And please...If You choose; beat the demons from me. And i will walk with you whole.
Hmm. Sir has asked me to write what i feel is appropriate as a profile page. A summary of me. i think my issue with this particular task has always been that, in truth, i don't believe there's that much to say. i am a combination of the experiences i have lived through others, often without their full awareness or consent. i am unique; but that is due to a chameleon like approach to relationships. Life has been spent in being exactly who and what i need to be for the men and women i play with. And in saying play, i mean it. i am cruel. A complex harlot who has previously been unable to give herself completely; through choice not inability. i have been stripped. Roughly and suddenly and i feel entirely bare. The man who holds me is calm in the assurance that i belong. We have the same eyes. He is sanity and reason to my inconsistant chaos. And 'the moon and sun change as his will'. i will give each and every part i can in return for the same; such is submission. Such is love. i am; feisty, red, orange and blonde haired, insatiable, sapiosexual, lustful, eager, pink and purple nailed, sheer blue eyed, long legged, guttural mouthed, pansexual, pain needing, older man loving, strong willed, fire spirited, loyal, riot causing, freckle covered, pierced, tattooed, black and white adoring, witty, well read, well educated, Rome craving, music and literature passionate...and entirely fucking owned.
Things that make me...this; Bare feet on wet grass Being stripped, roughly Erotic verse Sonnet 57 Peter Gabriel's Red Rain Opera Alan Rickman Iron shackles Art and architecture that make me pass out Men broken Ice The thought of You in meetings Girls on their knees Being slapped, hard Leather Being bound Wearing symbols of who i am Forced begging Sodomy Insides of wrists being kissed Making Him moan Making them beg Looks of liberty Total lust Brute force Split lips gags The relentless nature of mankind Hands around my throat Bruises, torn flesh Beaten bloody, how He loves me for that As He whispers Screams drawn from me His collar. (He works well for me; I'm not a 'kneel and roll over' kinda girl; all bark and bite.)
I am clearly missing a trick here; if I demand people buy me things will they? Like now, dammit!
A shower is not a shower unless it can get a girl off...
I am so unhirable...
FREE HELLO KITTY HEAD-PHONES!
It's been ages since I wrote anything on here. Disgraceful. There is however an opportunity for me to update and make-up for my lack of contact with you wonderful, kink filled people.
First of all we are now a 2. Sir and I are now in a relationship, quirky and in no way monogamous (on His part) but happy and content.
We're still on the look-out for crazy (sexually not emotionally!) women, or on occasion couples for play and socialising. Though considering how many profiles claim to want the same fucking thing I'm not sure how we're not more successful in that...
We're still close to Norwich and can still prove who and what we are etc.
Where we are in the UK also relates somewhat to my next point, I recently bought (without permission) a pair of Hello Kitty headphones. They're pink and pretty and I absolutely adore them. Which is why they're up for grabs.
Sir has instructed that they are to be given away (to a girl, sorry gents!) on the understanding the Lady in question needs to actually collect them in person, I'm sure the details of the collection can be worked out with Sir if you're interested. Please do get in contact.
I've included a link to an image of the headphones and they retail at £35.00, though I confess I got them for £20.00, they're still in all the packaging and the higher marked price is on still.
We're both perfectly comfortable with each other and have engaged in several three-way meets that are usually of the humiliation and degradation variety ^^
He's ten years older than I, straight and incredibly self assured as to what and indeed who he wants.
And I go fetch.
So ladies 1, 2, 3 hide and seek...
I am honestly falling in lust with a gay porn star and I'm sure it can't be healthy. It doesn't help that his name is Trent and therefore by definition he's got to be fucking hot as hell...
Happy birthday to me...
It's 3am. I've been told twice today how articulate I am but at this time in the morning all that goes out of my newly painted window...
I want Sir. Or rather my arse wants Sir to pound it till I pass out. It's been so long since I came I don't even crave it any more...Just want to be filled, unworthy as I am to be...
How can He ever think I don't worship the ground He walks on...
I don't mind shyness. in fact in women I find it a wonderful quality, forcing you to push harder to reach any kind of core.
Pun intended.
But then, firstly, this was a man and secondly the WHOLE fucking point was that he said he WASN'T shy.
Admittedly he wasn't found here, Sir has an issue with Dominants playing with me and with people not known to us at least in some loose capacity first.
BUT he was supposedly forthright, fond of abusive play, verbal and physical and willing to well and truly humiliate me for the entertainment of my Master and subsequently (but not at all importantly) my pleasure.
It's quite a simple concept.
Turn up. Humiliate me in relative public. Take photos. Get wanked off. Cum on a part of my anatomy of your choosing. Leave.
This guy wouldn't even get out of the fucking car. Am I that repulsive?
(Don't answer that Sir ;))
It just seemed like such a waste for what could have made Sir so happy...
'I'm not crazy. My mother had me tested.'
Miss Sir. Have flu. Don't fuck me off.
Strange how when far away you immediately reach out to every memory. Every desperately passionate, all consuming memory.
It wants Him so entirely.
It's effortless desire. He left me with marks. The visible ones are stark, now turning purple, over breasts and arse and thighs...
The ones it can't see are the most prominent.
It wants to be debased, humiliated and savaged for no purpose other than His amusement.
It lacks purpose, without Him.
It loves looking in the mirror afterwards; a previously beautifully made up face, immaculate hair, now cum stained and smeared.
Fucked up and grinning...
It's SO a red lippy and heels kinda day...
It's sort of meandering through the usual eclectic mix of music on youtube and came across the Christian ones it sometimes listens to...
Wondered who else had/has faith and if and why this choice of lifestyle effects that outlook?
And...hi *grins*
Oh AND Purple is sat opposite it for all those people that think it's hacked her to death and buried her in the garden!
Sir got brand new computers, they glow blue in the dark. They're mother-fucking huge. Some re-arranging of the office was required and subsequently His desk is now far more exposed.
And He has a new game.
It likes this game. It's a fun game. It can only play it if it's a good little girl.?
Sir tucks it under His desk and there it curls up for as many hours, days, weeks as would take His pleasure.
And it is permitted the whole while, to stare up through the glass (how it loves them for that) and watch Sir pottering away with His life.?
It likes going unnoticed; without ever a doubt of how accutely aware He is that it's there.?
It likes being held, by nothing more than steel frames and Sir's legs, from the waist down, a most distracting area it must say...
It likes being a butterfly, pinned beneath the glass; and should Sir ever leave it, as the lights went out, it would have the blue glow to attract it.?
Love.
In serious need of welts and bruises; just have to earn them...
It's just repeating a previous message in that Sir and it are still on the look out for meets and greets, fun (in the casual but regular sense) and any ladies generally that are far fitter than it is; ie. most people...
We're also investigating the local munches again so any folks in the Norfolk area that can recommend the 'good' ones please do shout up, will happily buy drinkskies in return :)
Hmm...Think that's it. Please do shout a respectful hi :)
Can it just clarify, it's only ever and will only ever be a slave to ONE man.
It was caught, beaten and tamed.
It is working towards being a Kate...like any other household Kate...
Required...
It deserves to suffer and Sir has some exceptionally unique things planned. It's sure details will be posted afterwards but Sir also wishes to be present a pretty girl, though plural would be wonderful, to help the show along.
It's rather chubby, has large breasts that of course sag and a huge arse.
To all you beautifully laid out, perfectly proportioned ladies if you feel the desire, unworthy as it is, to come and degrade it for as long as Sir wishes and until it bores everyone out...please do.
Sir is based in Norfolk and due to the circumstance of this particular punishment travel on our part isn't as viable as usual, so local Bitches only it would seem :D
Hm...W/we as always are looking to make new friends within the kink and can of course prove our existence/talk before hand (via Sir's permission).
Respectful thanks
Slave of Devilry.
Confessions;
*It confesses to missing Sir so much it burns.
*It confesses to jealousy, possessiveness.
*It confesses to needing crappy teen films to fall asleep to, or not fall asleep at all.
*It confesses to wanting to run far, far away.
*It confesses to wanting to change this fucking profile.
*It confesses to bad grammar and spelling.
*It confesses to listening to savage garden when depressed.
*It confesses to wearing hats when it's hair is dirty, with no time to wash it.
*It confesses to not knowing what to do with it's life.
*It confesses to fear.
*It confesses to avoiding church.
*It confesses to always checking facebook, in case it changes.
*It confesses to desperately wanting to dye it's hair at the hairdressers and not having the money to.
*It confesses to wanting to be someone else.
*It confesses to missing home.
*It confesses to needing debasement.
*It confesses to needing to hurt right now.
*It confesses to always fucking up.
It has been a bad slave...and not in the good way.
It has professed (and still does) to be deserving of Sir's time, attention and affection but has taken no action to suggest this is true.
Quite the opposite.
It has been childish, intolerable and disruptive to His household and it is fully aware that it is so exceptionally fortunate to still be here (let alone in His bed).
Furthermore it is honoured (and quite emotional about the fact) that it is still wearing Sir's collar.
When the journal first went up to say it had initially earned such a beautiful gift it got a message via collar me suggesting that eventually it would consider it a mistake.
It would like to say now that, unequivocally, since the moment Sir locked it on, it has had not one doubt.
The only 'weight' it carries is the determination and effort to please Sir, both of which have been extremely lacking for too long.
This is it's last opportunity. It will make Him proud.
*coughs* And continues with the usual 'it's been a while since it wrote...' or 'are you sitting comfortably? Then it'll begin' or even 'once upon a time, oh best beloved...'
Either or...
Things were really rough for a while. We (for those that know and believe us) were an exceptionally overworked, underappreciated three-way household. And by that it doesn't mean to suggest that any one party was at fault.
We underappreciated each other (save Sir who's infallible...).
And there were pinnacle moments, when each of us came close to conceding that the sky was falling.
But then it ended.
And the conclusion was made that acorns aren't quite as bad as the sky; and actually it can't remember it being this good for a while. Quite a while.
Purple and it are immersed in a fluffy (yet serious...) squishy love-love with Sir buried somewhere in-between.
*grins*
On a side note, it suspects that this has a little to do with the commandeering of half the house and changing it into a rather pink dressing room(s).
There are MANY shoes...
Christmas will bring a well needed break from work for Sir and amid the chaos He will have time to rest, regroup and fall back into Himself after a draining year.
It has to remain this good, a life of serendipity is bliss
*smiles*
It thinks it's finally accepted this as home, home-sweet-home; and it feels good...
*smiles softly*
Sir won the battle and the war. And by God am I glad...
It knows it always seems to start with this but, it's been a while since it wrote.
(It's considering a live blog but never seems to have the time.)
It just wanted to talk to Sir. We're apart at the moment. He's curled on a sofa and it feels a million miles away from all it knows.
Nothing quite as pacifying as sucking Sir's cock. It loves bath times; can it smell like lynx a little longer please...?
It wants Him. It always wants Him. He's cruel, sensitive, intelligent.
He's addictive.
God so addictive...To find that your universe craves you, treasures you; loves you back.
Hmm...it's been a while since it posted a significant journal entry; and it feels somewhat responsible for holding up it's corner of the integrity tent, especially if it's pissing it down.
Work for Sir will get more and more hectic as a deadline draws near and with the distance between us whilst it's at university things will be difficult...
Thoughts turn to Miss Penelope and Mr Odysseus. They were a happy couple; contented and sexually adventurous (or so it says...). Then one day Mr Odysseus had a phone call from some smeg-head (most likely named Phillip) saying he had to go off to a war, against some Trojan pansies he'd never even heard of.
So he fucked Miss Penelope up the arse one last time, kissed her politely on the cheek (both kinds) and said he'd most likely be a few weeks.
20 years later she was beginning to get a tad impatient. There were cobwebs in places there really SHOULD NOT be cobwebs and a queue as far as Athens of men wanting to get in, under or around her toga.
She'd discovered early in married life however that she was in fact (it could be described as her blessing or misfortune) designed for just ONE man. Her every fiber was stitched into existence in order that she please, love honor and obey him.
And so she waited.
And would continue to wait until her end or his.
She distracted the idiots at her door by claiming that she would only accept suitors when she had finished weaving, patiently unpicking the previous days work each night (presumably there were no restraining orders).
Odysseuss returned to his Ithaka and to his wife almost two decades after he had promised and found her faithful; devoted to his will.
And it will do the same.
She sits on your desk Sir to remind you, what are a few months in relation to 20 years?
Although wikipedia isn't the most reliable piece of cyber-knowledgy (that's a technical term don't you know) it'll do as a mechanism of definition for this particular annoyance.
It is an annoyance, in the way that bug bites are on summer evenings or that cat that continuously craps on your front lawn. It won't give it the satisfaction of a higher status than these minor pestilences of life; think of it as a flag, naming and shaming aforementioned cat's owner, right in the center of the pile...
'The word may be used as a noun, to refer to women who identify
themselves or who are characterized by others as having the primary
attribute of female homosexuality, or as an adjective, to describe characteristics of an object or activity related to female same-sex desire.'
Have we grasped that rough concept Ladies and Gentlemen and those not quite sure? That means and it will type this slowly so as not to confuse already confused little brains; IF you are a Lady (that being a person with FEMALE genitalia) and you are SEXUALLY attracted to ANOTHER Lady then you a lesbian...
HOWEVER... If you are all of the above but still fucking your boyfriend, husband, male dog or anything with a fucking cock then you are far from a lesbian.
You may be emotionally confused or entirely comfortable with your sexuality but either way the little box that you have clicked yes to is the wrong one.? And it's irritating. To it and to the friends it has that are in fact 'cunt only' kinda girls.
Sexual ambiguity is a frightening thing to some individuals stop making a mockery out of it just because you're too stupid or too attention deprived to select 'bulk mail'.
Someone is daft enough to maintain that it's profile isn't real.
The irony.
Anyone who doubts that it is genuine may happily message it's Master (Devilry), and no ladies and gentleman not so He can get into your knickers and boxers; trust me He has His hands full with it.
It would be a demonstration of trust between us as a unit household and those respectful enough to earn the trust involved.
It knows that the people we care about, have met and continue to create friendships with us.
Perhaps if you are ignored, there is a reason.
Away from her Master and slowly burning up inside; wanting so badly to be home.
'Here's an HONEST
thought for anyone reading this. NONE of the women on here are
submissive or slaves. YOUR PUSSY is always in charge. You decide
everything a man can or can't do. You don't submit until YOU WANT TO.
YOU CAN WALK away at?any time.?The only control a man has is being able
to walk away from your ass. That's the only control he really has. The
rest is a bullshit illusion. Now, anyone that has any touch with
reality at all knows this. Everything else, the clubs, the spankings,
the so-called torture,?the dating, the sex is controlled by the one
that has a pussy between her legs.?She's the one that really controls
everything. If she takes her pussy and?leaves, a so-called Dom or
Master is in control of nothing. So much for this fantasy world. Now
women, play your games and ask your dumbass self why men treat you?like
shit. Even the fucking stupid men know this reality.'?
Ok...Sir asked for a response to this; so here we go.
It wonders as a side note whether or not the spellings, articulations or picture on this particular profile bears any cause to his issues.
The obvious points first; if this statement is such an intricate part of your beliefs then why are you here? We are, it thought, a structured sub-culture based on (as with any culture) traditions, opinions and personal tastes that are all varied but lead, ultimately, to a similar premise.
That through whichever personal preferences, the individual, couple or group choose some retain control whilst others relinquish it.
The result being sexual, physical and or emotional gratification for all parties.
It is not forced (most of the time).
*grins*
W/we are a working example of the strengths and weaknesses of the human psyche. It's inhabitations and social norm shackles removed in order to reach an equilibrium.
And so flows on the second fault; dear writer you seem to be under some misapprehension. Of course a slave has as much control as the dominant, if not a little more.
It argued this point quite recently and in the process won over 15 women at a hen party; convincing them that 'Love, honour and obey' are as relevant a set of vows now as they were a thousand years ago.
Slavery does not function without love, be that love that consumes both Master and slave from the start, or love that blossoms from adversity.
It exchanges obedience for gratification; knowing that it is the centre of His world.
You may beat as much as you wish but 'to break a wench with kindness' takes far more skill; far more wit.
It takes the presence of mind and the desire to create a situation impossible to break free from; women are not led by their cunts (far better word) any more than they are their hearts. You train a colt with both sugar and the crop; and so must you a slave.
Sir certainly doesn't treat this slave 'like shit', perhaps He is lacking this man's clear insight into female psychology?
It would suggest, kindly, that since you seem so focussed on women's cunts in general, perhaps you should consider being on your knees looking up at one; instead of attempting to reign in a creature you have no understanding of.
As for it personally; as Sir once said...there is very little in actuality that He could so to prevent it leaving.
The collar could be removed, tattoos inked over; but if (it never would) it reached that place, would He want it to stay?
?
For Sir and all like Him
The man rules:
1. Men are not mind readers. Learn and accept this.
2. Work the fucking toilet seat, you're a big girl, if it's up put it down. You don't hear men complaining.
3. Sunday sports; like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Just let it be.
4. Crying is blackmail. No, really.
5. Ask for what the fuck you want. Let us all be clear on this; subtle hints do not work. Strong hints do not work. Obvious, flashing neon lights do not work. Just fucking SAY it!
6. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.
7. Come to us with a problem ONLY if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what you are there for.
8. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissable in an argument. In fact any comments over 7 days old are null and void. They have a 'use by date'; like eggs.
9. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask, we don't care; if you're attractive to us it's fucking obvious.
10. If something we said can be interpreted in two ways, and one way makes you either sad or angry, we meant the other one.
11. You can either ask us to do something, or just tell us how you want it done not both; if you know best, do it your fucking self.
12. If it's REALLY important, then say it when the adverts are on. We can pretend we're listening more easily.
13. Christopher columbus did NOT need directions and neither do we; we'll so put you in the fucking boot.
14. ALL men see in only 16 colours, think windows default setting. Peach for example is a fruit not a colour; we have no fucking clue what mauve is.
15. If it itches it will be scratched, no matter how public and where; we do that.
16. If we ask what's wrong and you say 'nothing', we will act like nothing is wrong. We know you're lying but see points 5 and 7.
17. If you ask a question you don't want an answer to then expect and answer you don't want to hear!
18. When we have to go somewhere, it's fine whatever you wear; if it's short or low cut even better.
19. You have enough clothes and too many shoes.
20. Yes we 'love you' 'think you look great' and anything else that shuts you up; if not we have ball gags.
Favourite parts of the day: Sir tends to rise early for work staggers, gracefully of course, to the bathroom and then downstairs for coffee...
The few moments in between are shared ones.
The second bedroom has become somewhat of a changing room, filled with rails of purple and it's various corsets and jeans, neon hair extensions and heels...Sir's suits seem to have been swallowed up somewhat in all the girly paraphernailia...He doesn't complain. Much.
And so He tends to dress in the hall, the door to the master bedroom always ajar, with it still sprawled across the duvet.
It has the pleasure of seeing the layers applied that make up the man everyone sees outside.
Layers that make up the Director (managers are plebs; apparently) of His own successfully growing company; proud and steadfast against everything the world has thrown so far...
It is as amours of that form as it is of everything underneath. It adores that it is one of those rare people to see you bleary eyed in socks and boxers.
It does so hope you treasure the simple actions that it takes too, especially tomorrow; marked with your seal.
Sir said (in the middle of one of our late night discussions) that He couldn't ever quite put His finger on what attracted Him to me.
He said it's an attitude; expressions and focus to get what I want. A desire to have and experience everything.
I want to bathe in life.
And I wanted to share a little of why (other than the fecking great lump of metal round my neck) my place will always be at His feet.
I've always required a certain kind of man, Sir calls them the alpha type, to stay on the rails...
Or so I thought; naturally drawn to them I assumed that would be a solution to how fucking mental I can be. How self destructive.
I am capable of bringing down everything around me; the world was constantly at the point of burning.
You changed that Sir. It could never have been any man. It had to be you...You're confidence and ability to reign me in is unheard of. Your love and trust that however hard or far we fall, we will land. And rebuild.
I'm enthralled.
I hope, though I doubt, that everyone who claims to fit so completely together do. To feel like you were designed to fit one other person fills each moment with euphoria; and the fear that you will one day leave.
I have never looked at another person the way I do you. I am your own.
?
Sir is a cruel fuck; wait. Hmm...it realises the irony of that statement.
(revised) Sir can be an incredibly cruel fuck. Especially yesterday. Or rather last night.
Or rather, when He was teasing about aspects of submission. His submission.
Let it reiterate. Sir is by no means a switch. But then it is by no means submissive *grins* Confused?
People seem to make the common (and false) assumption that just because it willingly submits, body and soul, to one man, it's ready and able to do so with all men (or women...or horses. Don't ask).
Like fuck will it.
Aside from the facts and facets of it's ownership to Him, Sir is sure to testify to the kicking and screaming...brattiness and bawdiness involved in almost *grins* taming a moose (the moose being it).
And no, this is not to state that it is Domme (or even switch happy). It's not.
It's sexually hungry. Experienced. Owned and desperate to be worthy.
It's sadistic enough to know and love that...the fight to get Sir on His knees (in the fantasy in which it could be accomplished) will be well worth the reward of seeing Him there.
You'd beg so beautifully...Sir *grins*
Et al...
Hm. Sir said it has another week to go using it but for some reason it felt important, really important, to write as I...for this. It apologises to Sir and will of course change everything to it if, in the morning, He wishes so.
I hope not.
I've been really struggling with this particular journal and as such dealt with it in that classic idiocentric method; a journal in bad taste and lacking the elegance deserved of the last few days.
To be truthful, I'm not sure even Sir's certainty of my literary talent will stand up to it but I will try...
Here we go.
I have only to hand the online dictionary and so can not be a 100% sure as to Oxfords deffinition, though I suspect it is something similar, when discussing rings.
It suggests, first and foremost, that a ring 'through it's seamless and never ending' path is a demonstration of eternity.
People seal promises with them; and one was sealed most adamantly recently.
In hand rolled stainless steel and tears.
It's warm to the touch, as it can not leave my flesh, a permanent symbol that I am owned; encircled by Him always.
It's a precious thing. Subtle, unless you already know and then you recieve that simple, glazed over smile from either half of a similar arrangement; those that are fully aware of the gravity a simple collar brings to a relationship already built on so much.
It means eternity. His eternity. As long as He wishes it.
...
So as I lay here Sir, parted with You for only a few days and bring myself to the point of denial for the 6th time...my cunt is all the wetter for thoughts of the key upon your chain...
Ahem. If it's a good girl it will be able to type 'I' again after the weekend. Woot!
On a separate and more pressing note...
It travelled an hour and a half each way today. And it's never, as far as memory serves, felt as jittery as it did in that time; the car felt as though it was swimming.
Ipswich contains many things that aren't especially pretty, in both the past and present, but it will always remember the moment that (having searched out the fecking parcel force offices) a particular box was handed over.
It wasn't a good looking box covered in scrawled handwriting and customs stamps; battered and bruised from thousands of miles travel. It cradled it home.
And it wasn't even 'mine'.
It is Sir's. His most precious gift to it to date. Rolled stainless steel. Hand crafted and perfectly formed.?
It warms to the skin.
And now it will sit, out of sight, always in mind...until Sir chooses to lock it around it's throat.
It's sure it will feel quite different locked; the key on His chain.?
Ponderings on 'it'
'A drop of the clear salty liquid that is secreted by the lachrymal
gland of the eye to lubricate the surface between the eyeball and
eyelid and to wash away irritants.'
It is with a man with a fetish for tears. He collects them; they must have a specific cause.
Common tears, ones that fall at the end of blade runner or NSPCC adverts, He's not interested in; ones that are heavy with complicated emotions, He will never want.
It doesn't cry often. God built it out of hard stuff. It is proud; and vain. It does not like to share something so childlike...
But when it does break, it breaks just like a little girl.
He craves the ones that are shared, between Him and it, the tears that most people would call empty. Are they shallow, just because they're coveted by both Master and slave?
It doubts it. They are a testament to everything that is given; on either side. ?
Sir at the moment appears to be churning out the (depressingly witty) journals at a rate of ridiculous knots. Journals are it's 'thing' (though technically all it's things are Sir's things; damnit!).
But it will not be matched in this way!
So in true, guerrilla warfare manor, here comes one stupendous work of sexual psychosis theorem...
Ahem.
In a previous journal entry, various months (and names) ago, it mentioned the routine of bedtime denial that Sir and it had gotten into; through circumstance and hectic lifestyle (how life does get in the way of pleasures) this faded into the background.
But to it that need for attention is a persistent humming; the fly caught in the minds web, never to be fully digested.
It never feels emotionally neglected, by any means, Sir is exceptional in all the 'fluffy' ways needed (as fluffy as a shark with tooth-ache can be...). It's just that sometimes someone pulls the sun across the sky a little quicker and winds all the clocks forward; the time drifts from us. And although we are conscious of it floating by, there is little will or ability to prevent it. Perhaps it is leaking from somewhere?
Anyway, the point it was ambling towards was that, last night it spent the majority of the night with a rather large purple vibrator up it's cunt. Unable to cum. And blissfully serene.
The interaction between slave and Master forms waves of release stronger than any physical orgasm...How strange that it had never accepted that before.
It does now; with every fibre of it's being. God it's fucked up...
*grins*
Sir's household (bar Purple; who looks amazing!) is on a diet.
And a diet of horrific proportions at that; replacing a grizzly, rather untamed, bear's coffee sugar with sweetener (as He rolls from a nest of two women) is proof of the seriousness of it's nature.?
Sir is not a 'blimp' and despite certain moose references from Him it believes the same about itself.
But something, on a purely self worth basis, had to be done.
Ergo. No cake. No chocolate. No crisps. No super-gooey-muffin-and-profiterole-cream-with-cadbury-buttons-on-top deserts here. Ever again. Or at least until it's fought it's way into those jeans...
It does have a point.
Not blinded by love, Sir looks incredible. Still. And always.
It knows. It spends a considerable amount of time on it's knees looking up at Him. And despite His odd pang of human insecurity the man glows with everything it needs; that natural air of dominance and physical presence, commands a room.
The written word simply reiterates, how is it worthy?
It is sure that all are aware the consequences to a person that fucks with a doberman's Master.
It is worse.
To market to market, to buy a plum bun, home again home again; market is done...
It is wonderful to be back in Sir's domain; not that it suggests that it is ever out of it. In truth it is bound to Sir body and soul.
In the last few weeks, whilst it was jaunting around the Hebrides (in the rain), Sir was able to clarify a few things through His incredible intellect (and without the consumption of vast amount of jelly-beans; they unlock the questions of the universe, don't you know?).
You may have noticed, oh best beloved, that 'I' has gained a consonant and become it; and a lowercase it at that.
This is a new and delightfully strenuous (it said that was a real word!) method of reminding it of it's place, both in reality and in the deepest realms of cyberspace.
It is nameless, possession less and only credited the worth given by it's owner.
It is blissful.
For those that are wary of slavery, of total power exchange, it completely empathises. It's hands were shaking as Sir read it's rules; the only true thing it now retains having made that simple, inexplicably clear choice. However it will happily prove, to all curious of the fact, it can still bite whilst on a fucking leash; it purrs for one man...Feel free to engage it and see.?
Sir's most recent journal mentioned an inability to create a situation whereby a person was entirely under the domination of another person or influence; as a slave to a drug.
But in truth that was reality long ago. It has been intoxicated by you Sir. It can barely breathe whilst taking faltering steps in any direction away from you.
Heh. And Sir is as trapped it feels.
We have poisoned each other Sir; it longs for the awaited collaring day in the knowledge that it seals one life to another.
Master and slave; as unquestionable as the ink on it's neck...
P.S Sir has given it it's toys back! :D
I don't often exercise My control over shortcake's profile. I enjoy reading her thoughts as much as those of you subscribed to her journal and I know how much she enjoys her literary ability.
However, she's been a complete brat recently, a brat of biblical proportions.
We don't really indulge in age play, despite a 10 year age difference. However, as she insists on behaving like a spoilt child I feel that age play is the immediate and fitting solution. I have no experience in age play, so I'm going to use the one source of experience I have...
As My father used to say to Me 'you can have your toys back when you learn to behave'. I don't think he was anticipating the context upon which I would draw on his fatherly discipline, in fact come to think of it I never did learn to behave.
This journal, being one of shortcake's aforementioned toys, is going in the box with the others.
shortcake will be back and journaling just as soon as her behaviour permits.
Devilry
Just gone over on my fucking ankle. Hurts :(
Slaves and numbers it would seem often walk closely together. I've
browsed many profiles that feature a 'slave number' and, should Sir
wish at some point, I'm sure He will sign me up (or whatever it is you do) to
get one.
I wonder who claimed the first number?
The 'one' is a strange phrase but then 1 is a strange number, so perhaps the analogy is quite fair; as analogies go.
It is the first integer before two and after zero; the first odd number of natural numbers. I am not a zero (In fact, should you be interested in knowing, I'm a Moose...) and I am perhaps a little odd; a little.
Sir has certainly maintained that I am, as both slave and 'girl', one of a kind. I'm sure that may not always be a positive thing...
But the truth of it rings true; to Him I am the only one. I am not a collectable, not a fine wine to be stored away and not an antique to be merely admired. He loves me for what I am; uses me for what He desires.
I am His first none-zero numerically odd digit. I am most certainly not your 'one'.
Baby can't be blessed, Till she sees finally that she's like all the rest With her fog, her amphetamine and her pearls. She takes just like a woman, yes, she does; She makes love just like a woman, yes, she does. And she aches just like a woman. But she breaks just like a little girl.
Those oh so (not) secret desires we never quite admit to...
*Blindfolds- make me quiver. They utterly scare me and require such trust to be able to maintain calm whilst kept in one.
*Being informed of how well used I am- how stretched out; how disgustingly well fucked.
*Chastity- kept stuffed and unavailable...
*Refusal to be touched- or, should I say, examined instead. Via latex gloves, unworthy of contact, object like.
*The way men beg- or moan, or whimper...The way that strength can be bound; but only temporarily.
*Being named a brat- despite the indignation that, on the surface at least, I maintain my Princess like attributes.
*Auctions- to be sold. To Sir if He desires, if I've been a good girl...Or to be bought for a night; at His whim. To crawl back to Him, a rather more humble little girl in the morning...
*Innocent girls- to play and manipulate...
*Being a slave- and the delicious turmoil it creates within a sometimes dominant personality. ?
Right. There seems to be a little confusion in regards to what/who I am and the things that I enjoy...
I used to happily Domme. I enjoyed it entirely and at some point in the (far off) future I may be permitted to do that again. Those who knew me in that role, saw that side of me, understand how much I enjoyed it and likewise to what degree I was successful. I did do real meets.
Did; past tense.
Who I am, what I take part in and with whom are NOT my choice; ergo requests of any nature should be forwarded to Devilry. Hah; the best of luck in your approach.
I belong to Him, I am content in that place; happy at His feet.
If you wish to question that, think you are able to change my mind or reason with me against that, against His will AND mine then feel free.
Do not then get frustrated if you get bitten; I reserve the right to fuck you up if you DARE to try to take me from where I want, need and crave to be to use for your own desires.
I am not your toy to be passed around, I am His to break as He sees fit.?
CherryRipe is most entirely real (and all woman :P) I have verified this via cam with Sir's permission; as always.
As Sir and I hopefully get to know her better I will edit this journal.
For those that are consistant readers of my work, do say hello to her, she is very sweet.
It would be a pleasure to pop out for drinkskies with her, the slut and Sir :D?
I've just read something on a submissive's profile that made me hurriedly announce (who am I kidding, request) that I must write a journal entry.
It's not the first time I've seen this, or something similar up 'I am not looking for anything 24/7 or to become someone's slave as I think that's just silly!'.
And as aforementioned 'silly slave' I feel obliged to defend my choice of lifestyle... Or at least try to explain it.
I do not, for example, permanently crawl around on my hands and knees. Nor do I feel the need to address Sir as 'His Lord and holiness on high; Masterful and infallible Sir Vader' as I avoid eye contact.
That would be silly. Quite outrageously silly in fact.
So I think, perhaps, people seem to have got this whole 'slave' thing a little mixed up.
I am a slave. I am indeed one bound in servitude as the property of a person or household. I am indeed one who is abjectly subservient to another's will or influence.
I am also one that irritates Master enough for Him to chase me round the kitchen with a look of sheer frustration, lust and dogged determination that, on catching me, He will beat the breath from my bones.
He's always greeted with the same mischievous grin. The flare of competition; of rivalry.
I do not fight Sir; we're not pitted against each other in a struggle for dominance.
But I am not broken either; and I feel it important to remove that associated link. Slavery does not equate to the shredded remains of what was once a whole spirit.
I am me. I just happen to be me at His feet, in His chains; in His heart.
I am His slave every moment of every day, I worship Him; but He still rubs my shoulders after long days.
Purple?s back with us; I crave that contended smile. I think
only those who are submissive are aware.
I miss being so broken, despite current (entire) happiness.
The human mind is a bizarre place.
Sir is singing and I've come to the pleasing conclusion that I no longer need to be in the room, or rather half a foot away, to listen.
As usual, it washes over the metaphorical aching bones and subdues the niggles.
Everything else feels jostled to the back of mind, carried on the hands of reason and rationality; I am loved. I am wanted. I am craved.
Just as I love, want and crave.
(Rather nervous about cooking in case I explode the oven...Could I not take the cane instead *angel face*)
'It's a dark place inside my bubble; come dance with me?'
I think I often forget, whilst caught up in wonderful layers of poignant masochism, just how fucking sadistic I can be. Or, in layman's terms, just how much pleasure I take in another person's suffering.
I'm not required to hate them, to be bearing a grievance or seeking revenge; just raw viciousness.
It seethes.
It's a switch that I have little to no control over and once it flicks, the world transcends into red.
Poor purple, her legs are raw from last night and despite frantic searching there is no remorse. Even for a girl I care deeply for.
I frighten myself a little; how far would I go with no guilt to guide me?
But then come the cool waves of certainty; just as I am sure that I am eternally prevented from hurting myself, so am I prevented from harming anyone else. Stranger or otherwise.
He is the rope that binds me, physically and metaphorically; I feel His arms across me, the words soothe and the blows cease.
I can dance with the Devil, until He tells me to stop.
Everything?s a bit of a jumble tonight (but a good jumble,
the kind when you find an antique for ?10.00); hence the vacant look. I will
attempt to find said Daltons, if you give me a few paragraphs to explore.
Here we go. My name is ***** and I am a
masochist. Previously known confession over, I enjoy the pain of intentional,
physical action taken against me. Rather a lot.
But then I also adore the menial. I enjoy the repetition of
washing the same floor on hands and knees, 5 times; with a toothbrush and
scouring pad. Fairy liquid does wonders
for your knees.
And only at the point when either one of two occurrences
could take place, either I slip and concuss myself due to the amount of soap on
the floor, or my shoulder considers crawling away of it?s own accord (taking my
arm with it. I like my arm); will I call you and confess to the pain. To the
pain and beauty of monotonous servitude?
I apologise for not mentioning about it earlier; I was trying
to think why that was because I knew you?d come up with something of that sort;
you were far too concerned that I continued with the kitchen. And, in part, I
knew I?d get as much enjoyment out of your cunning plan as you did; the
masochistic, slave hungry part.
But then there is always a sick curiosity taken in
everything you instruct me to do. And in truth, there?s a sadistic desire for
you to fuck up. Not in life, only with me. It is one small rebellion fighting
the acceptance of your ownership. I gave up my rights and as such will walk
blindly into any fire you lead in the hope it burns you.
I hope that doesn?t sound as twisted in your head as it does
reading over it.
On an entirely separate note; I ADORE that you come round
and pick fault with things I?ve done, even though I am entirely sorry for doing
them (when not intentional!). In a similar way to the flutter I get when you
say I belong tethered to your desk, like being filled slowly with wine (feet
first) until completely drunk, incapable of rational thought. Everything I do
is with the intent of making you truly happy and contrary to the previous
paragraph hurting you, actual hurt, is an intolerable thought...
I apologise for my ramblings, my head is a strange place;
but then, you did say you quite liked it.
I'm home! Woot! So happy...
Sir has just disappeared off to bed and I will be going very shortly. I have, very recently, discovered a wonderfully new and acute pain; being in a separate bed from my Master. This is not a punishment, more an unforeseen circumstance beyond control (ish). But everything will heal. I know that now. There was never doubt as to the desire, never doubt to the love; just that practical, unshakable doubt, that comes from common fear. The fear of survival and the ability to survive. But I can, we can.
I love you Sir (baby).
Just a quick note to say shortcake has no internet access at the moment and will not be available to reply to any messages etc until the middle of next week. Devilry.
And we'll drink tonight baby; to all those things I deserve (underneath your clothes) for being such a fucking good girl hunny...
Adj: Humble 1. Marked by meekness or modesty in behavior, attitude or spirit; not arrogant or prideful 2. Showing deferential or submissive respect 3. Low in rank, quality or station; unpretentious or lowly
Sir wishes to see His slave humbled; and I am sure that as an owned slave there will be much practise of it...in varying degrees.
The latest method being imposed chastity. Not an issue in itself, you may suggest but when coupled with reminders throughout the day; regularly throughout the day. Make that on the hour, every hour...throughout the day; to the point of orgasm and to be then denied, it becomes a little more humbling.
And that, in this case, is preciously the point. I have somewhat of a gutter mouth (and not in bed, where it's needed, although ironically this changes when sexually frustrated) which seems to get me into all kinds of trouble...
Lots of (all kinds of) trouble.
It's instinctive you see; I've managed myself for so long that...That I know how to get rid of a threat, I know how to hiss; and when up against a wall I morph into a mini fire ball of hissing, spitting and clawing (sorry for the scars Sir...) red hair.
But chastity will (is) humbling me. I want this place. Always; forever at Sir's feet (or wherever He so chooses).
It is notable to say that, amusingly enough (and this is the humiliating aspect), I am currently forming quite an attachment to Sir's feet. Or rather His left one especially. I have an informal relationship with it; as my only release is with aforementioned foot, specifically the heel (for those interested in logistics).
Sir has kindly suggested that I should not fret, in a few months (when a more conformable little fire ball), I should have worked my way up to a hand...
Is dragging innocent little girls onto collarme to seduce :P
Hehe; love you muchly baby girl!
Feeling especially like a dirty fucking girl...
Not even lasting two minutes per fucking time; dear God I love the control He has...
?
Managed three of the four tasks set (ish set) for today...Including one that I think Sir may like...
Still unable to fucking write and it's starting to frustrate me a little as I know it gives Him pleasure.
At least I have tomorrow while Sir is in His meetings...
I truly would if I could, fucking writer's block.
Sir and I have talked... Or rather we have naturally trancended into a new dynamic.
We have moved steadily but quickly; a new space. And so my profile has altered too.
Submission is a beautiful thing; unique to each individual and to each couple. But for us (and this is just us) we feel it to be lacking something. The word feels unfitting somehow; too temporary. Too clumsy.
A total power exchange has taken place; unconsciously, smoothly.
I have acknowledged a relationship that is absolute. Willingly entering into a relationship in which no impediment to the exercise of His own will is accepted; to be moulded to that said same will.
It is a choice. A freedom to surrender freedom. To surrender that same, aforementioned, choice; my volition of all I am to Him.
As such, body and soul are committed; deeper than anything I could truly vocalise.?
Safewords, contracts and limitations are inconsequential; I am His. Based on trust, on the living proof of faith...
This is not given, not taken, it inexplicably is. It is slavery in its purest context.
I am a slave.
As previously mentioned Titus has become more actual than fictional. He is the iron formed around the softer parts of me; holding me secure and keeping me rational (even whilst suffering tooth ache).
I am, I feel, fortunate at 20 to be solid in who and what I am.
And I am solid in that and in this relationship, despite the odd hysterical fit of nerves; of tiredness and little girl fears. Ergo thank you to the Gentleman last night who messaged me; your words, although a little harsh, rang clear.
And by the blessed sun (moon?) I am contented...
Everything new (in a day sense!) fades away; it's been a rather messy evening thanks, in main, to me.
Oh, and the previous post was for her (those of you that saw it before it was removed). Not Him.
*smiles*
Home again with Him and, if possible, I'm more in love than when I left.
My poor unprepared, intemperate heart.
Those of you who have read my profile are aware of the way in which I've previously conducted myself in relationships. And life. I have made a concerted effort to be entirely honest. As unnaturally as it may come.
I fell into this, decieving none but myself.
But I don't feel cheated. I don't feel, as I always feared I would, like a faded version of myself; a diluted and weakened consciousness.
I am filled with the serendipity that a D/s relationship can bring; beyond sex, beyond family and friendship. It runs to the core of who we both are. And binds us there.
I thank the good Lord for this gift; the gift of my Lord; my Master. And for the opportunity to be who I am meant to be.
I am me; in my entirety. I am loved, eternally and as such I will be all I can be.?
Getting dry skin on my pretty face! Slut and I will be doing chocolate (but you can't eat it!) face masks later.
Was an interesting night last night; it went far better than I thought and slut's new base rules (I hate the cheesiness of that) will be followed to the letter, until proved capable and willing.
The tidying/clear out continues today!
I rather miss Sir a lot. Already. It's been 20 minutes.
*sighs*
I?ve been a busy little Cinderella (bdsm style) today?The
rest of the house is to follow the kitchen?
So happy?
Titus is a character of my own making; as a child He filled every fantasy.
Titus as an explorer; hell-bent set on taking me as far as imagination would allow. He was a personal retreat, a place I could go when the world was a little too hard to function in. He was infalliable, father-like, calming.
And as I grew, so did Titus. He was never a boy in my head but He was missing something, something obvious that forms the sexual attraction between a man and a woman.
Titus became wilder, His eyes brighter, darker; with lust and experience.
He became the Captain of Pirate galleons, the sadistic aristocrat, the stranger stood over my bed at night...He became the presence that makes my skin prickle and the words stutter.
I fell in love with a man, entirely created for that purpose.
Titus bought me at slave markets, caught me behind enemy lines, threw me against dungeon walls and stripped me of the trappings of 'real' exsistence.
I was secure, held in His arms; bound to His mast. Spread across His bed.
And under it all, under the spitting, the cursing and the need to cause inexplicable damage on both sides, I'll always end on my knees before Him.
Always crave that place; would always kill to stay there. Is it possible that...after all these years Titus has a face?
I loved you it would appear, before we even met.
Sir has threatened to sell me to pirates...
*ponders thoughts of pirates selling me to Sir...Mmm...English nobles...*
Last night I did old make-up and...just me.
It was worth the crash.
Sir and I had a very frank conversation on the way back from my parents...
4 hours in the car with a Dom can be entertaining...The topic of conversation ended on the way that I've conducted myself in the past, in other bdsm settings...
It's hard to convince someone of empty actions but a lot got said and W/we made a pact to tell each other to shut the fuck up if W/we were worring about unneeded shit.
Has real writer's fucking block and is getting more annoyed about it than I should.
Can't help Him the way I want only the way He needs me to.
And on top of that have to be dressed up on Saturday; if I could be as comfortable in my own style as Sir is then it would be a whole lot fucking simpler.
Woke with Sir today...Hmm feel rather warm and fluffy.
Hehe...Sir finally has His profile up (ish), though it is missing pretty pictures. I believe these to be on their way via a possible photo shoot (Thank you Kathy!).
I may be in some; though Sir is aware that it will be a considerable fight to get me to do so...One I look forward to *grins*
He's home soon...so close...
Sleep deprivation by proxy is a wonderful thing. I don?t
feel violated or wounded by Sir?s decision to keep me in the place I?m in;
rather I have an unquenchable urge to please enough to gain that release.
Except, in trying I never will achieve it. Confused?
Me too. The teasing, seduction, playfulness has intrinsic
value in itself. In raising my hips to meet your hand Sir?I break the rules of
the game.
But I get so close I could?
It?s irritating that my body is somewhat of an ex battle
ground, a map of wars inflicted on it and the negotiations of surrender that
follow.
Sir is not the first man to have me and, aside from the primal craving
that He should have been, I?m glad He wasn?t. I wouldn?t be the woman (girl) He
loves if that was the case.
But my shoulder would still function the fuck properly;
which at present is proving exceptionally annoying?As the position I?m usually
laid in begins to strain it after half an hour or so.
Also in the shower today (still cold ones?) I was contemplating
why I was stood there, before the rest of the house even consider waking up and
how?it wasn?t the shower that hurt. It was a realisation that Sir would stir
from sleep and get up without me being there.
If that is how it felt (in part)
when I didn?t wake and see Him to work last week then the lesson is truly one
delivered well.
Oh and I will attempt to add more things as pondered...
Thank you Sir, as always.
Things being pondered;
Pirate abductions. Being punished...physically...hard. And in public. Bending me over your desk; to fuck, violently as required. Nights like last night; open and unbound but so entirely exposed, lasting through until morning. Your kitchen and the things we could do there... Being gagged and bound; despite the panic that rises in me. Roughly taken in the arse. Your collar... Thick strap-ons. The look on your face, responding to mine, as you draw blood...both so lustful. ...You on your knees... Plugs; in tight and deep.
Fuck me, chastity?
O/our one off adventure is becoming somewhat of a game to
play of an evening; I?m sure?certain that He had that idea from the start.
He knows me; inside and out and it frightens me a little. In
an entirely thrilling way?
I confessed yesterday to craving a collar for the first time
since beginning a journey through bdsm. I?m not na?; I don?t assume that I
know everything there is about the things I want?But I?ve never considered a
physical representation of ownership before, in fact I rebelled openly against
it.
But I want His collar, as openly as I want His marks on bare
flesh.
Evenings make me lustful; more so than before. And fuck I
want Him almost as much as I want that polarisation inside; between desperation
to cum and wanting to be kept in the state He chooses.
Feelings are starting to flood my daily thoughts?Thank you
Sir; from the most shadow filled corners.
I've just hurt Him to save Him from worry; have I done the wrong thing?
I can't lie to Him, in any way and I needed to do what I did...
I'm sorry Sir. I use that phrase so often in this and it never seems like enough. Please be patient with me.
Pink Shortcake. X
A little notation about Sir and submissive?Thank you Sir for last
night; it?s rare I think (or at least in my experience) to create a
dynamic that allows for that, in so small a space of time. And yet
there I lay for you to toy with?unbound (at least physically).
Legs spread wide and wrist against wrist; high above my head, not
painful, just enough to create self awareness. I know you need to wake
early but my breathing is heavy and erratic and you do so insist on
slipping your fingers down?
How could you ever doubt I am yours?
Hmm...Two things tonight really...
First is that, I apologise for the state of my profile page at the moment; it
is quite literally all over the fucking place and believe me it's as annoying
to me looking at it as it must be to read (try to read). This is frustrating
for two reasons: A. Sir kindly gave me the opportunity to re-write (honestly
and openly) the front page to all of my bdsm related accounts and the fact that
it's not up to form for collarme is driving me the fuck insane. B. I hate ugly
things. It looks fucking ugly. So if anyone (I doubt people actually do) reads
these entries and knows why it's doing what it is...could you please message
me? Thank you.
Second point...Is a sort of passing thought about driveways. I'm sort of half
camped out with Sir at present, over the summer, whilst university is
out...There's a long(ish) drive up to the house, a private gathering of owned
and rented farm like buildings. Acres of space and paddocks...Which I hope to
explore soon...in many capacities.
I think I'm wholly addicted to the sound of car tyres on that gravel drive. He
drives an hour (half that on occasion) to and from work each day...
I disappointed Him recently in (being rather hung-over) not getting up to greet
him before He vanishes to work...(I have a weeks worth of cold showers as a
result; to help me feel more lively in a morning). But I am always there, upstairs
window...and the sound of Him leaving catches my breath.
But that time, each?evening is the most intolerable and exciting frame to
life I've experienced yet. And it hasn't dulled in the (almost) month I've been
here. I crave that sound...And I sit at the window, some ridiculously over
eager puppy...Wanting Sir home...
I am an inconsiderate and rather petulant little brat. Sir
is so very patient with me despite me being unable to get the simplest of tasks
right, or to show a reasonable amount of effort. If He can be bothered to
continue to put the time and energy into taming me to His will I will need to
show serious concern for His dominance; which is infallible.
I am His; body and soul. He holds my heart as tight
as any other part and I give it all freely. I will strive to make Him proud and
apologise for past indiscretions.
Happy Anniversary Sir, I hope (unworthily) for many more.?
