, was a minor annoyance as one did have virtuous plans of going to the gym. Oh well...

Settling for coffee one wondered idly why no one has ever found a way to set it up as an IV delivery system. See although most people swear they don't function without morning coffee, the truth is that it takes about 90 minutes to hit the system. What most of us like is the ritual of coffee; the smell, the feel of our hands wrapped around the cup... It was from these sorts of important contemplations that one snapped out of to realise that He was due home in the next few minutes and so removing pj's one went to wait by the door.

We did domestic things, ate breakfast and repaired to the bedroom to have a quickie before one got ready for work...

Squatting over him jockey style, hands on the head board for support, He reached up to take advantage of a pair of unfettered breasts bouncing above his face. With a particularly vicious grip He grabbed hold of the nipples... a manoeuvre that brought one back down with a squeal of pain; they are so damn sore from the past two days. He smirked and said it will give you something to think about at work. Remember me He sang out as he snuggled into his doona.

Again one says...

Bastard!

The plan

It was a simple kinky idea... straitjacket on, Hitachi in its support saddle and off we go. That was the plan and you have to admit the visuals in your head are kind of hot. Now this is where once again fantasy and reality collide. Like so many things when reality steps in...

Firstly the straitjacket being leather really needs to be broken in. Like all leather it will stretch with wear and mould to the body; a thing that couldn't be done until now due to the weather. So He puts it on, fiddles around adjusting the straps so it fits properly (unlike in the picture) and one very erotic idea turns into a stiff, uncomfortable reality. It pushes on the collar and one can't breathe, and it produces a strange sense of claustrophobia and then the lungs joined the party. They decided to start coughing... ever tried that in a straitjacket?

When you have heart surgery they used to (don't know if they still do) teach you to wrap your arms around you to support everything. So check for that position... not a stitch would have been strained. Where it got more complicated is that one was lying down at the time for a little oral warm up. Um... it is not dignified to be picked up by the breast straps and be hauled into a sitting position nor is it sexy, even if the coughing is so bad you can't actually sit up by yourself L

So when the coughing subsided He thought we might as well move onto the Hitachi. Good call you are probably thinking. Well it is... or it would have been except for one tiny issue. You can't quite get the lean forward you need in a straight jacket due to an irksome habit of falling flat on your face. So there was the Hitachi buzzing along merrily nowhere near the right spot. In fact the more one squirmed, the more it seemed to be under the directions of some malign spirit... one that was not giving orgasms.

In the end He took off the jacket and we did it old school... naked and on our backs, with liberal applications of nipple torture and a side of Hitachi. He wants one to remember him tomorrow at work, which is why the nipples are getting so much attention. Several screaming orgasms in a row later and sore, bruised body parts we lay there replete. There is a lot to be said for manual systems J

It has been decided that the straitjacket is going to be worn in nice non-sexual ways to break it in and to get used to the odd sensation of suffocation it seems to induce... which was completely unexpected. So one small slave is going to be strapped in it while watching TV... sort of a getting to know you social time. Though one does have to wonder who is going to get drinks and snacks... 'cos one is pretty sure a straight jacket exempts you. Mind you one won't be able to make a play for the remote either. This could end badly...

YKINMKBYK...

is just freaking strange.

The day started with Him roughly propping one up in a kneeling position and being fucked awake. Well a close approximation of it at any rate... awake enough to ask what's the time? Well it was more a series of guttural mumbles until one had the sense to turn ones head out of the pillow. Honestly before mouse it is just as well that breathing is automatic L

Moving to procure that mouse one realised just how fucking sore everything was... tits to arse... literally. The icy cold morning made the abused little nipples stand up and the rubbing on the fabric when one hauled on pj's just made it worse. And the arse? Oh well that made its presence felt when the body reclaimed it as its own.

It is strange how something that can feel so good at the time can feel so bloody painful later on. It is our persistence in the pursuit of these sensations that most non-BDSMers probably find so strange. They look at our assorted kinks and the things we like and think we are the odd ones. The thing is though some other people's pursuits are just as even more strange.

There is no endeavour where this strangeness becomes more apparent than in the field of sport. People train and plan and compete and spend hours on things like Extreme Ironing. A sport in which you have to admire not only their sense of humour, but the sheer amount of fitness that is required. Not to mention a good head for heights.

At the other end of the spectrum there is Freestyle Paddle Dancing. It is the only sport in history that seems to have only one manoeuvre. It is a bit like ice skating where all they do is swirl around the ice. Honestly though nothing prepares you for a sport more boring to watch than golf...

So next time someone says your kink is strange just point them at these examples. It should shut them up... or put them in a coma. Either way peace will reign J

All shiny and new

The day started innocently enough. Meet a friend of a friend for brunch... which turned into lunch, two cafes, three coffees, three sex shops and a pair of these amongst other things. They are magnetic nipple pinchers and come in three strengths; bitey, very bitey and extremely bitey. A quick trip into the changing room lead one to the very bitey option. 

After dropping our new friend off at his place, he refused the offer of joining us for sushi, we drove home via some dinner. It was that or get stuck in traffic so we chose the path of least resistance. Obviously confronted with choices like that, wending our way home slowly is a more attractive option. Well that was our excuse...

Home later He decided to try out some of his new toys... the arm binders (which are a lot quicker than the full leather ones on the profile pic) were popped on along with the nipple pinchers and He proceeded to try out the candles. Have to say that the candles are going to be returned to in summer. In winter here at the moment the sensation of hot wax being dropped on goose bumpy flesh was not that much of a turn on. In summer though one suspects they could be a lot of fun... though maybe not on the parts He wants to try them on L

Returning to the bed He decided to practise a little nipple torture. For the record nipples are very adaptive things. They will callous up with wear and tear; it is how nursing mothers cope with the constant use. It has been a long time since we did any of this kind of stuff. So when He took off the magnetic ones and replaced them with the new black clover clamps he experienced something new.

It was the sound of one really begging and pleading for release. Not just the polite noises one makes when told to, but the real sound. You know one suspects He enjoyed it... it was a while before he removed them. And then He went to use them again, in what can only be described as a threatening manner.

Putting the magnetic ones back on, one was ordered into the position. Flipping over the pinchers, which are heavy, came into their own. They bit and stayed on with a tenacity that was rather more scary than erotic. In fact they stayed on with the ferocity of a pit bull... and no amount of squirming got them off.

In the end it was easier to just stay very still while He administered a long and very slow arse fucking. There were moments there where He was barely moving and all one could do was stay very still and just sit on all the pain. He would speed up into quick short strokes and then move back into deep ones where he hardly moved. In the end one came with a long scream into the pillow while frantically trying to get the pinchers off before the endorphin levels dropped to a level where one could actually feel how bad it was.

Lying there afterwards one enquired where the fabled aftercare was... the stuff where He scampers off like a St Bernard and comes back bearing chocolate, drinkies and warm blankies. He pointed to the doona and said you have some chocolate fish in the cupboard... oh and get me a drink while you are up. Sighs one just doesn't think He gets this stuff at all sometimes... and all the while that little voice was going fuck that is going to hurt tomorrow.

Paradise is painful

Stepping out of the door this morning it struck one how intensely bright everything is. It hit about 4F (-15C) last night and this morning it shows. At 8.30am it is still cold and people are rugged up in jackets and hats. Not something you see in a sub-tropical state.

Everywhere one looks has the same blue motif. The sky is relentlessly bright blue for as far as the eye can see, unrelieved by a single cloud. Looking down at the beach the sea is like a deep blue pond, its surface unmarred by so much as a ripple. Even the island with its snow white beaches has the same blue cast.

Against all of this unrelenting blue the winter flowers and foliage are a sharp contrast in every shade of yellow, orange and red. They blaze like little flames in the dazzling light, nestled in deep tropical green leaves. Even the grass is part of a supporting cast in shades of yellow green that form neat rectangles cut by stretches of concrete. And the morning light bounces off all of the shiny, glossy surfaces to create a glittering effect.

It is all so intensely vibrant it hurts the eyes, sensibly tucked behind shades. The air going into warm lungs sears with a sharp pain and the sinuses are out in sympathy. They throb around the shades like a percussion instrument in time to the heart beat. It is all so bloody beautiful it hurts. 

Zipping along

An unmodified, electric blue Stingray has just sped past and looking down from the bus one noticed that the driver was old enough to know better. It made one smile because all one could hear was Hobbit (who is alive and well, and living on his tropical island at 93) saying when you get older you need better bait. Which when thinking about it wasn't necessarily true, as he could be charming enough to get past any woman when he had a mind to. Thinking about all the people one has known who had sports cars one thinks it would be fairer to say that the cars were reflections of their personalities.

Hobbit was famous for his Bentley, it was called the Bumble Bee due to its colour scheme, and it was a stand up joke on radio that all you could see were his knuckles clutching the steering wheel. He wasn't a tall man. And given his propensity to drive like Mr. Magoo it was also an unfortunate image. Fortunately by the time we got together he had switched cars.

He had a golden Mercedes 350SL which one learnt to drive in. An experience he always swore made him grey. It was like driving a tank with power steering, but boy could that baby float on the road and hug a curve. Unfortunately it also used to float past police cars... which might have contributed to the grey.

There was Sue with her powder blue Stag. The one that's roof would never open when it rained and its tendency to break down on bridges. Not to mention the door that would just stick. Actually that damn car was as temperamental and as difficult as its owner... but a lot of fun nevertheless.

Then there was the lovely Lynnie (a story for another time) with her bright yellow Triumph. It was the love of her life and like most of them did not reciprocate her feelings... that car hated her. Every morning she would go skittering out the door, she could do the white rabbit like no other, in ridiculously high heels, dripping nails and 12 inch hair. And every morning the car would not start. We would lie in bed and wait for her to come back in wailing about how she was late and Hobbit would have to go down and start the car... first time, every time.

Last but not least was the ex and her beloved MG... black with gold pinstripes... all flash and quirks. Electrics that stopped at a whim and a mysterious leak that meant when we went out in the rain one's feet ended up in a puddle. She bought it after our divorce... in both our names of course 'cos nothing about our separation was normal. Eventually as her back got worse she had to sell it and buy something modern with suspension... it broke her heart having to give it up.

To all of these people their cars represented status, an achievement if you will, but in every case they represented freedom from others. The ability to just drive off with the roof down, the wind in their hair and the sun on their face. The cars might have been creatures of capricious tendencies, but so were the owners and they roar across ones memories forever on the move.

Bolt holes

For someone who is struggling

People often wonder about the co-habiting or working on it thing in the group and for years we have tried to explain that seeing someone regularly, working towards full time and actually living together are completely different states. They aren't better, but they are different. The trouble is until the person has done it they never believe you.

See if you have a home to run back to, one that is your space with your things in it the way you like them, you have an emotional out. When things get tough, when you rub each other raw, when you are both sick, angry, upset or hateful, tucked away in your subconscious is the knowledge that you can go home. It is this comparative state of nirvana just waiting for you to run back to.

When you actually live with someone you do not have that out. You are left to duke it out in the situation, with a person whom you are not in an equal relationship with. There is no out, no back door, no safe place. There is just you and them. And no matter how much you love, care for or think they are the one for you it isn't always pretty.

People call it an adjustment phase and really it doesn't do that impending feeling of no return justice. It feels like the door is slamming shut behind you and your first, and frankly sensible, response is to fight it... quietly or hard depending on your nature. It is the time when you have to decide if you are going to run or stay, and it is the time when you find if indeed you actually can. It is in some ways the first acid test of internal enslavement.

See if you find you can't leave then you have to start letting go. You have to let go of the emotional outs, the back doors, your perceptions of how it was meant to be, your preconceived notions of fair and right... all of that has to go. And the only one who can do that is you. It is a choice and a damned hard one because you have to trust that you have made the right choice for you.

And while one would love to say that it gets easier... it doesn't. That lack of "faith" will raise its ugly little head up at every opportunity. It's like playing whack-a-mole on the board of life. The thing is though if you have achieved IE, you don't have a choice to leave so you have to find a way to deal with it or it will tear you apart. 

Crossing over

Helping mod a group is a strange thing. Often one finds oneself in the position of towing a party line or expressing things in a kinder manner than nature would dictate. There are times where even one small slave is aware of the potential impact of words on others. And there are times one would just love to be less than diplomatic... and He says no L

There are other times when bringing things into the group will serve no purpose other than to alienate, upset or distress someone... often quite inadvertently. That or one knows it is going to trigger such a flame war that The Sparkly One will never forgive or forget... let alone leave one her shoe collection. And of course there are some things that one just knows will disintegrate into that outer ring of hell known as a definition debate. Now personally one likes those, but someone always stomps off butt hurt. Mind you without this process Fet wouldn't have so many O/p groups... still think they should pay us a commission.

For those moments one has a blog... a place to come and vent, bore readers into a coma with high levels of narcissism and for readers to occasionally get a giggle, and once in a while wonder who one is writing about. It is a chance for the reader to get a glimpse of what one's life is like and to know what one thinks about things. In essence one writes about things that have no place in the group because when you mod a group, you are not free to do just what you want... unlike a blog. 

Doing the white rabbit

The alarm didn't go off so one is now scampering around screaming on the inside about being late.
Back later...

Some days feel like this

Crime and punishment

Reading blogs this morning there seemed to be a bit of a theme... punishments of the physical kind. One had it, one wanted it and frankly the one who had it seemed much happier. All of this got one thinking... so one is going to bore you with some related ramblings. Are you feeling lucky? J

Modern teaching say spare the rod and spare the child... violence begets violence and all that. Frankly it seems to have produced a mixed bag depending on the administrator, judging by the little brats one encounters at work... but that is a rant for another time... one that involves questioning the wisdom of feeding your small offspring large bottles of caffeinated drinks and applying terms like ADHD to them... Anyway back to this and adults.

See one wonders about the cathartic effect of punishment and whether there is a link to childhood disciplinary measures. Do we as adults replicate what we know and understand? As a child discipline was a mixed and random bag. Auntie never used physical punishments... oh she threatened, but largely she relied on tone... a tone honed in crèches during post war England. That woman could probably have stopped an invasion with a single look.

Mother and for that matter the stepfather were unpredictable. They could rant you into a wall while you prayed to be hit just so it would end. That or they would just lash out... again often unwarranted and random. It left you with no clear boundaries or consequences, and subsequently one usually tried to keep as much distance between oneself and their presence. An arrangement that probably suited all of us.

Round here He rarely uses physical punishment. Oh He has done it once... and it was probably richly deserved 'cos one can be a complete pain... but one has no idea what one did. The memory of the punishment remains, as does a healthy respect for His capacity to do it. Largely though He relies on tone... probably not realising why it is so effective J That or He gets really creative and makes the punishment fit the crime... and that degree in creativity is not wasted.

Either way though one doesn't understand the need for cathartic physical punishment... there is no basis for it in one's life. For that matter one doesn't understand the idea of confession being good for the soul either... probably for the same reason. So while one understands it intellectually one can't begin to understand it as a need, nor can one understand how it makes you feel better L

Domestic day

Well not so much domestic as chores that have been put off. He needed new work trousers, has done for a while, but putting his knee through them the other night sealed the deal. He hates clothes shopping with a fiery passion. So while He was trapped in the changing room and in the mood cough, cough one managed to coax him into some shorts for summer as well. The reality is that His favourite shorts are going the way of the trousers.

After that we stopped off to get some beautiful prawns and oysters for... well either a very late lunch or an early dinner... it was a tossup by then. Coming around the corner from the marina one noticed that the shark had been clipped so we stopped to get a quick picture... 'cos where else would you see something like this monument to topiary J

After that He had great plans... well so he says. The reality was that He was out like a light before either of us had a chance. See even in an O/p relationship there is a greater authority than Him. Your body will gazump you every chance it gets L

Sunday, Sunday

Standing at the bus stop one noticed a car zip by and thought that looks like His car. It turned round the roundabout and slid to a stop in front of one. A window rolled down and His head appeared asking how much? It was on the tip of the tongue to say a lift home and can you call in sick... over the idea of work already. Instead one accepted the offer of a lift to work with far more delight than going there warranted.

Driving along, wrapped up in the thrill of seeing Him one failed to notice His hand snaking out to finger one through the trousers. There is something about that car... you end up braced the right way, His angle is the right one and his aim is spot on. It makes one cum before one has time to think about it... usually more than once.

I suppose you've had breakfast He asked conversationally. Yes, but there is always room for coffee. Really one just wanted to prolong the contact with Him... it is such a treat. So we stood in line while He whispered lewd suggestions about finding one of those generous sized disabled toilets for a quickie. An offer one respectfully declined... we were both in work uniforms and His work place has a tendency to frown on its employees acting in inappropriate ways. Thankfully He didn't just frogmarch one off into one.

All of these distractions are how one found oneself sitting outside work putting on the face... something normally done in transit to work. A fact that causes many customers great mirth... as one always says if one can do this in a moving vehicle imagine what you can do with tools and time. Besides doing it on the move allows for an extra half cup of coffee... not to be underestimated on the need stakes at times.

After work which was long and dull, He was there to whisk one away. He had stayed, gone shopping and to the movies... The bastard went and saw "Transformers"... sobs quietly. We stopped off for new frilly knickers on the way out... and so somewhat mollified... we went to Zorbas for some of their extraordinary pizza. We ended the day with a panty parade... well you have to check how they look and fit. Though one was a little unsure why He had to see if a hand will fit in them.

He ended the day masturbating while one squatted over his face. It seems that room was needed, as was a certain level of sheerness, so that He could watch one masturbate through the opaque net. Silly, silly slave... one really should learn to anticipate these things better. It would save a lot wondering...

The big bite

Riding in a bus is a strange mix of the passive and the active. You sit there free to look around and see things that you don't normally notice, and more importantly contemplate them. Round here the thing that is starting to become noticeable, is that the economy is finally starting to show the double whammy of the credit crunch and the floods. Not only in the people you know who are being laid off, but the little telltale signs.

As the bus passes along there are for sale signs in every street. Not just the odd one, which is normal, but multiple dwellings. It is calculated that there are about 8 000 listing in this little suburb alone. And nothing is moving.

This is in part due to the stamp duty doubling recently, but mostly it is that people still want boom time prices. They haven't adjusted their expectations to the new reality that people are broke. This is ironic because many are selling their houses because they can no long sustain their mortgages. In some cases it is due to losing those jobs and others because they were overextended.

Some have put their houses up for auction, which in a market like this is more of a softening tool employed by real estate agents than any hope of a quick sale. They want their clients to get a taste of how tight it is out there so they will drop their prices. In part because they are not realistic and in part because in some areas half the real estate agents have closed... they are in financial trouble like many of their clients. They need the sale as much as the home owner... if not a little more.

Others have put their homes up for lease as they move in the hopes of finding work or downsizing their dwellings. Unfortunately they are competing in a glutted market due to all the development. Many of the towers of luxury apartments are brand new and never been lived in. They are probably quietly drowning those who invested money in the hopes of a modest return while shoring up their future.

All of this is compounded by one simple grim reality which none of the development nor the boom seemed to take into account. Once you get past the wonderful views, there is no work locally. There never has been employment... it's why there are so many retirees... and why everyone commutes... often for hours every day. And really what good are views when it is dark when you leave for work and return home? Something that is probably being pondered by people stuck in the car crawl home.

Mind you if you are planning to buy a piece of paradise... there may be no time like the near future.

Simple economics

He came in and said, I've been thinking about the foot. Umm... yes? It would be cheaper to get the foot done. Blink umm... OK? Yes. I've worked out the cost of replacing some of your clothes and shoes and it would be cheaper to have the operation. Well yes it probably would, but one really can't afford the operation and one just resents having to pay for the damn thing when we supposedly have a free health care system.

OK it's not that free if you consider that the foot is getting worse. There is no running, it has started to get the electric shock sensation the doctor mentioned and if tired, the foot just feels numb to the arch. Oh yes and the knee is starting to twinge when one walks... probably due to the change of gait as the body tries to overcompensate for the foot. Yeah, might have forgotten to mention that... ooops... it's only just started L

With the logic of governments to get this raised from a category two to a category of one, you have to be severely incapacitated. Which is fair enough, you need some way to sort cases. Except if you do become incapacitated, it still takes them a month to slot you in. That is a month on top of the six weeks recovery they estimate. There is no boss in the history of employment that is going to keep your job for nearly three months... and no one who can live that long without pay.

He looked at one as though he had never realised just how cussed one could be. You will go to the doctors and get a referral to the specialist. I want to know how much this is really going to cost (the doctor estimates about two grand... mind you he estimated six months waiting not two years so...) and I will pay for it. Peering over the computer screen one calculated the odds of using logic, gave up and said the phone call would be made on Monday.

Smiling He said, it will be easier anyway. I figure before long self preservation will kick in. You think that self preservation will take a look at these feelings of frumpiness and adjust the psyche to embrace the jeans huh? Yes I do, and I will have to retrain you back out of the damn things. You can keep the trousers and soft shoes for work though. Those court shoes on concrete floors probably did contribute to the problem. And with that He left the room.

Sighs for a guy not into sharpies and pointies He seems very keen to toss one under the knife L