I still exist. Probably nobody still follows me here after such a long time without posting, but that’s alright. I have decided to start to write again to keep track of my life and all. Moreover, I found out that I miss postings and that I really like reading earlier entries 🙂

So, where do I start? Some things have changed, others haven’t.

Over the pasts months my relationship with John has grown even closer, if that’s possible. Coming from an abusive family, I tend to question a person’s decision to stay with me, again and again. I tend to ask him: can you bare my pain? Do you really want to be with me, if there are so many nice guys out there who are a lot less complicated than I am? Do you really love me? Really? REALLY? It’s a bit ironic to know that my questions get him on the nerves but that I can’t stop asking them anyway.

Almost a year ago I was diagnosed with an unspecific gender disorder and I was given the opportunity to decide whether or not I wanted a hormone treatment. I wanted it so badly, I really did. After testing my genetics, I started testosterone blockers and female hormones. To put it short, it was a disaster. My body didn’t get along with estrogen and I developed severe mental issues like dissociation, confusion, forgetfulness and dizziness. But the worst thing was the depression. The doctors told me that my body just needs time to adjust to that treatment, but when I finally wanted to attempt suicide, it was clear that it didn’t work. I was glad to be so alert to tell John when I felt it got out of hand. He immediately told me to stop the hormones and within only three weeks or so I was back to myself. Three weeks he spent home with me, most of the time, because I was in such a mental pain and always on the edge to end this life. Fucked up stuff, those hormones.

So, I had to learn that wishful thinking and reality are two different things. Painful lesson, but I got it. Fantasizing about getting a chemical castration and actually having female hormones in your brain and body are two things. It doesn’t work for me. I was devastated. I had wanted natural boobs so badly I felt like I would never be happy that way, but again my sweet husband took the matter into his own hands. In November I had surgery in the Czech Republic. The doctors were not really sure about all of it, because I had been very clear about how bad things were for me. I still was severely depressed, thinking of myself as the last freak on Mother Earth, but they decided to do the surgery because I obviously was able to tell them I would not get better if I could not have it. We agreed on relatively small implants. Once they said they would do it, I wanted to go mad on boobs, but they convinced me that starting with a C-cup would be too dangerous because I had no implants beforehand and there wasn’t enough space between my skin and the rib cage. Choosing an implant that would be too big might have caused problems with the healing and all. I could relate to that and finally we went for a small B-cup. They told me that once the implants were in place, it all would look bigger than in my hand, and they were right.

I knew there were a lot of shapes for those implants like more ball-like and more treardrop-like. I chose the teardrop-option to make them look more natural. Even though I feared the operation, I was so happy to finally get it done. I would always do it again! No complications at all. Of course it was a tiny bit painful, but not as much as I had feared. Removing the straps was actually more painful than the rest. With silicone implants you have to follow certain rules like not sleeping on them for a while, until the scars are fully healed and so on, but today I can use my boobs as if they were grown and not implanted.

I needed some time to get myself used to the changed feeling I have in the ribcage and in my entire body. Boobs change how you move, how you sit or lay down, how you see yourself and all. Getting used to them is connected with back pain as well. In the first weeks, I only saw them when I looked at myself. What was a game until then, now really is a thing: wearing a bra. I was told to wear a bra for some weeks to support the issue. Now I don’t have to wear a bra, but I do it daily (if not told otherwise). The feeling of actually filling a cup is amazing 🙂 The sensitivity of my nipples has changed, too. Due to the training they already were very sensitive, but pumping them and wearing snake bites during hours made them bigger and softer.

The first time I gave John a boob-job was so intense that I came in the cage. Do I need to say more?

The doctors told my that it would be possible to get larger implants once the tissue has “stretched” a bit, but I don’t think I would want to change them (only if I have to). They are perfect. I can still hide them under my clothes if I want to (especially with wider shirts), but I can also show them off in slinky shirts 🙂 I could not be happier. Well, only if I could give milk 🙂


The most beautiful moments during our vacation:

  • sipping John’s piss from the toilet bowl
  • spending the night in the car while he fucks a guy in our hotel room
  • being covered in cum and spending the day like that
  • being presented with a stainless steel collar and a Pandora pearl for my birthday

I didn’t get to cum. John says whores are there for other’s pleasure and he’s right.

I’m back to work and my normal pace of life. Taking care for my Master’s needs, cleaning the house, cooking and serving.

Hope you’re all having a pleasurable summer as well 🙂


After one week of prostituting myself I had been given 85 euros. Though I asked all men for money, most of them refused to give me money (perhaps a dogging spot isn’t ideal for making money). Some just laughed, others were offended. One elderly guy gave me 20 euros, but that was very generous. The normal amount, if any, were 5-10 euros. In week one I’ve had 17 guys and had no orgasm myself. To be honest, I deeply questioned this task Master gave to me. When I showed him the money I had made, he drew the conclusion that the spot wasn’t ideal or that I’m too ugly or not good enough as a whore. He sent me to prostitute myself one more week and do better.

I decided to do two things: change the location and offer sex for a tip online as well. During week two I had sex with 22 men. They presented me with 270 euros. I found that web-thing really worked well. Last Wednesday I have met five guys in a row and they were all generous.

On Sunday evening I handed all the money to John and he was pleased. He asked me whether I had had an orgasm, but I had not had. He told me that obviously I’m a good whore: focussing on the pleasure of the guest without getting pleasure myself. When he said that, I melted in lust. I know my task here on earth is to serve, and I love how humiliated I feel when my needs are overseen…

I asked him what he wanted to do with the money, 355 euros in total. He smiled and said that he had thought about going on a vacation with one of his other guys while I had to stay at home (I thought that was cruel and beautiful at the same time). But he actually had decided to spend the money on a vacation with me. I know I haven’t made enough money to pay for much, but I’m happy and proud that he thinks I did good 🙂

So now John has booked a nice last minute trip for us: on Thursday we’ll be driving to Lake Wolfgang in Austria again and go hiking a lot. I’m very contented 🙂

Whore In Training

Since the last weekend I was not allowed in the bed, neither on a sofa, so I slept on the floor. Thankfully I was allowed to use a piece of carpet underneath, so the hurting was well tolerable, even after some days. John said fuckpigs need to be uncomfortable as a constant reminder of their worthlessness, so I took it like a good whore without complaining. At the moment I experience constant arousal, though I’m still in chastity without relief. Sometimes he allows me to touch myself for a minute or so, but I can’t cum in this short period of time.

It’s summertime, which means that we have a lot of nettles in the backyard, and yesterday he made me insert a stalk of nettle into my pee hole. That was extremely painful and I had to struggle not to cum. Today I put nettles in my panty, just for fun. I love the feeling of being already hurt when he starts beating or fucking my meat.

For the next week, starting tomorrow, ending next Sunday, I have to fulfil an extraordinary task: earning as much money as I can by selling myself and offering sex. This means I will be on a dogging spot every evening in the following week, trying to sell myself to strangers. John said, I’m not allowed to ask them for a certain amount of money, but I only may tell them that they may pay me what they think I’m worth. Blowjobs without protection, fucking with, swallowing and facials included. No cumming for me though. John told me that next Sunday he’ll let me know the purpose I will have made money for, but I will have to work hard in order to make as much money as possible. I hope we’ll do something nice with the money 🙂 I love the thought of being a whore and earning my money by offering sex services, just like I did before.

Do I Really Believe It?

When talking to people who are not into BDSM, one of the question they mostly ask is whether I really believe all these things like being inferiour to John and other Alphas, that pain is nice, that rape play is really a game and does not affect my already broken soul and stuff like that. I try to be a kind person, so I normally take those questions serious and try to answer them, but obviously I fail most times with my explainnations. I’m not vanilla enough LOL

Yes, I truly believe that I’m an inferiour being. But that being said I want to add that I don’t consider that to be a bad thing. What’s most important is that you have a Dom or owner or however you like to call your counterpart who is appreciative of what and who you are. If you’re into being a fuckpig, but nobody appreciates that and nurtures your natural desire to be a fuckpig, well, that’s just sad. So when you really feel like you’re inferiour but nobody appreciates you for that or tells you all the time to “man up”, gather more self-confidence and become a superiour person yourself, that’s just useless and painful. I deeply believe that you should be able to live out what you feel inside. If you’re a painwhore, find someone who adores you for your ability to suffer a lot of pain. If you’re a little, find yourself a caregiver to put you into diapers. See, I’m an inferiour sub, an obedient whore and painslut for my Master and I can’t think of anything more fulfilling. It’s just not everyone’s cup of tea.

Yes, I find pain very sweet and seductive. Usually I can differentiate between pain that is meant to be nice and “just pain”. But I have to admit that the borders are a bit fluid. When I broke my arm, I didn’t get wet. When my dentist does things to me, I fear the pain extraordinarily. On the other hand I enjoyed it quite a lot when I had a bladder infection LOL All the pain John inflicts on me (and lets other inflict on me) is consensual. I could tell him to stop each and every moment. Usually people use safewords, but nowadays we do no longer. Why? Because we know each other very well and trust each other. I trust him with my life. He’s more carefully with me that I am myself.

No, I can’t always understand John’s reaction to my reaction. When he hurts or humiliates me and I witness he gets aroused I don’t understand why. I just know what he likes. I’m a masochist, he’s a sadist. We fit perfectly well, but he has no submissive feelings and I have no dominant feelings.

Yes, probably you can explain why I am the way I am. I was abused and hurt a lot during the first 21 years of my life and at some point my damaged brain decided to like it to cope with it. It’s that simple. Obviously there are other reasons for being sub, probably genetics. John is dominant because one day he found out that hitting a boy was better than kissing him. It’s not very complicated. You are what you are.

No, I don’t fear to harm my already broken soul with my sexuality. I tried to get along without sex and without BDSM. It just built up unbearable pressure. It’s a huge part of my personality. I feel good when I feel pain. I love being used, humiliated and tortured. John knows my borders (actually I don’t really have borders apart from scat, kids, animals, vomit and severe burns) and he moves within them. He stretched them and I’m alright with that. If you don’t evolve, why then play at all?


Altered Identity

At the end of May I had the opportunity to talk to the second therapist who is specialized in those gender matters. I was nervous again, but not as much as during the talk with the first doctor. Nevertheless it was a big help that John accompanied me. He asked me the same things, more or less, and he asked John to join in the conversation as well. In the end, he told me that he, too, would come to the conclusion that I had gender issues that can’t be specified. He told me that he thinks I should continue trauma therapy, but that he also thinks it might me helpful for me to stay on antidepressants and that he would recommend I get a treatment with hormones, if I want to. He said that it doesn’t happen only in rare cases that people who underwent severe abuse develop a certain kind of altered identity and he recommended finding a therapist who is specialized in gender stuff as well, because he thinks that it’s an important question when and why Ginny developed. He thinks Ginny must have developed during my childhood, even though I don’t recall it. Well, a lot of more work to do.

Next thing is an appointment with a doctor specialized in hormones. Before I can get blockers or estrogene, they have to make sure I’m genetically male as well. Both psychiatrist said that they don’t doubt it, but that’s how they do it here in Germany. Moreover, they have to make sure that everything’s alright with me, before they can give me hormones. During the process it might be that I have to increase my daily dose of antidepressants or change the substance again, because usually estrogene creates depressions. That sucks hard time, but we’ll see.

Ironically at the moment I enjoy both, being outside as Ginny and with my usual Blaubeermann self as well. Getting so much unexpected support just does me good. In the moment I have the feeling that my therapist might not be the ideal person to work with for me. He’s good in what he does, but I don’t feel like he’s supporting me in this gender thing. At the moment I’m trying to find someone else to work with as well (or instead).

With having now these two expertises that say I’m trans it would be possible in Germany to change my name and social status. That’s weird! And that’s a thing I certainly don’t want to do.

What else? To be honest, I enjoy my sexuality even more at the moment. John supports me with face slaps whenever, cute rape play and severe pain, which keeps me horny forever, because I’m still in the device. No cummies for me.

Treatment For Offenders

These days we can read a lot about a severe case of child abuse here in Germany. A mother and her boyfriend have abused her son for two years and sold him to other men. As usual the press can’t really express their disgust and even if everyone claims to be shocked and overwhelmed by such evil, they all hunger for more details.

It brought me to think about offenders again and even though I suffered for almost 21 years, I still believe that they are insane and need therapeutical and medical help. I don’t judge a person for being a pedophiliac, but I judge and hate them for what they do. I know very well that not every person who is pedophiliac carries their needs out on children, and especially those are in desperate need for therapy to teach them ways to deal with their nature. We need more programs for prevention. It’s too late to be shocked when a child was already harmed. In my opinion we should finally overcome that taboo and no longer shame people for their nature, but help them to find ways to cope with it.

Of course I wonder if my father would have had the balls to talk about his nature and change something about that. I wonder if he ever felt the need to talk about that and get help. For me, it’s too late.