Gasmasks, Ropes and Freedom

I had completely forgotten about Lochai’s photography until I started stumbling around SU again. I’ve used the above picture as an avatar on MSN and Yahoo for a few years now. -shush- Don’t tell him I just said that… ;)

Gasmasks, there is something about them that is strangely compelling and frightening at the same time. Facelessness, alien objectification; a nobody. And it ties in beautifully with breath play. ~smiles ever so sweetly~
Lochai seems to take photographs of this particular fetish object and make them speak, give them a voice and an oddly strange beauty.

Most will know the above photograph, it has been going around the web for a long time. It still is one of Lochai’s most beautiful and moving pieces. Unfortunately, this small picture does not do it justice, it needs to be seen full size.

They do say that pictures speak louder than words, and you can see the passion and care that emanates from these photographs. The models are comfortable, they just *are*. Nothing posed, nothing forced.

Well, this has turned into a review of sorts, my apologies.
Some lovely photographs from a very nice man.

I wish you well,



Thank you for giving me permission to use your work, Lochai, Sir.

Find Lochai’s work here at © Kirinawa and at DeviantArt.

Bondage Drawings

Some beautiful drawings of Japanese bondage.
Unfortunately I have no idea who the artist is.

They were found via The Fork Beard.


“They shall grow not old,
As we that are left grow old,
Age shall not weary them,
Nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun,
And in the morning
We will remember them. Lest we Forget.”

Today, April 25th, is ANZAC Day here in Oz and New Zealand. The day where we remember those who fought for us at Gallipoli in World War I. We remember those who fell and those who made it home, more or less in one piece.

My paternal great grand father fought in this war, “The Great War”. He was only 16 years of age when he enlisted, lied to get in. Go away and see foreign shores, fun and adventure and a chance to fight for his country. Upon seeing the photographs of my Pa in his uniform, he looks all of 15. He spent his 18th birthday over there. Unfortunately, I do not know much more than this. I was only 5 years old when my Pa died of cancer. I do have fond memories of him, a frail, bald old man, a two inch diameter scar on the left side of his scalp where a piece of shrapnel had been removed. I was his first great grand child and so he adored me. I recall sitting on his lap, we played a game with little wooden pegs. I have no idea what it was, but I remember the little coloured pegs vividly.
The things you remember, huh?

It is sad when I think back on school and do not remember learning very much about World War I or II. I am sure it was in the curriculum but it would have been just something in passing. A shame that it is not spoken about more, that we forget what came before. Forget those who sacrificed their lives so that we can live the way that we do, with the *privileges* that we have. The freedom that we take for granted. True, we must not dwell on the past, but the past is what made us, our countries what we are today.

Only recently, speaking with a very sweet Master M, that I have learned of how the Australian troops helped the Dutch colonists in Netherlands East Indies during the Japanese invasion of Indonesia in World War II. It seems that we know so very little about what the Australian troops did, it seemed that they were everywhere; helping wherever help was needed.

Hmm anyway, just scattered thoughts.

I wish you well,


Friday 25th April 2008



Sing me once more
the old songs of war
that we marched to
– ran to, sang to…
with rifles slung, and joyous
along the lanes and byways
that summer we enlisted,
when we joined our chosen Corps.
Before the bloody war.

Sing to me once again
with the innocence of callow youth
fresh faced young warriors
who know not…
the sound of battle,
the screams of the wounded and dying,
the smell of stale sweat and blood
or the enveloping stench of death.
Sing to me Comrades. Sing!

Sing softly to me Comrades
of gardens of stone
in the foreign places
with names of those gallantly fallen…
far from home and hearth,
far from love, family and the familiar green fields of home…
in endless gardens of stone.
Not forgotten but forever immortal
in granite, in marble and bronze.
Their song is in granite and bronze.

©Copyright May 2005 by Mike Subritzky

The Mirror

Grasping my hair, he roughly drags me to stand in front of the mirror. I whimpered as he turns my body to face the image that peers out through the silvern looking glass. A strong hand at my throat, forcing me to look.

I close my eyes, whispering, “Please Master.”

He shakes my head, fingertips, and thumb digging deep into my skin. Growling low, softly in my ear.
“Girl, you will look.”
His hot breath next to my skin making me shiver involuntarily. Sharp teeth sink into my shoulder, I moan, sagging against him, my hand creeping to his thigh, hoping that I can make him forget why we are here.

His voice, deathly low now, “I will not tell you again, cunt.

Trembling I open my eyes, staring, unfocused at the reflection of my Master and me. His eyes meet mine in the mirror; even here, I cannot hold his gaze. His brilliant blue eyes have a way of piercing my very soul, drawing me in and I fear them.

The grip about my neck loosens and he smiles at me. “That’s better pet.” Draping his hand loosely across my breasts, he continues. “Now, tell me, what do you see, my girl?”

I raise my gaze again, searching the image. “You Master, my owner,” I pause, knowing what he wants. “And me, Master; your slave.”
He nods, one hand moving to my breast, cupping it firmly. Thumb and forefinger twisting my nipple, a silent gesture to warn me that he is not playing.

I continue, starting to stutter, my voice wavers. “I see…. Your cunt, Master. Your slut, your pet. I see the one you honour with your ownership.”
My eyes move to the fading bruise on my left thigh. “I see you marks that paint my skin, they fade. Your heavy collar around my throat is naught but a symbol of what I am to you. I see the one that trembles in fear when you walk into a room, and yet she smiles at the same time. Her soul flies when she is at your feet and she can draw your strength from you.”
My eyes close, I lower my head to kiss his forearm before looking again at the mirror, into my own eyes. Hiding my face behind his arm, I speak one last time, tears welling. “I see… I see your beautiful beast, your piece of fuck meat. I see one who is nothing without you.”

He embraces me tightly, I swallow hard, fearful he will want me to continue. He moves around me, shielding me from the image, pulling me close. I nuzzle my head against his chest, wrapping my arms around his waist and he pats my hair. Long, heavy strokes, from the crown of my head to the nape of my neck.

“Good my pet, good. Yes, I will make you see yourself through my eyes one day. You will see all that I see, then, maybe then, you will understand why I am so harsh with you.”

© beast
Saturday 19th April 2008

Photograph © Edwards Photography.

With sincere thanks to Tommy Edwards for allowing me to use his work. Thank you, Sir. :)

Corner Time

My last Master liked “corner time”, something I had never encounter with a dominant before. Hmm no, I have. Slept in a corner at night without a blanket, I’ve done this numerous times; sometimes clamped, sometimes not. What I consider “corner time” is standing in a corner, facing the wall, this I had not encountered. It’s very “Daddy” in my eyes, as is spanking with a hand over someone’s knee. Remembering the first time he sent me to the corner, I recall thinking, ‘Huh, what in the world for?’ I held my tongue of course, had I said anything I would have been cuffed across the face.

“Stand in the corner,” he told me. “Face the wall, legs shoulder-width apart, your hands on the wall before you. You may rest your forehead on the wall if you need, but you will not move from that corner until I call you back.”

I stood in the corner, I laughed at first, thinking how stupid this was, but the thought died very quickly. The corner was cold, goose bumps rose on my skin; I started to rock my hips to warm myself a little. If he saw this, he made no mention of it. I remember turning my head after a time, looking over my shoulder searching for him. I was going to ask him a question but I thought better of it and faced the wall again. How long I was there before he called me back, I cannot say; too long maybe, not long enough. My snippy remarks that invoked this mild punishment were long gone and I knelt at his feet staring at his shoes. I did not say a word unless he spoke to me first.

I would never have thought that something as simple as “corner time” could have such a powerful effect. It reinforces submission; it puts your head in a space of total obedience. Or, I found it did for me.

As time past, punishment spent in the corner was sporadic, but it was always punishment. In the corner, breasts bound so tightly they turned purple. In the corner, nipples and cunt lips clamped. Then came the weights if I was really snippy. No need to go out and buy special weights, nope, a medium to large spanners will do the trick. And the times that were the worst were when he had me play with my/his clit. This always does my head it, it always will. I cannot cope with knowing I have been displeasing and yet being allowed to pleasure myself.

Anyways, just a few memories brought back to me by seeing this photograph.

I wish you well,


Tuesday 22nd April 2008

Photograph © Elena Vasiliva Gallery

Awww how apt… :D

Pilfered with many thanks from Mistress Lady Black.
Who in turn snatched it from this site. I’m not sure if it’s any good, I’m still having a look-see.

I wish you well,


Cartoon originally from Cagle Cartoons.

“Shadow” and my first spanking…

I never did speak about the dominant, “Shadow”, that I meet on the 1st and 2nd of April. The one that I made myself sick for; yes, the patch episode. I came across him on alt, or more truthfully, he came across me. He only wrote to say that I had a good profile; he did not expect me to respond. Of course, I did, and we started talking. We had a lot in common; enough to have made a relationship work and we had enough differences to be perfect. Our views on a slave being no more than a pet, an animal, a piece of property, were horribly similar.

We sent each other rambles (long messages) for a few weeks before he turned and said that he wanted to meet me, there is only so much you can learn from a person online. He lived interstate, I half expected him to say that I was to be the one be to go and meet him but he threw a curve ball and said that he would fly down here. I’d much rather be the one going out of my way to meet someone, it makes things so much easier if I don’t like them. I’ve never had someone go out of their way to meet me, I found it rather sweet to be honest.

Anyway, he arranged to fly down on the Tuesday and fly home on the Wednesday evening. In all honesty, I did not want to meet him, I was (and am) still getting over my last Master, and things were going way too fast for my liking. Even in my profile on alt I had said that I was only seeking friends. However, it does not matter what I, a *slave*, wants. In addition, I needed punishment for something that I had said earlier that he had found terribly offensive; so, like it or not, I was going to meet him.

I had bike problems the Tuesday morning when I went to do a little shopping. I had promised him I would not smoke that day but it did not quite work out as planned. I met him in the city in the afternoon. I called from a pay phone to tell him I was there, after walking around the city once and wasting nearly half an hour. I was pretty peeved by the time I got to the city. I desperately need a smoke and I did not want to be there.

Guess I should take more notice of people’s photographs when they send them to me; a man walked past and then came back. It was he. I started shaking, sweating, a real mess I’m sure; I was rather defensive each time he spoke to me. We had both spoken online that we were good judges of character, knowing within seconds of meeting someone whether we will like each other and where the meeting could lead. The minute I saw him, I knew he was a Master, but I knew he could not be my Master. I knew there was nothing more in store than maybe friendship. We walked and chatted for a while, he offered coffee, something to eat but I don’t do public places very well. I thanked him but said only if he wanted something. He could tell I was uncomfortable being there in town, so we end up in front of his hotel.

It is obvious what he wanted, obvious as to why we are in front of his hotel. I kept whinging that I wanted a smoke, that I wanted to go home, begged him in the end but he wouldn’t let me. Well, that’s not quite true; I could have, at any stage, just up and walked away but I stayed. We must have sat on a seat a block down for an hour; I was acting like a two year old. ~laughs~ He was determined, I’ll give him that. He made a comment about the dog choker chain around my neck, I half expected that he would do as he said, and drag me up to his room. Finally, he said that if I come up to look at his drawings for 10 minutes, I could leave as soon as those 10 minutes were up. I thought this over and agreed. In his room, he even set the alarm on his phone for ten minutes. His drawings were quite good, a collection of cartoons he had drawn over the years. I think he should draw more, but then, he said the same of me. :) I stayed about fifteen, twenty minutes before I left; he even walked me to the station and went with me into the Coles supermarket to get cat food.

I called him when I arrived home, apologised for my behaviour, promised that I would be there in the morning. It was a long, long night. Poor ol’ Zac threw up all over the place as soon as I had nodded off to sleep, I spent the next hour or so looking after him to make sure that he was ok. By about 3am I dropped off to sleep, I had set the alarm for 6am; that would give me time to have the world’s quickest shave, wash my hair and try and get rid of the smell of cigarette from my hair and body. Because my sleeping pattern was completely disrupted from the previous weeks events, I slept right through the alarm, waking up at the time I was supposed to meet Shadow. Again, I called, apologised, and said I would be there as soon as I could. I then proceeded to race around like a headless chicken getting ready. I walked to the train station, last time I took the bike the darn thing died on me. I had just missed the train so I went to the chemist to buy some nicotine patches. Yes, yes, nasty horrid patches.

By the time I reached the city, I could hear nothing other than my heart in my ears and I’m sure I was trembling visibly. I did not want to do this, but he had come all this way to meet me that I figured that I would give him what he came for, what he expected. I met him in front of the hotel and up we went. I’d resigned myself to what was gong to happen, no point in stressing over it. See, this is why it is easier to go to a dominant. If there is no M/s connection after an initial meeting, you don’t need to go through this. Someone is lucky to get me alone in a room after the forth meeting, let alone what was to about to happen.

Mindless banter in the elevator up to Shadow’s room, I sat on the floor in front of him and he sat on the bed. More mindless banter; I let him read the journal entry I wrote that morning and then he told me to strip. Slowly but surely I removed my clothes, shoes first and I worked my way up. There is no point in trying to be modest, no point in trying to hide anything.

He had me stand legs spread, arms at my side as he checked me over. He spoke softly the whole time, I still haven’t a clue what he said. When he went to check my mouth, I balked. For some reason I am more self conscious of having my mouth wide open than I am having my naked arse up in the air. I think it also had to do with the fact that I am a smoker and he wasn’t; even though I must have brushed my teeth about ten times that morning, I’m sure he could still smell cigarettes on my breath. I remember him letting it go, said he would “get to it later”. Down on hands and knees, crawl…. You know the usual stuff.

Stand again; he tied my arms behind my back with a length of rope before sitting on the desk chair and telling me that it was time to be punished for what I had said weeks earlier. Over his knee like a little kid, this was new; rather awkward I must say. I’ve never been spanked before, still not sure if I liked it or not, cannot say that it did anything for me. I haven’t a clue how many times he spanked each cheek with his hand, he did not ask me to count as others have done in the past. I was too busy concentrating on not putting my full weight on his lap, even though he told me to.

After a time he stopped and told me to stand, I think he hugged me, or it could have been later. He then told me that I needed to be punished for both my tardiness and behaviour the night before. On to my knees again, leaning over the footstool, I heard him take off his belt. Speaking he said that he did not normally use a belt but it was all that he had. I recall the first stroke on my already red arse jolting the breath right out of me. The sound of the leather connecting with my skin echoed around the room and I hate to think what the people in the other rooms thought if they had heard it and the earlier spanking. Again, he did not ask me to count; I have no idea how many strokes he gave me. I closed my eyes and relaxed against the blows; wishing that it were my last Master, hoping that it was but knowing full well that it wasn’t. When he stopped, I allowed myself to breath again. I felt his hand between my legs and he mentioned something about my being wet.
I cannot remember if he took the ropes of while I was bent over the footstool or not but he had me stand up. He sat down on the edge of the bed as I knelt between his legs with my head against his chest as he held me. Stroked the rising welts on my skin and said he liked the feel of them as they rose, the heat that came from them.

I ended up flat on my back on the floor, by this time the last patch had fallen off and I was feeling rather ill. Pinching and pulling at nipples and lips, he spoke of piercing here and there. Fingers between my lips and to my mouth, I turned away. He tried a few more times but I refused before turning onto my stomach and started to sob like a baby. It’s not as though I don’t like the taste of myself, I rather do, but it was getting too much. I shouldn’t have been there, I wanted him to be my last Master but he wasn’t. I had even stated in my profile I had only been looking for friends. So what had occurred between Shadow and myself came completely out of the blue. He held me for a time before moving back to the bed. I don’t know how long I cried for but it seemed as though I sobbed for hours. I felt so stupid, I hate crying in front of people I don’t know. I hate crying full stop; I feel crying is a sign of weakness, I always have. To cry in front of Shadow, I was disgusted with myself for showing him this, I still am.

He allowed me to dress, for which I was grateful; not that it mattered too much by this time as he had seen me both naked and sooking. He had seen it all. Still I cried, each time I attempted to speak, I just started anew. I couldn’t seem to stop myself. Eventually the waterworks stopped and I sidled up next to him and just knelt there with my forehead resting against his shin. If I hadn’t have started crying I would have gone straight home as soon as I dressed. We spoke a little but mainly just sat there, me at his feet, occasionally he stroked my hair and that was all. This is what I miss the most with having a Master. The quiet times, when you do not need words to fill the silence, the times you can just “be”.

Hmmm yes, so that was that. We did end up watching a movie, except I was so tired and ill by that time that I slept through most of it, with my head on his thigh. I’d planned to stay with him until he left to catch his plane but I needed to go home. I was dizzy and felt like absolute crap. He walked me to the station and I went home. I should have caught a taxi home, it was peak hour, the train was packed, and I stood the whole trip home. My head was throbbing; the idiot standing next to me had an empty can, he was “clicking” it. I could have throttled him, or spewed on him… Grrrr At my stop it was *lovely* to get off the train only to attempt to vomit a few steps later. I was sick as a dog by the time I got home; I gave Shadow a quick call and wished him a good flight home before crawling into bed.

You know, I’ve only just realises how very near I got to putting myself into hospital that day by stupidly putting two nicotine patches on. The lethal dose of nicotine, for an adult, is 60mg, while the lethal dose of arsenic is 200mg. The nicotine in patches is more potent because it needs to be absorbed though ones skin. Now I put on two patches at 21mg each, so that was a dose of 42mg. Gee I’m lucky they were the cheap ones that didn’t stick very well, I could very well have killed myself or put myself in a coma if they had stayed stuck. Guess this is a word of warning about using nicotine patches.

Regardless, I had a brilliant black and blue bruised arse that is only just now nearly gone. There is still the faintest yellow tinge to my skin. I’m just sorry it didn’t hurt more than it did. Gee I whinge… :P

Anyhoos, that’s more than enough for now.

I wish you well,


Wednesday 16th April 2008