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General Notice to ALL readers The profile which has always been too long and to long winded is as the result of a person whom I have the greatest regard for advised me to make it shorter.. I will make it more concise and to the point allowing those who want more, to be directed to my bruincottage website to read more if they want.. I'm not putting much in here for now, I expect to be booted off the site for a couple of years for my comments and stands I take in the forums. If I have pushed some of you away recently, it is to protect you by distancing us in the hope you will not be tarred by the same brush as those detractors would do to me.. Read my posts to get my website and contact me there..

How Hard Is It being A Master?

How hard? That is a matter of perspective as I believe We have covered before Old Friend.

There are many things about being a Master that are difficult and take a great deal of effort and work..... But BEING a Master... difficulty isn't an issue, it is something you just ARE... the effort is about being the BEST You can be, living up to Your Own expectations, not letting Yourself down. However difficult it maybe to BE a Master, if that is what You are, it is MORE difficult to try and pretend to be something else.

There are many Doms out there who would love to be a Master, they will never achieve it, it isn't who they are. There are many Tops out there who would dearly love to be Doms or Masters but again they never will be, they will only ever wear the mask.

The first stage is finding that honesty and self knowledge, knowing what You are, how You are wired. Separating that reality from what You would LIKE to be, accepting your shadow, dealing with Your demons and baggage. Facing the world squarely and stepping away from IT having control of the value sets by which You live, taking that responsibility actively onto Yourself.

You have to take responsibility for Yourself before You can even begin to think about taking on the responsibility for another. Accept also that You have a lifetime of hard learning ahead, no mater how much you learn there is always more, different slants even on things You have come to know intimately.

You have to accept that You are Human, yet be able to step up into a situation which, to many appears superhuman... to be that fixed point, the polar star in another’s sky, the bedrock upon which their world stands. If another is to look to You for stability and structure, NEED that from You, rely on that from You then regardless of the chaos around You. You must develop the ability to BE the eye of the storm, stable and remain that fixed point.

And that is just the start


Written by a London Based Master ~ Raven (Reproduced with his permission).




My old friend has covered much about the personal aspects of Mastery and especially the Mastery of self. It will be of no surprise that I am in complete agreement with him in all of this. Shall we now take a look at the next stage of actually developing credibility with the local BDSN Community? If you are lucky and have friends amongst the dominants or have been introduced to a couple who are willing to take you under their wing and teach you and even allow you to practice on their own property or due to their excellent reputation. are able to attract one or two sub/slaves who are uncollared but who will offer their bodies for you to practice on, you are indeed lucky. However this will often not be so. You must walk as though on egg shells until you are known. Softly, softly is the motto here. If you are at all bombastic and loud mouthed, you will create a cavern of loneliness and isolation about yourself which could take years to break down. Similarly, if you enter the public local scene identifying with one of the small select (some may even believe you think it to be elite) groups such as Gorean, then you have a harder road to hoe. You will find that what you seek (24/7 TPE slave) is hard to find (scarcer than hens teeth). Again such a group as Goreans are often unpopular and can create fear in the minds of other non Gorean Dominants.

Thus you need to learn about local groups and ease in so that people can get to know you as a person and continue learning as you go. I know many Goreans who in public never admit to being Gorean although were you to ask them they would not hid it. They just do not shout it from the roof tops although anyone who knows Goreans will pick them easily. This I learned from hard personal experience because I am up front.

Another area which the older new masters may find, depending on the local sociological customs, is an older master may find it very hard to snaffle a young girl of between 18 to 30 when he is double her age. many of the young things seem to prefer Masters not too many years older than they are. (Perhaps they wisely think that a younger Master will have more sexual staying power too). generally a married Master is likely to have more problems collaring an unmarried girl unless he has a poly relationship with his spouse irrespective if she is Dominant or also a sub/slave too.

These are just some of the problems which a new Master may well find himself facing. In summation it is I believe harder for:

  1. The Old Masters (Old farts of 50 ++) unless well known with an established reputation.
  2. Masters who are Married and especially to a Domme.
  3. Are known to be involved with or identify with a sub group not so popular or not well known.


Simply that the pretty younger lasses will be attracted to Masters closer to their own age and the older sub/slaves will probably want an established Master and may not wish to have to help train a bloke new to the scene, and few are willing or drawn to any controversial areas where they would be part of a contentious minority group. It is a catch22 situation and may of course not hold true in all areas but it would appear to be so in Australia where as the age difference is not such a problem in the UK, Europe and the USA.


Written by Iron Bear

"I wrote this a while ago for another non lifestyle/BDSM (Pagan) forum in reply to a question. This reply has been upsetting to some very good folk so pulled the post and sent a copy of this to the one who had asked the original question of me. Although I write about a Master/slave relationship, all that I have said equally applies to a Mistress/slave relationship to. Should some feel that this may apply to a Dominant/submissive dynamic, then us it I simply do not have any experience in relationships with submissives, only slaves.

In my world there are an over abundance who believe a woman collared is then a toy to be used and not thought about as all she wants to do is serve him as his slave.. She does want that with a fire burning in her belly that is unquenchable unless she is owned by a man who doesn’t care for her..

It takes a Man, a real man to understand that his slave is something more precious than all the wealth in the world. She has given him her submission for she believes he is trustworthy, honest, truthful, honourable and possesses both integrity and kindness. In his hands she gives her being. He holds her health, her wellbeing, her happiness, her life itself. With a single glance he can reduce her to tears and her world roiling with misery as she wonders what she did wrong. With the touch if a hand on her hair he can lift her to a state is bliss and ecstasy. Kneeling at his feet naked she is in heaven, It takes a real Man to accept this responsibility and hold it truly without guile and misuse, It takes great courage and a huge heart to give yourself completely to such a man. Both must be worthy of the other. Such a master will want to and indeed work hard on knowing his slave, her needs, her wants, her secret desires. At this stage they work as one, complementing one another and yet two individual people. She knows she can speak to him of her problems and gently put things right when he makes mistakes for she too knows he is a man and thus not perfect. When he is at work, she misses his masculine presence. He too misses her being near him so that their time together is complete.. Are such men really walking this earth? I have been blessed by knowing a number of them and their girls. Mayhap one day I may aspire to walk with then as an equal..


Iron Bear

Master of Bruin Cottage (A Victorian Lifestyle Home)

Growing Old In The Lifestyles 

Isn’t it strange how you write something like a poem because you are in a dark place and there seems to be no light at the end of the tunnel so you become reflective, and later, a few years later, you find that what you wrote is true for you? Thus it was when in 2005 I wrote “He sits fingering the empty collar”, Copywrite © Iron Bear ~ September 2005(All rights reserved) . One of the things which most of us never consider especially in the lifestyle, is that as we get older we are excluded more and more from possible play lists of both sub and slave alike. Yes I know there are exceptions and even exceptions where the reverse is true, Much of this is culturally based of course and some is just part of the nature of things where the old Bulls and pushed away from the herd to fend for themselves and die alone as the young bull, stronger with more stamina and staying power (more sexually attractive) take over till they too are ousted and left in the wilderness of old age.

Here in Australia, our culture worships youth, bronzed athletic bodies scantily clad on sun drenched beaches. Culturally we have little time for old traditions other than those forged by out nation at war or in the throws of extreme hardship. We do not venerate or even look after our older generation and these days the Government even though they will never publicly admit it, want those infirm or disabled to die unless they are in the top 5% of financially secure people. This is seen in the refusal to accept those in relationships with large age differentials such as Neets and mine (30 years), where we do get socially discriminated against. So to is the general BDSM scene, once you are over 35, you are over the hill. God help you when you reach my age of being over 60! No one actively shuns you, but sub/slaves look upon you not as a Master or even a legitimate Dominant, but rather as a big brother or uncle who can take them to functions as long as you leave them alone in public to play with the young bucks,

Having reached again this realization and that although I do have lovely sub/slave lady friends, who avoid any discussions in which they may feel the need to be honest and tell me that they are not interested in the collar of an old fart, I will never again completely collar another girl as long as I remain resident in Australia. Moving is almost impossible without suitable finances so one is caught between the rock and a hard place of hating where you live, your place of birth, and not being able to leave. For some it is crushing and many of them die from hopelessness. For me, I become whimsical and cynical. Rather than doing something like quitting and becoming a recluse, I choose to remain under my own terms and continue to help those on line and actively seek males sub/slaves for Neets. It may indeed mean that I do withdraw from most local activities and functions as well as from most online groups but that is as much as being due to medical conditions and study as anything else… When told about a party or munch, I’m just as likely to say, “No thanks I’m going fishing.”

So my friends how do or would you deal with this problem of growing old and past your used by date?

What Is The Price Of Command ?

What is the price of command you ask?

You will always stand alone your responsible for every task.

You see their eyes ask you Why? As they take their last breath.

There is only one thing you can count on and that is certain death.

Your aura is a red mist about you and your hands are red with blood.

The bloody and pain of those men and women that you command unto death


A hundred saddles filled with men and women you command,

Riding earnestly to skirmish to test the enemy’s resolve and skill.

Standing in the saddles, bows drawn, yelling, screaming cursing,

In to fire and out of the foes returning fire, of the arrows that they fling,

Lances lowered and raking the flanks who followed you from their horde,

In small groups you turn and cleave them with the sword…


Wearily and proudly, you turn and head for home,

Sweat pouring of you, horses lathered with foam,

You follow to where they are standing awaiting your command

Silently you count the empty saddles and those who are harmed

You give your orders and wait to see that all is well

You see those faces who will never again ride pell-mell.


You gather the belongings of those fallen friends

The company auction will sell all the odds and ends

The moneys raised are divided and will their pays so due

Will be sent to their loved ones with your letter with words that are to few.

You see the new recruits waiting, standing in the mud,

Each begging to sign. eagerly for glory and for fame, their contracts you sign in blood.


Generations pass each one seeing much the same,

Weapons and governments change and war is just a game,

You are some stinking jungle, the stench of napalm in the air,

The new recruits keep coming seeming, without a care,

You don’t want to know them until they have lived a week,

For until they are blooded, it is they a not always swift death, will them seek.


You still lead the raiding or take part in a bigger sweep

Their lives you care for, for they are in your keep,

They turn to you for orders and prey that you give them true

For you are their commander and their lives depend on you.

For those who have fallen, to their families you will write

Their faces will still haunt you and never leave your sight.


This is the price of command my friend! Is this what you ask?

You will always stand alone your responsible for every task.

You see their eyes ask you Why? As they take their last breath.

There is only one thing you can count on and that is certain death.

Your aura is a red mist about you and your hands are red with blood.

The bloody and pain of those men and women that you command unto death. This is the price you pay, Their Blood!


Copyright © Iron Bear April 2006

The Ending
He awoke and as he sat with his morning coffee an overwhelming feeling of sadness blanketed him. He sat with tears streaming from his eyes, and yet he could see no reason for this.  As he sat he felt a soul-destroying loneliness seeping through him, chilling his bones. He begins to experience the bitter taste of hopelessness and feeling of no worth. He couldn’t remembers real successes just failures.. Failing to help those who needed him. Failing to see the hurt of so many people about him.
A certainty grew that if he was gone, none would morn his passing and at the best a small few would remember him for a week, a month and then he would cease to exist in people’s memories… His sense of mortality and human fragility bore down heavily about him crushing all hope and joy from his very spirit… With a sense of uselessness he moved about the house tidying up all his things and checking that nothing was left as a burden to others… 
Sighing he walked out to the shed where he spent time crafting things for others, where he had the simple joy of making something from nothing and watching others getting pleasure from his gifts… He opens a carved chest and reaching out, trembling fingers over the floggers, slave whips, restraints and the collar, which had remained empty for so long. Tears still running down his craggy old face, he opened another chest and reverently touched his books. The magickal tomes, and the carefully rolled hand written scrolls, which had been his life’s work. The robes still smelling of incense; the daggers and ceremonial sword. In his mind he relived the memories each brought to him….. He painfully lowered himself in the centre of a well used circle and closed his eyes ..Waiting…. Waiting …. Time stands still and reality blurs…. Waiting.. Waiting….
That night several people came to the shed looking for the old man and saw the open chests and the marks where he has sat in the dirt floor of the circle.. All they saw was two feathers… one from an owl and the other from an eagle.. From the shed they saw the tracks of a Great Bear leading into the woods………………
copywrite © Iron Bear 2005
He Sits Fingering The Empty Collar

He sits fingering the empty collar,
And looks over the meagre contents of a toy box..
He knows that there many items which,
He must procure to add to the collection.
He sits fingering the empty collar,
Some he must make to satisfy pride
And the desire to be making,
Does he still have the skill? This he is wondering.
He sits fingering the empty collar,
Riffling amongst papers filled with sketches,
Of toys he perhaps could have made in times past,
Other plans are of equipment, multipurpose and designed with cunning.
He sits fingering the empty collar,
Chuckles, thinking how easier it would have been
Yet his tools, like his body, time has reduced.
Muttering to himself as old men are wont to do,
He sits fingering the empty collar,
He reviews the plans in the light of what he can and cant do.
Making notes he makes allowance
For his Free Companion to be able to set up and use them.
He sits fingering the empty collar,
When she has another slave in collar and living close.
He’ll not see her wanting, a filled toy box she shall have.
And dungeon equipment a plenty.
He sits fingering the empty collar,
Smiling gently he makes plans to have her introduced about the scene denied him.. Feeling no sorrow, he places everything in its place
And commences work on a draft for her profile to replace his.
He sits fingering the empty collar,
So that she is known by those in the communities…
And take her place with them
To just be in her own right without his influences.
He sits fingering the empty collar,
Lessons learned in the past decades where
The upcoming youth have not wanted aging Masters in other lifestyles,
But wanted the glitter and energy of youth.
He sits fingering the empty collar,
Remembers times when he has stepped back into
Shadows and guided the new Masters to take his place
As he slipped into a faded memory easily forgotten.
He sits fingering the empty collar,
Long ago he learned the benefits of isolation
And the joys which only a recluse can enjoy….
Memories of a slave murmuring “Yes My Master”
He sits fingering the empty collar,
Time to build a new life for them both,
One where she becomes the new Master
And he the builder of a business to sustain all that he wants for her.
He sits fingering the empty collar,
Chuckling, he remembers a conversation with another who suggested
The hiring of models to use for Shibari and other areas which still interest him…
Laughing at his own folly in still wanting to Master Arts which he will never use
He sits fingering the empty collar,
He still the Master, Master of his Home
And of more arcane mysteries,
Those which only age and life long practices teach.
He sits fingering the empty collar,
That is enough, all things which are now in the past
For if nothing the old man is a realist
And knows when to quit fighting opinion.
He sits fingering the empty collar,
This is not the first time he has been defeated
But this time he cannot battle age and illness….
The time is past battling something which can not be changed.
He sits fingering the empty collar,
Contented he plans his retirement activities
Until it is time for the Golden Eyed Bear to come
And lead him away to where the pain will cease and he will no longer be…
He sits fingering the empty collar,
A happy time with all new experiences to learn and debts to pay.
Smiling gently now and at peace with himself,
He locks the old collar away, discards the plans for new ones
He places the key in a hidden place..
And in doing so discards the unfulfilled dreams to the place
Where all lost dreams go and lighting a cigarette closes his eyes
And sees the bears in far off mountains moving to where the sky touches the earth.…..
Copywrite © Iron Bear ~ September 2005
(All rights reserved)

The Wheelie Raid

During the night and the previous day the fierce hoard gradually assembled at the last tavern before the peaceful City in the valley below. Wheel chairs of all descriptions, makes, ages, sizes and state of repair were jammed into the tavern long room. The air was rent by the wheezing and coughing yells for "Paga trik more Paga" and the spluttering of those brave souls who chanced themselves in the alcoves with the lusty kajirie. With many, the thought was there (when they remembered what it was they were supposed to do. ) but sadly the actions were missing …. As were some bodily parts too. ..Still, finally all went to sleep and dozed, their dreaming of eons past when they were young and full of vigour and other things …. The night filled with snores, much farting and feeble calls "Potty trik potty".

Time passes…..

As the three Gorean Moons descend and the sun starts to rise, the Gorean Old Farts Brigade under multiple Banners of Scarlet, Blue, Green and every other colour imaginable assemble on the road overlooking the peaceful Retirement Home. In the distance Tarnsmen were patrolling the sky. And one was gliding towards them…….

In an instant the massed wheelies charged…. Wielding an assortment to Urth Bed Pans, and crutches. The cavalcade lumbered toward the still unalerted retirement Home. Cries (croaks really), rent the air as the charge scattered the me’shan working in the gardens , and a traveller was seen departing the place in terror screaming that the Kurii were invading……………..

As the grungy crackling creaking horrible hoard neared the entrance, the City Tarnsmen dived to defend their pride and joy (many probably had beds booked in advance). After the first abortive swoop, with the Tarns being driven back by the stench of so many unwashed wrinkly bodies and used bed pans, Tarnsmen were seen to fall from their mounts, holding their side laughing. The better trained and experienced Tarns braved the redoubtably rich aroma to bring their riders into the fray of battle, only to be beaten back by an volley of seeping bedpans.

Inside, havoc was wrought … capture after capture was made, food stolen, kajirie raped (or something like that …. Not sure who was the raper or rapee) and the place made a complete mess. Then the raid was finished! With much coughing, hacking, wheezing and other assortment noises, the Gorean Old Farts Brigade went their way to re assemble at a future time and place … mayhap outside Your City…..

A pretty female kaiila was prancing about,
Her charms, coyly ready to flout,
When she spied a tall Pasha feeding the herd,
With buckets of slop, or was it curd.
With skittering steps she approached down breeze,
His scent was perfume, gave her trembling knees,
Nuzzling him gently, she looked at the man,
Batted her eyes as only a kaiila can.
How the tale ended no one can tell,
For its details are lost as a pebble dropped in a well,
But, in the shifting of the Tahari sands,
Out in the desert where time, still stands.
A story is told around fires at night,
In distant oases under stars shining bright,
Of the love between a beast and a Tahari man,
And how she saved his life and never once ran.
Some say they died one fateful night,
Saving a lost caravan from its perilous plight,
How he slipped off her saddle, bridle and tac,
And set her free along a well marked track.
Stubborn, headstrong, and loyal she refuse his side to quit,
And with perfect distain at danger, did she spit,
With the caravan safe, the sleen he saw too late,
Screaming in rage she fought till she too shared his fate.
Some still tell of the ghostly apparition seen during a sand storm,
Of a Pasha riding his kaiila the caravans to warn,
Burnoose flowing free as he rides not making a sound,
A Silver Kaiila hoofs n’ere touching the ground…
copywrite © Iron Bear 2004

The old man and the trik.
Under darkening skies threatening rain,
A slave girl cries out in anguish, pain;
At her feet a collar, sliced and broken
Of her release, a terrible token.
In the distance, a Master rides away
N’ere looking back, his countenance terrible they say.
In the gathering dark and impending storm
Astride his kailla, a rider sits weathered and worn.
Watches the trik curled sobbing on broken ground
Slowly approaching and making no sound
Dismounting, he strides to where wide eyed she remains
Till he lifts her o’er his shoulder, and saddle regains.
N’ere a word is spoken on that short ride
Till he find the sanctuary where friends doth abide
He bids her follow to where it’s warm and have a hot meal
Where friends will care and help her heart to heal.
With gathering triks, caring and kind, he leaves her to meet
Smiling gently to her, in silence he makes his retreat.
He feels her pain and knows it so well
Mind reaching out he weaves a spell.
To heal her heart that she may grow, laugh and live
Till she finds a Master worthy of what she has to give
If in her dreams, a golden eyed bear she doth see,
A friend, nothing more, so that she may just be.
Few understand his compassion and concern
No hidden agenda, no secrets to learn
No expectation or wearing a mask
Perhaps a simple friendship is all he would ask
The old man smiles and sips a bota of paga
Picks up a quill and works on a saga

copywrite © Iron Bear 2005

All Is Well In The World.

The old man smiles and all is well in the world;
A slave has found her Master;
A subby brat has found his Mistress;
There is joy; hope and anticipation in new beginnings.

The old man smiles and all is well in the world;
In his mind he hears the thwack of a cane and the thud of a flogger;
A slave cries out on pain and pleasure;
Helpless in her bondage.

The old man smiles and all is well in the world;
He fingers an empty collar without regret;
He remembers the joys of youth;
And feels the pleasure of those memories.

The old man smiles and all is well in the world;
He locks away the items he would have used;
To fill a new collar and train another slave;
Ere age showed him he would never do this again.

The old man smiles and all is well in the world;
He feels no sadness with his realisation
For the ownership of another is for those younger than he.
And he; with his memories of past glory is content.

copywrite © Iron Bear 2005