I used to be the mastermind of hinting. I knew what I desired but shame or some other form of self loathing would consume my mobility and I would be reduce to making hints, child like suggestions for adult passions. I used the game of no means yes and reduced myself to a pouting girl. Secretly I would hope that Master would push me past my "no's" and in the beginning he did; however, quickly he caught onto my game. Yes there were times when he would push me solely for his pleasure, but there were far more times when he would not and I would be left exceedingly unsatisfied.

My lack of mental and physical satisfaction created a rather willful girl in me and I found myself confused, angry and neglected. I withdrew from Master and I felt a rather significant loss to who I am. I refused to look at my actions as results due to my lack of communication and honesty with my feelings but rather as a decline in our relationship. I wanted, desperately so, to be the perfect slave but I was unwilling to accept myself for all that I am.

My acceptance has been slow paced up until this week. Master and I are away on holiday in Toronto and I have found not only am I an eager participant in all pleasure rituals Master wishes to engage in but I am also the instigator. I find myself asking, nay begging Master for certain implementations, one of which is the crop. I have often feared his crop; not because I have witnessed aggression with such a device, but rather because I have not experienced much of the crop at all. I have longed to have the crop stroke my flesh and Master has swatted me with it once or twice but never with true force and never past my pleas of "please, no more Master, I can not take it". This week though I have retrieved the crop and brought it to Master, asking him to use it on me. I remember rising from the bed, walking over to the door where it was hanging, placing the black handle into my palm and returning to Master, asking him to swat me.

Not just once. Not even twice. But to use the crop on me until he was finished and to please not stop if I should ask. Masters eyes were wide and proud with my question and as I laid down on the bed I relaxed my body to the point where I thought I was one with the mattress. At first the slaps were light, slightly stinging but nothing I could not handle. Gradually he worked the swats harder, allowing the leather tip to remain on my flesh a little longer before striking me again. I remember curling my fingers into the fabric of the duvet, digging deeply as my skin started to burn. I know my light cropping pales in comparison to most others - I have seen the pictures of smacked flesh - my flesh was barely pink. The actual lashes of the crop are not significant, rather the fact that I asked for them, that far outweighs all else.

There was a point while resting on the bed after Master had watched me squirm, my arms swinging back, my hands resting on my lower back, fighting against myself, trying to avoid covering my ass that I whispered to Master "how hard have you wanted to smack me but haven't"? I asked him to demonstrate on the bed, beside me, so that I may hear how loud, how strong that smack would be. Master responded, first by stating that he could smack me as hard as he wanted, anytime he wished and that he has swatted me as hard as he desired. Master then continued by drawing back his arm and bringing his arm down with a rather loud swishing sound as the crop broke through the air landing firmly on the mattress beside my face. My body froze and I knew by the immediate leaking between my thighs that I wanted _that_ exact force. I wanted to feel that strength, to endure it, to give it to him; to give it to myself.

I have asked for the crop each day and Master has swatted my flesh, sometimes hard most times gently. I find it almost a tease now, aching for him to bind me, face down, while he marks my flesh. Truly marks it. I know that in the past when I have read others journals, witnessed through their pictures the markings left upon their flesh that I told myself I was angry for those girls, that they should not be hurt in such a manner. Looking back I know my anger was not for those girls but rather for myself; for not surrendering to what I desperately wanted.

Asking is not the only realisation I have had during our time away. At last I have become one with the dolly in me and I witnessed this amalgamation during our first night in Toronto. Master had been playing with me, allowing his fingers to roam, probe and invade every inch of me when suddenly Master pushed me on my stomach, pulled me up on my knees and pushed his cock deep inside my ass cunt. Immediately I was clenching around him and trying to push him out all at the same time. My words came loud and rattled as I begged "please don't move, please don't move". Master ignored my pleas and pushed himself deeper, pulling out then slamming harder into my hole. I was on the verge of tears, unsure as to why I was resisting his invasion and desperate for him to stop, or so I thought. My words were screaming no but my mind and body were begging him to continue. I recall one moment where I pushed my face against the bed, telling myself to embrace the pain, succumb to it, want it!

And I did. I surrendered. I begged for deeper thrusts, harder thrusts, for more pain and once I did the pain dissipated and I started to float. I know my grunts were louder but my voice higher pitched. I know I squealed and I know I wanted more. I became stronger in that moment even though I can recall so little. This is a monumental moment for me as it is the first of many releases, of great acceptance.

I am more than accepting who I am though, I am embracing and celebrating: the slave, the dolly, the slut, the fuck toy, the bitch in heat, the fuck hole, the little girl, the anal whore, the "everything" that I am and I know from here on pleasure will intensify.

When two halves of a whole come together there is balance. At last I have found the yin to my yang. How fortunate I am.

~His

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