I highly recommend trying out mending your own clothes when they have holes or tears. Even if you’re totally new to sewing and mending and not skilled at it yet, it genuinely changes how you feel about your clothes. Just trying to darn a small hole in an old tshirt, or trying your best to tidily sew it shut will make it go from being just a shirt you own, to being something you’re maybe a bit proud of. If you do visible mending, it’ll also make whatever you fix up into something unique. It’s a nice feeling.
It really is!
Mending your clothes allows you to take a step back from the mass production and planned obsolescence that rule the fashion industry, and to regain agency over your wardrobe.
When you mend something, you truly make it yourown. That t-shirt may have been produced thousands of times, but the one you own is uniquebecause you’ve infused it with a bit of yourself. That’s something to be proud of, regardless of your skill level!
Master Sean is definitely going to need one of these for “it” to teach His fag how the hell to shut the fuck up and wouldn’t doubt if, it wasn’t already in His plans! ~ justin
I want this kind of behavior to be engrained into me. It’s an exciting idea, the idea that I could be made to obey with just the crook of a finger. The idea that I would know exactly what to do with just one quick, silent signal. That’s ownership, isn’t it? That’s control. That’s the result of having been molded into a pet, a plaything, a very good girl.
I want you to teach me. Teach me how to kneel, how to present myself, how to crawl. Teach me how to obey without hesitation, how to suck your cock the way you like it, how to take every inch of you down my throat. Teach me where to put my arms when I’m on my knees, where to put my legs when I’m on my back, and where to put my eyes when I’m standing. Teach me what it means when you snap your fingers, when you crook one finger, and when you nod in a certain direction. Teach me how to come when beckoned and cum when allowed.
Everything else will come naturally. All the sounds I make, the way I move my body, the way I handle the pain, the pleasure, and the painful pleasure. My worship will be genuine, my love sincere, and my adoration will know no bounds, as long as you return it tenfold.
Tell me what to do.
I need it.
I posted about slave training earlier and I wanted to post this too. Crimson-uncovered’s needs perfectly compliment those of any Dom. We want completely obedient subs. We want to mold them to do what We want, when We want and how We want it.
I would have no problem returning the adoration of a girl who was this submissive to me.
I’d burn your name into my skin if I could - wear your initials like a brand. Mark me as your own, shackle me, claim me utterly. Cage me like a bird or tether me like a horse.
For those reading who’ve stumbled across this post and haven’t read the previous one, give it a quick read first then come back here. It provides context to the following story.
So I’ve just bought my first property with my little egg of savings from my time in Melbourne and now I’m babysitting my infant New Zealand bank account containing $0 and my obese mortgage balance that sucks directly…
For those of you who read the blog way waaaay back in the day, and have a robotically good memory, you may recall that in 2014 I bought a house in New Zealand and in 2015 I bought a second one.
I’m not rich by any stretch, I’ve never been given anything and I’m not even a particularly good saver; but there is a story, and this is how it went down.
“Good morning. On Friday evening when you arrive home you will shower, put on one of my button up shirts and a pair of long socks and, Mother Nature permitting, nothing else. You will have the collar on the bed, ready for your Master to Adorn you with it.
Do you have any questions?
Master”
Took me two full days to reply, with a question. Good thing I re-read His note because: long socks.
Cohabitation has done funny things to O/our intimacy. In many respects it has brought U/us closer; closer to being comfortable and a little less formal but not casual or taking each other for granted. In other ways, I feel as unsure of myself and awkward in my desires, at a loss knowing what He wants from me. Clumsy, nerdy still; as I was the first time W/we were unbuttoned, naked together. Regardless of what happens it’s always fun and exciting, and even if nothing happens it’s all good. I just love being around Him.
Time to go find some long socks before He comes home. Enjoy your evening.
i am a sub for about 3 years and if u say “ everyone does pay before” than u are a lying and thieving scumbag and your mother is a kurwa. u can try and learn new tricks but im too old for that shit
If someone ever sees me in real life, you have the right to collar and own me on the spot. I will be yours and yours only and I will sign away all my rights.
One year ago today, I sat in my apartment talking geek with my best friend and bemoaning the state of my chaotic, decision-filled existence. I’d known for a good long time that I needed a Master to keep me in check, but truly good Masters are hard to find and life is always so fucking complicated…
It was a year ago today that my best friend offered me a gift: “I’ll own you.” And “I’ll take all those pesky decisions away.” And “I’ll give your life order and boundaries and punish you severely when you bring chaos into it and try to make your own choices.”
I was terrified, but how could I refuse? If you can’t trust your best friend, who can you trust?
So an instant later, I was ordered on my knees and dragged into the living room by my hair, heart beating like a wild drum, and cunt wetter than it’d been in far, far too long.
There’s no going back now.
Happy anniversary, Sir. Here’s to another year of being owned by the only person who understands I’d rather be locked away in a toybox than worshipped on a pedestal. I adore you.
Last night on Skype, Reaction Junkie asked me how hard it is for me to carry on conversation when I have something in my holes. Thinking that he wanted me to fuck myself with a dildo while we talked, I thought back to all the times I’d Skyped with The Super Sadist and Marxman while fucking myself. I told him that having something in me wasn’t very distracting.
“Good,” he said. Then he asked, “How long can you wear a plug for? Can you wear a buttplug for eight hours?” I hemmed and hawed until he finally said, “Can. You. Wear. A. Plug. For. Eight. Hours?” “Yes, dear,” I responded, looking down. He smiled at me and informed me, “You’ll be wearing your plug for eight hours at work tomorrow.”
I was happy to do so, and said that it might even be helpful, since I’m seeing Legolas today and plan to be prepared for anal. Reaction Junkie thought for a moment and said, “Well, maybe you should have something in your cunt, too.” I wasn’t sure and said, “I don’t know if I have anything that will stay in.” “That depends how tight your underwear is, doesn’t it?” he responded. I agreed, and he informed me that I would keep my small dildo in my pussy during work, and when I leave for happy hour tonight, I’m to switch it to a larger one.
I smiled, despite knowing it could get uncomfortable. He hasn’t given me many, if any orders like this, that last for an extended time and provide a constant reminder of my place, and I really enjoy them. I lovelovelove our switchy dynamic, and wouldn’t change it. However, it does lend itself to a reduction in the time I spend feeling properly subby, since I feel as though I could take control at any moment. Of course, realistically I know that he owns me, that he’s in charge, that he enjoys bottoming and the feel of submitting so he allows me to play at that role, but I don’t always feel that truth on a deeper level. Sometimes I miss falling into submission like I used to, that heady feeling of being controlled, the fuzzy warmth of being owned.
With this instruction, to have two of my holes filled all day, I can feel a bit of that old subby headspace coming back, especially as I write this. It’s intoxicating and makes me want to think more subby thoughts. I want to be obedient and fulfill the orders given to me. The large dildo may be uncomfortable, but I’m not going to ask for him to change his orders. I risk public humiliation if someone notices or if the dildo slips out. That doesn’t matter. I’m going to do what he told me to do. Because I don’t have a choice. When he says to do something, I do it. Property doesn’t get to refuse, doesn’t get to haggle or negotiate.
So, I’m going to sit all day at my desk, my cunt soaked from being filled. Not only from that, of course, I’m also wet from the knowledge that two of my holes are stuffed at the direction of my owner and that I’m willing to obey him at all times, even at work. And I’m happy to do it. I’m grateful that he is willing to spend the time and attention on me to give an order like this. I’m glad for the reminder of my real place as owned property.
I can pretend to be an independent person. Can say that I have my own job, my own apartment, my own life. But coming to work with a dildo in my cunt and a plug in my ass proves that in actuality, I’m an obedient, eager to please, desperate girl who craves giving up that independence in order to submit and be controlled. To give up ownership of myself to be owned by someone else.
I have a limit that I tell other people, which is that they shouldn’t press straight in on my tits, compress the tissue roughly, or lift it away from my body. Reaction Junkie doesn’t have that limit. People have the right to do what they want with the toys they own.
If he wants to press straight in on my tits and compress my breast tissue until I cry, he can. If he wants to make me take my tits out and spend the whole happy hour upstairs and on display, he can. If he wants to put clamps on my nipples and pull them off quickly for that rush of pain, he can. If he wants to make me put my hands behind my head and slap the shit out of my tits until they’re black and blue and swollen, he can. If he wants to play nice and gently touch and suck my nipples, caress me, and make me feel good, he can. If he wants to wait to do that until after he’s treated them harshly, clamps and slaps and pain, making those kind touches that much more pleasurable, he most certainly can.
He owns me, he owns my tits. They’re his to look at, use, and abuse.
i kinda like the idea of you selling off parts of your body one by one like this :P
Hee hee. I like it, too! I’m going to do a bunch of these for my Daily Picture Assignment since Reaction Junkie owns all of me right now.
I really like the idea of him selling off/renting out specific parts of me, though. He’s my owner, but other people could own parts of me or have usage rights or rent them for a certain amount of time.
I’m trying to think of a good metaphor for this. Timeshare? Sharecropping?
Then I am definitely renaming her. The metamorphism of changing names, from larvae to butterfly ought be very appropriate. It would show that she belongs to me completely, like a dog or a toy.
The only question is what name would be the most appropriate. It needs to be something that can be used in public, something she could tell her friends and family to call her. Yet something incredibly condescending. Something that no scholar, fictional hero or respectable person would be called.
I could go the bimbo route: Sunny, Cookie, Paris I could go the pet route: Daisy, Lady, Princess I could go the stripper route: Opal, Jewel, Honey.
What would you rename your girl? What would you like for your man to name you?
I don’t go by my given name. I go by a variation of it that I picked when I was in about 5th grade because I liked the fact that, verbally at least, it’s gender neutral. If someone were to take that away from me, I’d sincerely hate it, but at the same time, every time I heard my new name, I’d get a little rush of submission and my fuckhole would clench.
I bought the silver necklace at some store in the mall as a stand-in until Reaction Junkie and I get me a real collar. This thing definitely isn’t a real collar. It’s made of pretty flimsy material. The “lock” isn’t an actual lock. And even if it were, the necklace wouldn’t be lockable anyway, since it’s just a toggle-style clasp where one end goes through the U of the padlock. There’s nothing physically preventing me from taking it off whenever I feel like it.
But I don’t. I don’t need a lock to make me keep it on. I keep it on because Reaction Junkie put it on me. I keep it on because he’s told me to wear it. I keep it on because it’s a tangible symbol of my submission.
I keep it on because it’s a constant reminder that I am owned, loved, and cared for.
A face mark Reaction Junkie gave me earlier this year. It’s from him biting and sucking on my face, not from being hit, but that’s not important.
What’s important is that he left a bruise on my face. A perfect reminder of his ownership. He has the right to leave his mark anywhere he wants on me.
Anyone and everyone could see it, could see that he can use me, abuse me, and bruise me as he sees fit, and no part of me is exempt from that.
I saw it each time I looked in the mirror, and each time I saw it, I grinned. I love being marked up like that by him. It makes me happy when he lets it be known that he owns me in a way that everyone can see. And of course, the conspicuousness of the bruise meant that I got a frequent reminder of exactly what my place is.
Last night Reaction Junkie put my neck in the crook of his elbow and squeezed. He squeezed until everything disappeared. My tears, my anger, my sadness, my fear, all of my hurt. All of it gone.
He let go within a moment, and I floated peacefully up and out, back into consciousness. He didn’t have to stop, though. He owns me, which means he owns my life. I gave him that control when I asked him to be my owner. I gave him my past, my present, and my future.
He holds my life in his hands, literally and metaphorically. It’s his to let me keep and his to take away, whether for a moment, as he did last night, or for eternity.
Me chewing the rubber ducky squeaky toy Reaction Junkie got for me.
One of the ways Reaction Junkie owns me is the way someone owns a dog. He cares about me and wants me to be healthy and happy, but he also is in a position of power over me. I need him to train me to help me be a good girl, and I need him to be consistent with rewards and punishments. When he tells me to do something, I should be obedient. He knows what’s best for me, even if I can’t see it at the time, like a dog who doesn’t want to go to the vet.
Sometimes I’m his good girl. Sometimes I’m his bad dog. Sometimes I’m his bitch in heat. Sometimes I’m his playful little puppy. Always I’m his.
I haven’t been feeling very owned lately, so I’ve been disobeying Reaction Junkie more frequently, often forgetting my role and refusing to do what he tells me to, resisting his commands, and complaining about his orders. We’ve both been super busy and stressed preparing for our move this coming Saturday, so hasn’t had any extra time or energy to invest in our d/s dynamic to make me feel owned, and I haven’t had the resources to put in the extra time and energy I’d need to keep myself in line better and remind myself that he owns me. He told me that after we move, he’ll be able to work on the d/s with me more, and I know I’ll be better able to remind myself of my place, especially if he sets up some reoccurring tasks, assignments, and rules.
In the meantime, he did add a couple of things. In addition to having to get on my knees and help him take his shoes off when we get in the door, now every morning I have to crawl and bring him his shoes to put on. Also, on Saturday, while we were packing, he told me that for the rest of the day, I couldn’t just call to him from another room, asking for permission to pee. Instead, I had to come over to him each time so he could test how badly I had to go by pressing on my bladder. I’m going to keep doing that, both at home and while we’re out, even though he said it was for just that day.
Finally, I now have to post at least one picture a day on tumblr. It can’t be the same thing everyday. Some days a body shot, some days a tit pic, some days a cunt picture, some days a close up of a bruise, etc. And underneath the picture, I need to write something that will help me remember that he owns me, that I owe him my obedience, that I’m his to use as he will, that he has control over me, that I should happily do what he tells me, and so on. I think the daily picture will be especially helpful to remind me that I am an owned little feminist bitch.
I have now been wearing my new collar for a full week. All day, every day.
When we first got it, I asked Reaction Junkie if I could have it off for work because it seems conspicuous and he agreed. So, for the first couple weeks he took it off in the morning and put it back on me in the evening.
When he put it on me last Thursday evening, he told me, “I’m not taking this off again until Monday.” I wore it the whole time at the con. I wasn’t looking forward to having to do the whole off and on thing again when we got home.
On Sunday, Reaction Junkie commented, “I might leave this on you when you go to work on Monday.” The idea turned me on, but it also made me anxious. What would people think? What if someone said something?
Monday morning, Reaction Junkie left for work while I was still waking up. As he went out the door, I sleepily realized my collar was still on. For a moment, I thought to call out to him, but decided that I could certainly bear wearing it at work for one day.
I wore a hoodie and felt self-conscious about the collar all day, but even with the nervousness, every time I thought about it or felt its weight, I smiled. That evening, I pointed out to Reaction Junkie that I’d worn it all day. “I know,” he said with a smile. I happily wore it to work again the next day. And the next. And the next.
Last night, we were talking about the collar when Reaction Junkie informed me, “I’m not taking it off again.” My cunt clenched and I couldn’t hide my delight. Each day I wear it to work, the less self-conscious I am and the more it feels like the collar is just part of me.
I love wearing this ever-present symbol, this constant reminder, of Reaction Junkie’s ownership, my submission, and the love, and life, we share.
Just as quickly as the knife had become the focus of my attention, it was gone. My trials and tribulations were far from over, however, and Reaction Junkie began to use his hands. He started hurting me, hitting my tits and my stomach with open and closed fists, making me breathe heavily and gasp with the impacts. Still blindfolded, I was taken off guard when the first slap hit my face. Then there was another, and another. These were hard slaps, and as I yelped, he told me to be brave and take them, making it clear that he’d read the post I wrote about wanting face marks. Everything I said in the post is true, but imagining how painful and difficult it would be to handle enough impact to get a mark, and thinking that he meant to leave one on me during that very scene was enough to freak me out. My whimpering intensified. Then, suddenly, bright light hit my eyes, making me squeeze them shut. There were tears in the corners of my eyes from being poked with the knife and from the face slapping. I peered out from half-lidded eyes and saw Reaction Junkie’s grinning face. I grinned right back, and he leaned down for a kiss.
The blindfold now gone, the scene continued. Reaction Junkie began smacking my outer right thigh, warming it up. Then he began punching it increasingly hard. What had been controlled movement on my part turned into writhing, and then thrashing. Grabbing my leg, Reaction Junkie held me down and still and began elbowing me. The first time he did it, I was unprepared for how much it would hurt, and I cried out in surprise and pain. He repeated the action, kneeling next to me and dropping his elbow into my thigh, putting some of his weight behind it. I felt a deep pain each time, like he was hurting me all the way to the bone. I started whimpering, and felt the tears starting. Reaction Junkie made fun of me, asking, “Are you going to cry like a little cunt?” I nodded, and began crying. Just like a little cunt.
I took as much of the elbowing as I could, but after only a few impacts like that, I felt like I was going to break. “Yellow, ” I panted out. Reaction Junkie just looked at my frightened face and pointedly ignored my request to dial things back. He slammed his elbow into me again, just as hard as before. As he set himself up to do it again, I started to breathe faster and faster, half-panicked at the thought that there was nothing I could do to stop him. I watched him dropping his weight into me again, his elbow landing hard, and groaned loudly in response, the tears rolling down my face. He hit me again, and then again. Finally, he decided to stop. It wasn’t anything to do with me wanting him to, of course, but because he felt like it.
Just because he stopped hurting me that way in that location didn’t mean he was stopping altogether. He straddled my legs, sitting on them. That put weight on my now battered thigh, making me grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut from the pain. He started slapping my tits and my face. I struggled, but my arms were bound and now my legs were held in place, so it was even more futile than usual. When he paused for a moment, I realized that my thumb felt numb. Not an emergency, but also not something I care to experience for longer than necessary. I opened my eyes and asked Reaction Junkie if the rope could come off. He sat me up and obliged me, wanting his toy to be fully functional. By the time he finished untying me, my thumb was back to normal.
When the rope was off, Reaction Junkie allowed me a few moments to rest. He comforted me, telling me, “There, there. You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay.” By the end of the night, those words would provide no solace. To the contrary, because of the way he was saying them, and because he would tell me such things in the midst of frightening me and hurting me, each time he said them, I became more and more certain that he would do the very things he was saying he wouldn’t. Promises not to hurt me meant pain was imminent, guarantees of safety meant certain danger. In my mind, reassurances turned upside down into threats. In fact, Reaction Junkie eventually had to switch to telling me “You’re not safe. I’m going to hurt you. You’re in mortal peril.” to convince me he meant me no harm. My mind was thoroughly and deliciously fucked.
When I stopped crying, Reaction Junkie resumed his lesson about what it means for him to own me. He made a comment about the horrible things he could do to me, and I replied that he probably shouldn’t do some of them there, at the playspace. He looked at me and, using that voice, he said, “I don’t think you understand how much power I have when it comes to you.” He reminded me that I’m his property, that no one else cares, and that he could kill me and no one would even notice until it was too late. Then he began to hurt my thigh again.
I altered my dynamic with MLAM today, and, as of now, he is no longer my owner. I still want to play with him and be friends, but I’m not sure what form that will take.
It wasn’t because I didn’t enjoy our dynamic, but there were a combination of factors (distance, free time, availability, other partners, etc.) that came together and led me to decide that it would be best if he were no longer my owner.
I am interested in being owned again. I love the feeling of being a possession, a valued possession. It makes me feel safe and secure and wanted. Having someone use the word “Mine.” to refer to me makes me feel warm and subby.
I like having a “top dom,” of sorts, to give me a broader context or framework to guide my thinking and actions, like “Your purpose is to be pleasing to men” or “Women are inferior” or “I am turning you into a toy for all men’s entertainment and pleasure, but especially for mine.” He can also serve as a last resort to get me to behave myself, if I’m not being good for other partners. I do what my owner says, the amount of whining or protesting nearly zero. Objects don’t get to decide what they will do for their owners.
I like having an owner to give me longstanding, preferably intrusive orders, like “You have to masturbate while you piss, every time you piss” or “write dumber” or “send me a picture of your outfit every morning” and so on. Any dom/top might give me such orders, but I enjoy them every more when I’m in the role of their possession.
I enjoy having someone who is invested enough in me to spend time and energy making me a better version of me, whatever that means to him. That might be making me train my ass, making me shave, making me enjoy spending time being dumb and serving as a thing for men to take pleasure fucking and beating, making me masturbate to things he wants me to get off to, or any number of other things.
I like being a toy, an object, maybe even a pet, owned by a man who uses me for his entertainment and pleasure, but who wants to keep me around for a good while and cares about my well being and happiness, and wants me to have fun with other partners.
And no, I don’t want offers of ownership from anons or people I don’t know. I’ve discussed ownership possibilities with a couple of my actual play partners, and when I’m ready to be owned again, likely soon, I’ll talk to them.
![Daily Picture Assignment #8 [2.15.2015] A face mark Reaction Junkie gave me earlier this year. It&rs](https://64.media.tumblr.com/c0d123003af6bb8edd423e04942b48c7/tumblr_npmtupBLHk1s8bp28o1_1280.jpg "Daily Picture Assignment #8 [2.15.2015] A face mark Reaction Junkie gave me earlier this year. It&rs")
