Bits of this and that…

Thursday 10th April 2008

Damn, the “dashboard” has changed. I finally get used to how things work, then they have to turn around and change it on me… grrrr ~pouts~ That really wasn’t very nice. At the same time, if I’d been logging in more often, I’d have noticed that things had changed. The only thing I’m really peeved about is that I cannot change the fonts the way I used to. Guess that I will be using the font that came with the layout I chose, or learn the HTML codes they use here.

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Sunday 13th April 2008

4am. It is pouring rain outside. I have been awake since about 11pm, been to the service station for a few necessities (milk for coffee) and home again. Prices are terrible at that place, double what you would pay at a supermarket but it is the only thing open at 2am in the morning here. Surprisingly, even though it is raining, the roads are rather busy out there. It is Saturday night I guess.

The stray cat is fed with a full tummy. Curled up next to me, clawing my thigh in the way cats do. I let her inside when it’s wet and rainy, but she does not normally stay in very long. That was when she had the lil’ white boy to keep her company, now that he has gone, maybe she misses that closeness.
I’ve smothered her in flea powder, shoved a worm tablet down her throat and she’s still purring like a baby. ~laughs~ She is a sweetie. Compared to dear ol’ Zac, she is tiny; a third of his size but a hundred times gutsier. They look alike, they could be related somewhere along the way. Her pattern spotty rather than the stripes that Zac has, similar to a cheetahs pattern. Nope, there she goes, sauntering toward the door, glancing behind at me to make sure I’ve seen her and know what she wants. “Thanks for the food and cuddles, but I want out now”. Gee I’m a sucker when it comes to furry lil’ critters.

The body of the little white cat was disposed of on, Wednesday I think it was. I’m going to miss the funny little fellow. I’m kinda of glad I found him already dead, the last one that was attacked by the that same neighbours other dog, basically died in front of me. I was an absolute mess over him, his pitiful little meows, the way he looked at me as if begging me to help stop him hurting. I felt so useless. All I could do was keep him warm, and stroke him. Then the mad dash to the veterinary hospital in the city an hour later when it got too much for me. It had to happen on a Sunday, no local vets open and I had to get lost as I’m used to going in by public transport. It must have been one hell of a ride for the poor lil’ bugger, he had vomited all over the bedding. I could barely get the words out about what had happened, I was a blubbering mess. I couldn’t stay to watch them put him down.
Hmmm maybe if I didn’t have favourites, they wouldn’t get mauled or just disappear from the face of the earth. Guess it is one less mouth to feed. ~sighs~

Thinking about this, how emotional I get over animals, I wonder why I’m not the same way with people when they die. In the past two or so years, I have had three people die that I knew quite well. I cried over one because I had gone to see her in the hospital while she was in a coma. I didn’t cry for the other two, I became a little teary when I heard the news, but I wasn’t a blubbering mess like I was when I took that kitten into the vets that day.
I had a very dear friend, Christopher; kill himself two weeks before his 21st birthday nearly ten years ago now. I still have not cried for him. He wore glasses, they were the only thing I wanted, but his mother would not let me have them. What irritates me is that I cannot even remember his last name. Oh well, you get that…

Hmm seems this has turned into a depressing entry, my sincerest apologies.

I wish you well,

beast

Awww Pretty…

A brilliant collection of art by Sana Takeda. If I can ever get my art work as good as hers, then I would be a happy girl.

Find Sana’s website here.

Happy Belated Birthday

Ik wens dat u me het was uw verjaardag, Meester had geïnformeerde.
Ik kon een kaart voor u opgesteld hebben. Ik zal me volgend jaar herinneren.

Van harte gefeliciteerd met je verjaardag, Meester.
~kisses uw cheek~

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Find these cute cards here at “Kim and Jason“.

F**king dog…

6.30pm

~sighs~ Well, I did have some news about the only surviving kitten, a little white boy with black spots, finally letting me pat him and pick him up for a cuddle. Dear lil’ fellow. I’d play with him under the screen door, that way he could not really see me and he quite happily pounced at the toy tiger on a sting that I pulled along for him to catch.

The story starts back a few weeks ago, the 30th March to be exact. I’ve written it all out in detail but of course I haven’t yet typed it up. Here is a basic run down on what happened which I wrote to someone.

“I baby sat the neighbour’s Husky dog yesterday. I found it sitting in my backyard, it had dug under the fence, and of course, the neighbours’ did not get home for about 5 hours. Poor ol’ Zac’s tail poofed up to twice its size and I wondered what the stray cats were doing that scared him so. There were no cats there; it was a Husky sitting on its haunches, ears pricked because it had heard my voice.
It is skin and bone, its pelvis/hips are jutting out terribly. It devoured nearly a kilo of cat food and half a loaf of bread, however was still hungry. Unfortunately, I didn’t have anything else to feed it. And for a dog to eat bread willingly, it must be starved.
Poor animal it is, the tips of its ears are all scabby. I bathed them in warm salty water, slathered them in antibiotic ointment. I gave the guy the ointment to keep using when they returned home. I also told them to bath the ears in salt water. The guy said, in the two weeks that the dog’s ears have been scabby, he has bathed them once in tea… tea? What the hell is tea going to do?!?
I noticed as I was walking the dog that two of its legs were/are wonky. The dog’s had one of his front paws broken and it’s healed incorrectly, same with one of his hind paws. I know he beats the dog because it howls. Though it only howls because the idiot has three dogs now. The one dog allowed in the house is his original dog, so the other two that are stuck outside, howl and bark to be allowed inside. I don’t know why he has the dogs, or where he gets them from. He doesn’t look after the two outside. The guy has three big fucken dogs back there in a yard that is not even big enough for a Jack Russell. Don’t know why he has them… one minute he only has one dog, next minute he has three… i was so tempted to call the pound…
Other than the dog’s poor condition, he was a beautiful dog. Lovely natured and he is surprisingly good to walk. Yes, I spent nearly 3 hours walking the darn thing, as it seemed to be the only way to stop him howling, other than food. Poor bugger probably hasn’t had that much attention in months, probably the most food his had in months as well.”

This was the first time I found the dog in the back yard. Over the past week or so, I’ve found him there two more times; today was the third. Seems that the dog no longer goes under the fence, he jumps it. Since I feed the strays out the backyard, the dog hears my voice through the fence. He knows that if he were in my yard, he would get the attention that he so desperately wants/needs and tries to jump the fence. Today, I decided to feed the cats out in the front.

I put out a bowl when I heard lil’ girl whinging for food. I thought it odd that I didn’t see the little white one but didn’t think too much of it. Putting the bowl down, I stroked the lil’ girl who was somewhat apprehensive, overly cautious. The back gate started rattling. I thought it was the white one; all the strays have a habit of jumping through the hand-hole in the gate instead of scaling it. The white one perches in this hole and peers around to make sure that it is save to jump down. Lil’ girl starts, stares at the gate. I cannot see a thing as I’m half naked with my head and torso stuck out the door.
“Come on lil’ man”, I say; urging, who I think is the little white cat, to come and eat. The gate rattles rather violently. The weight behind it definitely not a cat that weighs no more that 2 kilos. The lil’ girl bolts, a mad dash over the opposite fence without a second look behind her. I pull on a pair of jeans and button up my shirt. Upon inspection, I find it’s the husky dog. His muzzle shoved as far through the hand-hole as he can get it; all excited because I’m going to give him pats. Back inside I go, find the rope that I’ve been using as a make shift leash and out the back with a box of dry cat food to give him something to eat. The first thing I see as I open the back door, other than a very excited dog, is a splash of white matted fur; a leg. I could not see around the courner of the house but I already know what I was going to find.
I must have given the dog one hell of a look because he instantly stopped jumping around, lowered his ears, and looked terribly guilty. Roughly putting the rope around his neck, I led him though the house, out the front door up to the neighbours. I didn’t even need to knock, the girlfriend opened the door. She spoke to her boyfriend, “He’s done it again”.
I don’t think I said any more than, “He’s killed the little white cat,” before taking the rope off the dog and walking away. The girlfriend said that they need to get rid of the dog, both could not apologise enough for what had happened. Poor dog knew I was angry at him because he normally follows me back to my place when I drop him home, he knew that his owners were angry at him for he just stood there, tail between his legs and head lowered.

The cat was still warm, not alive warm, he had been dead quite a few hours. Even so, I still checked for a pulse. Stupid, I know, but I had to. His snow white fur was a muddy grey, matted with the dog’s saliva. The only indication of what had happened was a bloodied nose, mouth, and streak of bright red across one of his front paws. I picked him up, placed him in a woolly jumper, rolling him up in a bundle; into a box and two garbage bags. His neck had been broken. So I’m hoping that it was a quick death unlike the last lil’ white kitten that had been mauled. It died in agony after three hours and a mad dash to the vets on my motorcycle.

This is the second little white boy that I’ve grown too attached to that has been killed by one of the neighbours fucken dogs. I’m pissed off, but not at the dog. The dog was just playing, so I cannot blame him. I’m pissed off at the owners. If the dog had the attention and care that it needed, it wouldn’t be jumping into my backyard to begin with.

And I didn’t hear a thing, the walls here are thin and you hear every whisper, meow, thud but there was nothing. Not a fucken thing. I’m peeved off that I didn’t decide to feed the cats earlier when I first woke up at 6am, or even at 7 or 8.
Shit happens, yeh…

Awww well, such is life…

I wish you well,

beast

Wednesday 9th April 2008

Lazy me… :P

Monday April 7th 2008

Once again, I’m letting this journal fall behind. It’s not like I’m not writing anything, I’m writing quite a lot. It is just that it is all hand written and the typing is what makes me fall behind. I cannot type to save my hide; I’d make a horridable receptionist. So it is a good thing I have no intention of becoming one, yes. ~grins~

The last week I’ve been as sick as a dog, well, since Wednesday. I was vomiting that evening and once or twice on the following Thursday morning. I wasn’t even drinking coffee, you know I’m really sick if I don’t go near that. I’ve had a headache ever since, it comes and goes but it’s been a constant. I have no energy, just feeling so drained. All I’ve been doing is sleeping. I haven’t slept so much in years. I tried wandering down to the shops on Saturday but nearly went bum up because I felt so faint. Managed to get to the end of the street before I turned and went back home. Good thing I didn’t ride my motorcycle, otherwise it could have been messy.
By now, it’s really getting to a point that I’ve had enough and I’ve made a doctors appointment for tomorrow at 10.20. We’ll see what he says.

As for why I’m ill, I have a fair idea. I meet a dominant on Wednesday, but he doesn’t smoke. So I brought some patches, trouble is, I only brought the cheap ones, not the Nicobate ones. These patches don’t adhere very well, I ended up sticking two on myself. They only stayed on for two, maybe three hours before falling off. I would have had quite a dose of nicotine with 21mg per patch. Therefore, I can see why I was sick on the Wednesday evening and Thursday. However, it’s been nearly a week, it cannot last that long, can it; there has to be other factors in play. I’ve done a few Google searches for nicotine overdose but they haven’t said how long it can last. Gee, I’m lucky they only remained for such a short time, I hate to think of the state I’d be in had they stayed on all day.

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Wednesday 9th April 2008

Ahhh 7 16am on Wednesday morning. Daylight savings is finally over and the sun is rising at the correct time. WooHoo.

Coffee and more coffee sounds like a plan, and I still have a damned headache.

I saw the doctor yesterday; the appointment was at 10.20 but I wandered in when the surgery opened at 9.30 and he saw me almost instantly. Stories have gone around about him and his surgery. He brings pets into work, baskets of puppies or kittens; or so the stories go. I cannot say that I saw any while I was there. (Speaking of little furry animals, remind me to update you all on them, mine and Ed’s). Anyway, the doctor didn’t tell me anything that I wasn’t already doing, plenty of rest etc. I did ask him to write out a form so that I could get myself a blood test, it might shed some extra light on why I’m feeling so cruddy.
Then dear Master M turns around and says that I could have given myself a mini stroke because of the patches. Said that may explain why I’m still feeling so drained and headachey after a week. Great for a vote of confidence, but he could be right.
Had the blood test done yesterday afternoon, the nurse was good, found a vein first jab; most are hopeless with finding them. She even said that I’m lucky I didn’t end up putting myself into hospital after slapping two nicotine patches on myself. Nevertheless, that’s done, it will take a week or two to get the results. I do hope that it doesn’t take the full fourteen days, I really would like to know what’s wrong with me before then.
I loathe being ill, I really do.

Anyway… I’m going to try to add an entry every day or two. Let’s see how I go with that. :)

I wish you well,

beast

Laughing

I’ve just come across a post from a fellow journal-ist about laughing during *scenes*. About dominants getting mad at their submissives for laughing. It brought back memories of a *master* that I come in contact with years ago.

He was the kind that lived in fantasy land, claimed 25 years of real life experience and yet, once I had met him, I learned that he had never had a sub let alone a slave. I was still fairly new to the lifestyle, but knew enough to tell the difference between someone with experience and one without. I tried as hard as I could to steer him in the right direction for three months, but it was a losing battle. Because he claimed to be *Master*, he was right, I was wrong. I still have scars on my belly and thighs from his incompetence with a whip. I recall having to tell him to stay away from my spine and kidneys when he whipped me. I still shudder when I hear his voice saying he’d like to practice with a bullwhip on me. The sad thing is, though my high pain tolerance, he found he enjoyed inflicting pain. He still claims 25 years experience after all these years in his profile. I can see him seriously hurting a submissive that is new to the lifestyle.
But anyway, back to laughing…

He was determined to make me climax. I had told him that very few people had ever been able to make me do so; he stated that he would. Two days he tried, nearly non-stop as I was cuffed spread eagled between a bed and a make-shift st andrews cross. Sometime during the second night I started chuckling, he slapped me and continued. The chuckling escalated to laughter, I couldn’t stop. I know that I was not laughing at him, well, looking back on it, maybe I was. It just seemed such a futile effort on his part, and the look of intense concentration was, well, *intense*. He growled at me to stop laughing, when I couldn’t, he stormed out of the room. About 20 minutes later he come back into the room, releases me and orders me into position to be whipped. I think he gave me 50 odd strokes before he pulled himself away because he was furious. He growled at me to get into the courner. The next day he drove me to the train station he wouldn’t talk, he was in a feral mood. He kept saying to himself “but I can make other women cum”. ~laughs~ I wonder if he is any better at making women cum? He was in a feral mood for days over my laughing. I still have journal entries about this situation floating around somewhere.

Other times I’ve laughed during *scenes*, most have been because I’ve been nervous. Or the pain is too much such as when my fingertips have been accidentally hit with the tail of a whip. There are the amusing times when a flogger has missed its mark, or flown out of a hand into the courner of the room. Clamps slipping off when they weren’t supposed to. Getting out of rope because it wasn’t bound tightly enough.

Hmmmm anyway, memories are good.

I wish you well,

beast

Tuesday 18th March 2007

The Need for Pain Re-explored….

“Tears – Are my weakness, there is nothing I will not do to extract them and there is very little I can do to control myself once extracted.

Eyes – Full of fear/dread/longing/pain/anticipation gives me joy.
Screams – Those blood curdling cries of pain make me smile.

Whimpers – Disarm me and are the foreplay to my night.

Begging – Drives me on making me want more and demand more of my partner.

Drama – The emotion of the moment feeds my character.

Vulnerability – I can sense it and I like it!

Pain – Is my aphrodisiac.

Sadism – To me is about action and psychology, which to achieve I require a degree of separation. Furthermore in these moments I become selfish and require the balance of the selfless to proceed.”

~Sincere thanks to Sir Ad for allowing me to borrow his words for this journal entry. Thank you, Sir.~

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Yes, you will find that I’ve written this in first person… -shock horror- It’s good to be a little different now and then… ~smiles~ Any entry that is written in first person, was written for another site.

I wrote this particular exploration/journal entry back in early December, I have updated it since then and since coming across a particular sadist’s words over the past few days, feel it needs to be re-explored in some way. This sadist in question spoke of not just the desire/need to inflict pain but also the enjoying the fear. The drama of the interaction between the two people.

Fear, I’ve always been drawn to things that scare me. I’ve been watch horror movies since I was under 10 years of age, I’m desensitized to them now. Most of them are terrible b-grade things that are highly amusing but some, like Wolf Creek, offer a half decent scare. (And strangely enough I found myself terribly wet after watching that movie, well, parts of it. Is that bad? ~laughs~)

I often walk down dark alleys in the middle of the night, walking along streets or in parts of town that “normal” people would not go near after dark. I love graveyards, the cold chill of them and the thickness of the air, a thick stifling presence if you will. I don’t know how to drive a car but three-four years ago I decided to get my motorcycle licence. If you want a rush and a half, do that without having any experience on the road and go out in peek hour traffic. I’m still petrified of riding in traffic, but that rush is great, and I dare say the fear makes you more aware of what is going on around you. And if you get home in one piece, all well and good. If had a few spills; nothing bad, although one could have potentially killed me had it been a busy day, and not a Sunday. I recall seeing the car come out of nowhere and thinking, “Oh shit, this is going to hurt”. I’ve never been skydiving or surfing but they are high on my list of things to try.

I enjoy being frightened. The way my heart pounds so loudly in my chest; the way my blood pumps around my body, it is all that I can hear. The way I hold my breath, my chest tight until I cannot hold it any longer and breath out with a shuddering sigh. The way my body trembles, in anticipation (?), of what is to come, of what will be. The butterflies in my stomach. The way I rock back and forth when I’m scared, my palms get sweaty and I fidget, if I’m not tied up.

Having a dominant standing over you while blindfolded, the sound of his footsteps, the rustle of his clothes, the sound of his breathing. The sound of the whip, crop or leather belt whistling though the air, the loud sharp crack/thud as it lands on your skin. The air that disperses around your body that tells you what is coming. The way your body tenses involuntarily, before you finally resign yourself to the fact that to relax into the blows it will not hurt as much. The sound of his footsteps echoing into silence, as you wait, breath shallow, wondering when he is going to return, and with what.

Yes, I believe the fear and the drama is all part of it.

I wish you well,

beast.

Tuesday 18th March 2008

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The true masochist slave isn’t made, it’s a part of her at birth…
She finds ways to hurt herself as a child, never fits in with the others…
By the time she gets her 1st bloods, she is well on the way to self-abuse…
If you haven’t spent a lifetime giving yourself pain and hiding the scars…
If you have never put yourself into bondage and played with clothespins alone when you don’t have, or are too afraid to ask someone to give you the pain you need…
If your knees don’t get weak, if your cunt doesn’t start dripping as soon as the handcuff’s cold hard steel tightens around your wrists/life…
The black leather hood does not send your hormones soaring, make your nipples hard & knees weak…
Then perhaps you are not a masochist slave at heart…

…slavery is painful, real pain in more ways then you can think of…”

~Thank you to Master H for allowing me to use his words.~

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Masochist n. – 1. A person that derives sexual excitement and satisfaction from his or her own pain or humiliation. 2. one who enjoys what seems to be painful or tiresome. (from – The Australian Oxford Dictionary)

Sexual masochism – Masochism is a term applied to a specific sexual disorder but which also has a broader usage. The sexual disorder involves pleasure and excitement produced by pain, either inflicted by others or by oneself. It usually begins in childhood or adolescence and is chronic. An individual with this disorder achieves gratification by experiencing pain. Masochism is the only paraphilia in which any noticeable number of women participate- about 5% of masochists are female. The term comes from the name of a nineteenth-century Austrian writer, Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, whose novels often included characters who were obsessed with the combination of sex and pain. In the broader sense, masochism refers to any experience of receiving pleasure or satisfaction from suffering pain. The psychoanalytic view is that masochism is aggression turned inward, onto the self, when a person feels too guilty or is afraid to express it outwardly. (from – some online web site)

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Over the past few months, I have taken much time exploring, writing and posting my thoughts and feelings regarding anything and everything from dominant/submissive, Master/slave dynamics to being a slave. I have scarcely scratched the surface of exploring my masochistic tendencies other than to offer a few paragraphs here and there in other writings.

Recently I have come across the words of an Alpha Male saying that a true masochist is born, much like a true slave is. I know that a person can be *trained* to tolerate pain but whether one likes it or needs it, as a masochist does, I’m not quite sure. “The true masochist slave isn’t made, it’s a part of her at birth”, these words made me pause, my mind started ticking and I started going over my life. I have never really thought about my need for pain in this way; I crave, no, needs pain at times to ease my mind or just to *get away*. I have been this way for as long as I can remember, to me, the need for pain, for being hurt just *is*.

I need pain after a bad day; or if I feel that I have done wrong, been displeasing or any other number of reasons. As much as I need a Master, a true dominant, I also needs a true sadist. A harsh, brutally sadistic yet kind and caring Master is very hard to find. A Master that is as happy to beat one black and blue as he is to have her kneeling at his feet with her chin resting on his knee as he strokes her hair. It is not easy seeking One that is a sadist, too many struggle with societies boundaries and words that one should not hurt another, especially not a female. The others are just downright abusive and inflict pain without worrying about the person they hurt. There is a fine line between a lifestyle sadist and a sociopath, or a lifestyle masochist and a battered person. The major factor being consent and the fact a lifestyle sadist cares about the one he inflicts pain on, monitors the reactions of the masochist and either stops if things get too much or pushes gently past boundaries/limits.

I learned very early in life, under 10 years of age, to ease any psychological pain with the endorphin rush of self-harm, namely cutting, which I made every effort to hide from the world. Scars, or “tribal marks”, as I like to call them, on my body bare testament to my need for pain. Once upon a time, I could inflict pain on myself and it would not hurt. An endorphin rush would cancel out any physical pain and I would *float* is a sub-space like state for a time before feeling was returned and I would ache. These days, hurting myself truly hurts, unless ordered to do so by a Master. Self-inflicted pain is different to pain inflicted by someone else; both give you the adrenaline rush, but they affect your mind in two very different ways. It is strange how certain things carry over from childhood into adulthood. Although once adulthood is reached, what once worked previously no longer offers the same solace, ones needs evolve and one craves more.

I remember when I was still psychologically exploring the need for pain and why I wanted/needed the kind of Master that I did. I had started speaking with a Master and he had asked me what I was seeking in an Owner. Upon telling him what I sought and needed, he offered me these following words.

“Ah the need for the hard core whip. The chains attached from neck to nipple to clit. With the weight of the Masters pleasure. Extreme. The edge. The forceful taking of your body at his whim. I understand. I know your type well. The abuse is when you receive your power to be what you truly are. The humiliation is confirmation of the life you want. The Master’s pleasure is the most important thing in your life. You would do anything at anytime to see Him smile at you. Do you not wait for the one that will arrive that you can kneel to; the one, when he walks in, he fills the room. His boots are dirty and you crawl to his feet, there your tongue licks each grain of dirt from it. And carefully, you look up and see him smile. You know that it is worth it”

I recall reading his words; my face blushing bright red and my breath caught in my throat, I started shaking. I’d known what I’d needed before I spoke to him, before I even knew that he existed but his somewhat harsh, truthful words caught me by surprise. I remember trying hard to skirt the fact that his words rang true; I received this blowing comment for my trouble.

“Do not mistake fear for excitement, cunt. You crave this. To be used as you were intended. To be taken at my choosing. To be forced, and tortured. It is all the same to you. Loss of control. I understand this. It is difficult to serve one that means so much to you. The constant fear of his displeasure. The numbing cold of his anger. Knowing that you are only here for him. I know it is important for you to feel the pain. And it will be there each and every night. As long as you breathe, it will be part of you. The humiliation and the pain what you need.”

And this was all he said to me that evening. He left me with a curt good night and told me never to disguise what I needed from him or another like him. I spent a sleepless night trying to make sense of his words, hurting and terribly unsure of myself. I knew he was correct in his observations of me and what I needed, but the fact he seemed to know this terrified me. He taught me to enjoy what I was, what I needed; to accept my needs, and myself, for that I’m eternally grateful to him

Nowadays, I revel in the fact that I need pain.

The rope that I am bound tightly with. The rope that tightens with each breath, seeming to cut me in two. The burning sensation as the rope rubs against my flesh. The pretty patterns that dent my skin once the rope is removed, patterns that can often remain there for days afterward and tingle when touched.

The rope bound tightly around and around my breasts making them grow obscenely large, hard and discoloured that the lightest touch makes me moan in agony and roll my head.

The clovers that offer a burning to my nipples or other tender parts. Often sending tendrils of pain along my spine or directly to my cunt. The way they tighten when tugged or drawn taut with rope. The way my nipples numb if the clovers are pulled for long enough, but offer a terrible pain that shoots around my body when the tension is released. The same clamps that once removed make me gasp, bite her lip and shiver as the blood returns to the surface.

The wide leather belt, or whip, that lands upon my already soaked cunt, making me squirm and hold my breath. My tender, wet skin tingling deliciously; growing more sensitive, more red and more *puffy* with each stroke. The seal from my own wetness that makes the pain more intense. The searing heat that flows from my groin up. The uncomfortable rubbing afterward when I walk and the sting from the heat of water when I shower.

A slapped hand across my cheek hard enough to whip my head to the side and for me to see stars. The taste of blood in my mouth afterward and the tears that appear in the courners of my eyes to roll down my cheek.

A hand gripped tightly around my throat, or a belt pulled taut. The tightness in my chest and forehead as I struggle to breath. The metallic tang in the back of my throat and the way my nose and eyes start to run. The way I struggle against him, try to fight him off even though I know that it is futile.

Having my head yanked back roughly by my hair, the energy that this sends coursing along my spine to make me shiver. Being made to look him in the eye when I don’t want to, because I am afraid of what I will see there.

The needles that have me trembling in abject terror as he inserts them under my skin or through my cunt lips. The twinge of pain as they pierce my flesh, one after the other. The pinching and puckering of my skin. Then tension building until I start to cry and beg him “no more”. Ohhh I loathe needles, I really do.

The gasmask hampering the way I breathe. The condensation on the lens, his hand over the other end of the hose. Controlling me and how I breathe, if he allows me to breath at all.

Hmmm yes, I enjoys the times when my skin is red and welted, when deep purple bruises flower on my skin; bruises that take weeks to fade to a yellow-green tinge.

A visual reminder of my Master when I cannot be near. The times when my body aches, an ache so deep that it hurts my bones but the ache offers a strange comfort, offers contentment and I know that my Master needs me as I needs him. That he offers me this sweet pain because he cares for me, understands that I need it, as I understand his need to hurt me, paint my body with his marks of ownership and I offer to him my body as his canvas.

Yes, after many years I have come to terms with what and who I am. Now, after much thought and exploration I understand that a true masochist is born not made or trained, just like a true submissive is. It is in one’s genetic make-up, it is the essence of who and what one is.

More scattered thoughts….

I wish you well,

beast

Sunday 16th December 2007 Edited- Friday 8th February 2008 “ -Tuesday 18th March 2008

~~~~~~~~~~~

I was speaking with a dominant earlier; he made the comment that he has trouble with his sadist side because it is so selfish. This made me start thinking, being a masochist is as selfish as being a sadist. I have begged in the past to be flogged, or to be given pain because I have needed it. True that the dominant did not mind doing so, in fact, it probably turned him on as much as it turned me on, but it was something I needed. If it had of just been a want, that may have been different, but the dominant in question knew me well enough to know if I was begging out of want or need.

Hmmmm scattered thoughts; I may explore this later.

I wish you well,

beast

Friday 8th February 2008

Heat, cranky cat and friends…

It is another stinking hot day here, it’s 11pm and it’s still nearly 30 odd degrees Celsius (86 F). It was 40 degrees (104 F) today, yesterday and the day before. The weatherman says that it will be the same until Tuesday. A girl rarely trusts what the weatherman says but he has been correct the past week. This weather sucks.. Last night when she checked the weather, it was 98% humidity. That’s the trouble with summer in Victoria; it’s a thick, sticky humid heat. -ugh-

Earlier today a girl came home and jumped into a lovely cold shower. She thought of poor ol’ Zac boiling in his lil’ fur coat, so warmed the water a little and pulled him under with her for a minute. Guess that will teach him to hang around the shower in hopes of a drink. ~laughs~ She only wet him enough to cool him, the water did not soak into his fur, but the lil’ guy was not impressed. When she let him out, he paused at the door, gave her the look of death before storming off to groom himself.
He’s lying in the kitchen at the moment, stretched out at his full meter length (yes, he’s a big boy). It’s cool in the kitchen but would be cooler in the bathroom, the shower… Ohh no he’s gone, he knows a girl was talking about him… He’s probably hiding behind the bed. ~laughs~

Ohhh a girl just remembered, she has chocolate eggs in a pretty lil’ peter rabbit tin that has a music box in the bottom, a friend gave it to her earlier today. Ha, it’s the tune from the song “Memories” from “Cats”. Not a very Eastery tune, but rather apt considering the past few weeks.

~furrows brow~ Hmmm what is it with Easter chocolate, why do they make it differently to normal chocolate? It has a tang, no matter how expensive or “good” the chocolate it is.

Hmm the friend that gave the little box to her, Tony. He’s one of those *very” rough around the edges guys, he works in a factory packing shelves and hauling boxes around. A New Zealander, used to work in a circus years ago before he moved to Oz. He’s got an absolute heart of gold, though his hygiene leaves a lot to be desired. Anyway, he’s standing outside his house right next to the train station, set up a little table and is trying to sell all these Easter eggs and toys that he has brought home from work. He is selling them for AU$2.50 for the smaller boxes and $5 for the larger boxes with eggs and toys. It’s quite a sight, Tony, the other two men all scruffy looking swilling beer as they’re trying to sell enough for a slab. ~chuckles~ Well, you’ve got to give them credit. A girl says hello to them all, a quick catch up before wandering home. She started thinking while she walked, it was just after midday, the hottest part of the day and they’re selling chocolate eggs? They had the table set up under a tree but it was still stinking hot. She wonders if they managed to get enough for a slab… she’ll have to ask the next time she sees them.

Well, enough scattered thoughts for now. Time for yet another cold shower and try and get herself some sleep.

She wishes you well,

beast

Saturday 15th March 2008

And so it begins, and ends, again…

Grrr, like an ever revolving merry-go-round. Words spoken a few days ago, asked if a girl truly wants this… She retorts and says he does not, if he did, he would be here for a girl, or at least acknowledge her existance… Bang, he does not like being questioned in this way and so, he we go again…

Having not spoken to him for nearly two weeks, how owned would one feel after this… Damn, why bother even having a slave if you aren’t going to speak to her. A girl understands that life often gets in the way of things, computers decide to play funny buggers and one gets behind with messages. It’s life, that is how it works.

A girl truly wonders why she bothers at times… It is so much easier being single…

Time for thoughts and reflections she thinks…

 

Don’t you just love neighbours….

~ growls~ Ohhh a girl has just had an argument with her idiot neighbour over a shopping trolley. He brings the darn things back from the shop and leaves them in his carport, directly in front of a girl’s front door. At one time there must have been about ten of the things sitting there. All of a sudden, a few weeks ago he gets rid of all but two. The past week he has his mother’s car on loan and the trolleys are now out of his carport in front of a girl’s place. Back and forth over a few days, trolley is moved. A girl moves it back. It is not her damned trolley so it should not be in front of her place. Today she moved it into his carport, caught him as he was driving in. Asks a girl if she moved it there, she told him she did, that it was not hers so is sick of it in front of her place. Tells him, if he wasn’t bringing the damned things back when he goes shopping, they would not be here. He lies and says they are not his, considering she has watched (and heard) him bring them home before, she asks who brought them back. He gets nasty, starts the inane, childish name calling, blah blah blah.
Ohhh scare a girl.

She offers him a few home truths; of course he denies everything. Telling a girl that she does not know him. Funnily, we used to be on speaking terms; fuck, she even knew his parents rather well. She has known him for over 4 years, so she knows him pretty darn well. He’s the type of guy that if he does not get his own way, he pouts and throws a tantrum. ~laughs~

She knows that he is still beating the crap out of his dog, knows he tells it to “Shut the fuck up” when it starting the breathless, agonized whines and yelps after it has been beaten.
She knows that he stole the other neighbour’s pups so that he could sell them to score smack (heroin), she knows because she recalls the argument between them both, when the other neighbour nearly ran him over before he admitted what he had done and apologized. Damn she wishes he had been run over…
She knows he nearly killed a good friend with an iron from behind one night after her friend offered him a cigarette. Her friend still has fucked eyesight because of this, but never did press charges. While a girl does not believe in dobbing on people, fuck, a few inches off where her friend was hit and her friend would have been killed.
She knows that he put razor blades in his gate to try to stop the stray cats from jumping through and eating the dog’s food. She still has photos of the razors in the fence. He didn’t do a good job installing them though; anyone with half a brain would have put them in with the blades positioned so that they disemboweled the animal as it jumped up.
She knows that he has fucked over nearly everyone in the street/suburb, except the other junkies that he keeps close so that he can *borrow* drugs or money from when he needs help. God, she’d like some of her own money back, he owes her hundreds of dollars, he always said “I’ll pay you back when I get paid”, of course, pay day never fucken came. But if you borrowed money from him, he’d be on your doorstep until you gave it back to him. She only made the mistake of borrowing money from him once.
She knows that all of a sudden he has custody of his 9 year old son. Something a girl finds odd because the son told his mother that “Daddy takes me to get his medicine” and the mother swore he would never see his son again. Now, he has custody of the boy, he is still fucken using smack, he has started beating the crap of the dog. It’s only a matter of time before he starts belting the crap out of his son. The kid is not even going to school. The kid used to adore a girl because she let him play video games, but now when a girl sees him, the kid gives a girl this odd expression. A somewhat pained expression of apology, or maybe it is regret…? ~shrugs~

Okay okay, she’s whinging now… But fuck, she’s so over this guy and his antics that it is not funny.
Why can’t she get a decent neighbour for a change? They all seem to start out okay, but they all go down hill pretty quickly.

Anyway, enough whinging for now…
But you gotta love her neighbour… Anyone what to swap?!?

She wishes you well,

beast

Tuesday 11th March 2007

Photograph taken from Stray Shoppingcart.
~chuckles~
Yes, poor ol’ stray shopping carts need our help.