Peace

Yesterday, I found myself crying in my car after finding another sub in my Master’s house. This is nothing that should be a surprise to me – he makes no secret that he enjoys other sluts fairly regularly.  This particular girl is known to me, and I do like her.  But while he is away, as he is now, I had thought it was only I who had access to his home.  It turned out that isn’t the case, and somehow it had thrown me.

I try so hard not to be possessive of my Master – it is not very becoming for a slave.  But so much is emotionally invested in pleasing him, and in being of value to him, that when it turns out someone else is doing more for him than I’d thought, I question my role.  I ask myself, am I really special to him?  How much else that I’d thought was exclusively my place, am I actually sharing with someone else?  And that leads, very quickly, to the most terrifying question of all: could I be replaced?

Looking back over my blog for the last few years, so many changes are evident.  The most obvious is that I blog far less frequently than I used to.  On the face of it, you could say that I’m simply busier.  But there is much more to it than that.

When I met my Master almost 5 years ago, I had recently lost a great deal of what was important to me in life.  I’d had to quit work, I’d lost a relationship and a close friend, I had very little income, and almost no social life to speak of.  I was doing the best I could to live the life of a dirty slut who needed no-one, but basically, I was pretty broken.  Perhaps that’s why it was so easy, having met someone strong enough and forceful enough, to need him.  He quickly became the centre of my world, and in doing so, made things feel so much better for me in many ways.

But a person can’t live focussed so completely on one role in life forever.  Or at least, this person can’t.  Needing him so much saved me – but it also made me suffer.  As a masochist, I revelled in this for quite a while.  But over time, it became exhausting.  I needed a little more balance, or I risked losing my soul, and being of use to no-one.

So over time, a part of the reason I’ve blogged less is because the subject of this blog – submission – is not the sole focus of my existence.  It is still an essential part of me – but it’s not my all.  And that has also led to another change in my writing, which Master has observed and mentioned to me at times: my blog has also changed a lot, in its quality and tone.  I’m not sure if this is an improvement or not, but I think it reflects an improvement in my self.  All the dramas and the insecurities that were overwhelming back then are now much more bearable, and so when I write, the focus is on broader things.  I’m exploring rather than obsessing on them.

But that has also caused its own share of worry sometimes.  There are some moments when I wonder (and perhaps he does, too) – if not needing him to be there affirming my existence to him constantly, means I don’t care enough?  Am I not devoted to him anymore, if I can spend a day without seeing him?  Am I less committed, if a missed phone call doesn’t make me cry?

That’s why yesterday’s outburst, crying in the car, was in some ways reassuring.  It is good to know that he can still have the effort of bringing me to tears if I doubt my place with him.  It affirms that keeping my place is still so important to me.  But the difference between now and then – is such moments don’t take over my mind.  I don’t fret and panic and withdraw into seclusion anymore.  I have enough strength in myself, to reach out and let him know I am feeling insecure – and to accept and trust his assurance that there is no need.  I’m finding a kind of peace.

Given

Relaxing tonight, I had a strange daydream.  My imagination created a strange new society, one where arranged marriage was the norm.  Like some real life cultures, a ritual meeting was held between prospective couples to determine if the match was suitable before both families would agree, and the new wife would be 'given' to the man.  Only in this alternate reality, it was not a date or an interview that determined their fate - it was one night in bed together.  A young woman would spend night after night with strange men selected by some superficial criteria - sometimes seduced, sometimes used - after which he would decide whether he wanted to keep her or not.  If so, she would have to decide, based on that single exchange, whether to accept and become his for the remainder of her life.

It struck me right away, that this bizarre fantasy that seemed to come from nowhere, was very much like how I feel I have become my Master's slave.  There was no actual third party arranging for us to meet - but at that time in my life, I had gone through so many men that it almost seemed that way.  I didn't select them anymore.  I was so passive in the process that it almost was as if they were in a queue of sorts, waiting to try me out.  Some did want to hang on, for me to be theirs - but they inspired nothing in me, and I moved on to the next.

Then when Master did have his turn at me, I was deeply and immediately attached.  Though it took me a long time to say the words, that first fuck infatuated me, and I was his.  The moment I said yes to meeting him again, a permanent commitment was inescapable.

The agreement that makes me his, is neither marriage, nor arranged.  And yet the experience of being his, feels so much like this in some ways.  Perhaps in part that is an artifact of living in a Western culture.  The expectation is that I chose to be with him over time, having gotten to know him, fallen in love, and decided to stay.  The expectation is, that if I am not happy, I will leave.  The reality of our relationship feels like being part of an alien culture that no one around me can understand.  The reality, as I have experienced it, is that I had one brief taste of what being his would be like, and took a risk.  I committed my life knowing little of who he was outside of his taste in sex.  And since that time, I have learned a great many more things, some of which I might have chosen him for, others not.  But, like a culture where marriage is entered quickly and divorce is taboo, whether I would choose to be his is now completely beside the point.  I simply am.


There have been times, not so long ago, that I felt sure I had made a mistake.  One night in particular I remember with intensity.  I was standing alone in my house, deep in thought, when suddenly, he was there, behind me.  I was so startled and so ambivalent, I went into a blind panic.  I shook and cried, and screamed.  Somehow, I have no recollection of how, I made it from standing in the kitchen, to lying down on my bed.  I was withdrawing the only way I could - into myself.  Shuddering, crying, and incoherent, all I knew was that I was terrified - not of anything he had done or might do, or of anything he was - just desperately certain I needed to break free.  Being near him in any way felt like mortal danger.  But he was there, and he held on, and didn't let go of me.  He must have been speaking, but I don't think I could have taken in the words.  Just his firm, unrelenting embrace felt at first like death - and then, as minutes passed, I could only give in to it.  Exhausted, I surrendered, and my crying shifted from blinding fear to acceptance.  I am his.


I am his.  At times I have made that so hard that I can hardly bear to be alive, and at other times, so blissful that I could almost believe heaven exists.  But all the time, the external circumstances have remained essentially the same.  I am the property of this man, whom I call Master.  Just as I am female, a natural brunette, and right handed... it just is.

Perfect perversion

It's probably stating the obvious by now to say I like my sex to hurt.  There was a time when that wasn't so clear to me, though.  I vividly remember one of the defining moments in my sexual history, when I was fucked by a truly Dominant man - in a BDSM sense - for the very first time.  Bent over with a hand grasping my hair, I was given my very first hard spank, and my response told him all he needed to know.  "So," he said, "you like a little pain with your pleasure..."  and just like that, I realised I was getting exactly what I needed.

But by far the best way to get pain with my pleasure, is when it simply hurts to be fucked as is, with no other action necessary at all.

I wonder sometimes, why it is that I should feel this way - that the most intense of pleasures are most enjoyable to me, when I suffer for them.  Does it mean that, deep down, I don't want to accept simply feeling good?  Do I feel some unconscious guilt that is absolved by pain?  Certainly something seems to feel.... purifying about the pain.  As though my 'innocence' is held close enough that I can't be held responsible for how incredibly good it feels.  I am allowed to experience ecstasy if it accompanies sacrifice.

But most of the time, I choose not to ask myself these things.  Because they imply something else - that I should want to like sex without suffering... sex that is focussed on making my body feel good all over.... so-called 'normal' sex.... sex that bores me.  The more the experience is designed for my simple pleasure, the more dulled my mind and my senses become.  In effect, I reject the pleasure completely.

So why the hell would I want more of that?

As time goes by, and I understand more and more of my sexual makeup, the less I want it to change.  The truth is, I don't care if my fetish for submission is based in deep psychological disturbance.  It feels fucking awesome to be this twisted.  Let's mess me up even more.

Toilet trained

A little while ago, Master gave me a task.  I could, he said, earn a special reward.  Of course, he tantalised me with what the reward would be, making me crave it before he let me know what the task was.  Then he revealed it: I would have to eat some of my own shit.

This is by no means something I was keen to do - but it was something I already knew I would have to do one day, sooner or later.  It has been a goal for my training for some time, to become a better "toilet".  For a long while now, I have tasted it when he desired, on my fingers or a cock.  A couple of times, he has forced his own shit into my mouth - but eventually I would be required to eat voluntarily.  So, having already been semi-prepared, I agreed.

He let me stew on it for a few days, and take my time.  Then one night, I knew I was ready as I'd ever be.  I found it hard to ask, but eventually I found the words I needed: "Uh.... may I please.... eat my shit.... tonight, Sir?"  Naturally, the answer was yes.

And so I found myself crouching naked in my Master's bathroom, squeezing out the source of my reward and shaking, trying not to think too much about what I was about to do with it.  And he had me down on all fours so he could fuck me while he felt the reaction in my body as I placed it in my mouth and fought not to gag in revulsion, using all my will to swallow, clenching my fists on the floor and heaving as he came, thoroughly enjoying my displeasure.  And then when it was over, I smiled.  I did it.

Then last weekend I was pushed further into filth than ever before.

Many men are given license to do as they wish with me, but very few have the balls or the imagination to take full advantage of what has been offered to them.  This one definitely did.  And I had no idea what was in store for me until it was happening.

It started simply enough, with him pushing more and more fingers into my cunt, stretching my hole wide until it hurt.  Then he moved on to my asshole.  He was rough, and I struggled, Master helping to hold me down and gag me.  He whispered to me, "you are being used."  I had a brief respite when he held my head down by my hair and sprayed my face with his piss.  But then the gag was removed, and I found out what he had in store for me next.

He pushed my face against his ass, and obediently, I lapped and sucked.  But then I felt his muscles tense, and I realised what was going on.  He intended to shit in my mouth.

I tried to pull away, only to discover he had a firm hold on my hair - I wasn't going anywhere.  I realised I could resist if I chose to, but then I would disappoint my Master - and risk not living up to whatever he had told this man I would do.  I moaned against his crack, not sure if I could take it.  And then it was too late.  The taste was there.  I tried to push it out of my mouth, and was grateful when he started to move my head around, smearing it on my face.  Still horrible, but better than forcing the whole thing into my mouth.  The smell was bad, but more tolerable than the taste.

And even then, that was only the start.  Gradually he defecated more and more and began to smear it all over my naked body, slowly covering me in stinking mess.  At first I felt horrified, but I'd made my choice not to fight it, and before long I just felt absent, detached.  When he smeared shit on his cock and shoved it down my throat, I no longer had the desire to stop - I was committed to finishing this, as hard as it was.

At the end, I was shown my reflection.  A humiliated, disgusting mess.  I have never been so filthily degraded and abused.

And now - I feel pride.  I achieved something very challenging that night, and coped far better than I would have imagined.  Even Master seemed proud of me.  There is nothing like pushing my limits and surprising myself, and pleasing him.  A reward provides an incentive, but his pride in me, an immediate prize.

Fountain of youth

Master and I were going out; as usual I didn't know where.  As usual, I had been directed to dress in a slutty outfit, so I was wearing a tight blue strapless mini dress and knee-high boots.  When he got to the house and saw me, he was very pleased, which got the evening off to a good start.  I don't consider myself a very appearance-oriented person, but it does feel great to please my Master when he likes the way I look at any particular time.

He drove me to a hotel and walked me to a room.  I felt self-conscious, but also proud, knowing that I looked slutty enough to easily be taken for a whore by any guests who happened to see us walking by.  When the door we came to opened, there was a man who looked about fifty standing there, smiling at me.  He welcomed us in and gave me a coin.  Evidently I was a whore tonight - a very cheap one.  Master does enjoy humiliating me by offering my body for a "donation".

I was given a glass of wine and allowed to sit and drink for a few minutes.  Then the formalities were over.  It was time for me to stand and undress.

There was immediately something about it.  The way he walked behind me, standing there naked, him clothed, and approached me from behind.  A much older man, a stranger, looking me over, then reaching out to hold my tits and press himself against my back, running his hands lustily over my body.  Something triggered a memory for me...

Flash back to some years ago.  I was a teenager, over the legal age, but still very inexperienced considering the slut I would one day become.  I let a man take me out - he looked over thirty, and since we'd met in a bar, he had assumed I was eighteen.  I didn't tell him he was wrong.  I agreed to go to a hotel room with him, and there, he stood behind me while he removed my clothes.  Naked, nervous, and vulnerable, I stood still while he examined my young figure.  He reached out from behind me and cupped my tits in his hands, then ran them up and down my body.  My random fumblings with male friends had not included foreplay, so this was a new sensation for me.  No one had ever seen and touched my naked body in this way before - especially not someone who was fully clothed, possibly twice my age, and standing where I could not see him.  I could hear his breathing change in pace and tone.  This was not the urgent grunting of the pubescent boys I had played around with before - this was a new sound, the lust of a grown man.  I felt afraid when I heard that sound.  Some part of me wanted to run.  But I had agreed to come to the hotel with him, allowed him to strip me naked, and now it seemed he was entitled to have his way.  So I stayed and he fucked me, his large cock making me bleed.  I was not a virgin, but he was far larger than the boys I'd had in my limited sexual life so far.  So it hurt.  It felt as though my innocence was sacrificed.

So, years later, standing naked in a hotel room and offered to a strange man, obliged to obediently let him do as he wished, his touch from behind bought me back to that place in time, when I was really just a girl.  I am thirty years old now, but somehow even as I acted the good slut, I felt young, and small.  In an eerie coincidence the hotel room stranger remarked as he fucked me "You have a tight hole for someone who's had so much cock."  I smiled and gripped my muscles tighter.  Oh, to feel young again....

Good loser

Fighting my Master is something I once could never imagine, but as time and a great deal of turmoil have gone by, "resistance-play" has become something highly cathartic for me.  Not often, but sometimes, I'll feel the urge to fight as he fucks me and I'll tell him.  So far he has always responded almost the same way - with a smile and encouragement to just try it.  And so I do.  I push him away, twist my body, and try to close my legs, kicking frantically.... and then less convincingly.... and then stop.  I can't keep it up for more than a few seconds at a time - it is far more "me" to submit.  So why, then, do I want to fight him?  Simple, really.  To lose.


So last night, when he pressed the blade of a knife against my throat as he fucked me, and asked, "now do you want to push me away, bitch?" - it was a shock to the system.  Lying there, his cock in my hole, his weight on my hips, hand gripping my hair.... and the steel pressed against my neck.... I had already lost.  For him to ask that question served to invite that "fighting" part of me to come out, and find itself already in jeopardy.  There was nowhere to go, no way to move, without impaling myself in a bloody mess on his sheets.  And that fighting-part... feline nadi, if you like... she wanted to fight.  And found herself already done, before even moving a muscle.  And so I choked, caught in a mental trap.  Fight-stop.  The tension had nowhere to go, so it remained, as Master kept talking, pressing slightly harder with the blade, then slightly harder still.... until he asked me another question and I could not even respond.... and just laid there making choking-gasping sounds, crying and trembling, completely overwhelmed.

My only relief, of course, was submission to it all.  When I finally let go and just drifted into dark serenity, the tension ceased - and my body responded by relaxing under him, my slut hole melting into a wet abyss, my breathing almost not there at all.... and my mind, gone to a peaceful distance - a place where I cared not to live or die.... just surrender to his will.  Words just can't capture the bliss.

Is it ok to mention anal over breakfast?

The one thing that never fails to shock me about sex, is how easily other people are shocked.

Thanks to a long story that I won't bother to explain here, I am in a position in my academic career right now, where I'm needing to do a lot of research on sexuality-related topics.  On the one hand, there's not a lot to learn that I'm not already personally familiar with.  But on the other hand, I am learning a hell of a lot about where other people sit - which is mostly on the other side of the planet from me.

An article I read today, was by a sex researcher doing an ethnographic study into sex politics, by "investigating" a swingers party and recording her personal reactions.  She seemed pretty honest and frank about it.  But what amazed me as I was reading it, was how new everything was to her - not the swinging scene, but the basic elements involved.  Things like being naked in front of strangers.  Having a conversation about genital piercing.  Telling someone your fantasies.  Being attracted to a member of the same sex.  Things I think of as pretty everyday experiences.  Are they really such a big deal to so many people?  Apparently.

So I was trying to think back today, to when I was a lot less experienced.  Way back to my teens.  I know there was a time when I didn't find it so easy to say I'm a bi-sub-slut.  The question I asked myself is, what did I used to think and feel back then, and was it anything like what this woman described?

The answer, of course, is hard to really know, since my memories must be influenced by what I've experienced since then.  But I remember a sense of frustration, at not being able to show what I wanted and what I was.  I knew darn well, for example, that I wanted to be gang banged by my male friends at age 16.  What annoyed me was that I couldn't say so - because other people (them included) would find it too shocking.  And I remember talking about fantasies with my boyfriend at age 17, and having to moderate them to avoid freaking him out.  Telling him I thought about other girls was perfectly OK, but mentioning bondage and torture turned out to be a bad move, as the look of alarm on his face told me.  Oops.

By the time I met Master, being silent about my desires "just in case" of what other people thought had been strongly instilled in me.  It took time for him to drag them out in the open, and there were many scoldings for trying to shy away.  Now it all seems so plain, so ordinary, that I often fail to keep track of where other people's "normal" marker lies.  I keep silent on sexual topics once again, no longer out of fear of judgement, but because I know that I have a great bias in my judgement.  I constantly expect people to be comfortable with far more than what they are.

Moo?

Master, as well as his more unusual interests, has an enthusiasm for TV box sets.  Not trashy sitcoms etc, but mainly sci-fi series and classics.  When I'm at his home and not busy serving him or engaging in deviant forms of entertainment, we often spend time watching a series on DVD together with some food or a bottle of wine.

But anyway, nobody came here to read about TV, right?  The reason I mention it is that his latest series hire has got me thinking some interesting things.  The context is survival - most of the population of the earth has been wiped out and resources are scarce.  What would I do in this situation?  Well, my first impulse was, of course, that I'd whore myself out for sure.  One thing men will always want, is women to fuck.  And I am already "used" as currency from time to time - so naturally, I'd turn to what I know to help myself survive.  Not to mention have some fun (grin).

But when I think about it even longer, sex is really just the beginning.  Ultimately, if the whole human species is at stake, what is really needed is women to breed.  Bring things down to the most basic level of survival, and the whole women's movement comes to naught.  In the end, they don't have much choice in the matter: it is a biological necessity to get knocked up, or we all die.  That's the simple truth of it.  As a woman, my body is a commodity - not just to help a man get off, but because I can have his child.  Strip humanity of all its laws and customs, drag each man down to a matter of "live or die", and women become one essential thing: breeding stock.

All this brings me to a new perspective on an old fantasy.  Master has spoken many times about using me to breed, and it is something that never fails to terrify and excite me on a very deep level.  To be used as a body to create a child, by Master or someone else, without a choice, is ownership at its most primitive level.  By control of my most basic biological functions, Master's use of me would be complete unequivocally.  Physically and psychologically, there would be no return, and no denying my true place as his property and his slave.

But putting it into a survival context, that makes it real in a new way.  Because not only could I become breeding stock if my Master wished it, but in some deep, biological way, I already am.  It is only by chance allocation of my social environment and place in history, that we can all pretend otherwise.  I have had bestowed on me, by my social world, a right to choose what my body is used for - but that social world is no ultimate authority.  The reality is, at any time it could die.  The ultimate authority is nature, and it dictates that I am here for one primary use.  In my relationship with Master, that reality is recognised and embraced.  I am stock.

Home is where the hold is

I haven't been well lately, which is one reason why I haven't blogged in so long.  A chest infection is making it hard to breathe.  So, when Master fucks me, he has been making sure to push his weight firmly onto my chest.  Good sadomasochism can turn any situation into an opportunity - and far be it from my Master to not take full advantage.

Another thing fairly unique to Master in bed is his tendency to keep talking - describing ideas for scenes, or just saying single words, designed to keep me where he wants me, and guide my mind to the state he desires.  In this way, what we are actually doing becomes almost irrelevant, as even a straightforward, missionary-style quickie becomes a mental rollercoaster of corruption, humiliation, torture, and pleasure.

So the other night, he wasn't just fucking me, but engulfing me; suffocating me with pressure on my chest, filling my mind with thought and sound.  My mind was swimming with him as he fucked so long that my breathlessness faltered my ability to orgasm, or do anything else for that matter.  I was not me, I was just a vessel, full of him.  So the impact hit particularly hard when he turned his verbal torrent to say, "It does not matter what you want: you could be mine for the rest of your life if I decide, even if you don't want it. You have no choice."

The rest of my life.  If I want it, or not.  Those were the words that captured me most fully, their truth resonating through my body and taking me to that place of surrender.  There are still times when I question my desire to keep my promise to him, to be his indefinitely - times when I fall into despair and wonder how to get out of this.  But his power of me is complete - there is no way out of this of my own choosing.  And that knowledge never fails to bring me back to submission, and in turn, contentment.

Ah, the bliss of knowing I may not choose.  Freedom of responsibility.  Relinquishment of power.  The safety of knowing no matter what happens, no matter how I think or feel, there is somewhere I still belong.

Sadism and Sadism

I find it hard to control my bias sometimes.  Like most submissives (I suspect), I feel an inner pressure to paint only a pretty picture of what it is to be my Master's slave.  I try not to resort to romanticism, but I still wonder if sometimes I'm not guilty of the same glossy tint that I criticise other subs for.  I want to get the balance right: while I would never publicly criticise my Master, I also want to be clear on something.  It's not all peaches.

Oh, woe is me, sometimes my Master is cruel!!  Lol.  But it's true, sometimes he is, in ways that I really curse.  There's his tendency to not answer questions I ask, for example.  In vanilla relationships, I've thrown tantrums over that.  Here, I'm forced to grit my teeth and repeat a mantra of patience, patience, patience.....  And the errands he sends me on, sometimes needing to travel to several different locations to collect this, deliver that... A little voice in my head starts a complaining tirade at these times.  It ends when it reaches somewhere like, "Why can't you do this yourself?  What do you think I am, your - oh, hang on...."


And then there's the worst torture of all.  I can hardly stand to mention it.  I always know it's coming, when he gives me a sudden, examining look.  I want to run, but it's always too late, he is already moving in and I know what he is about to do... he tilts my head upwards, and I am forced to stand there while he squeezes a pimple on my face.  It's purely diabolical!

He laughs at the irony of that, and I do see his point.  It does feel ridiculous to say that I don't mind it at all when he makes me bruise or bleed, but attacking a spot drives me mad.  There is masochism, and there is masochism.

That same little voice in my head asks why on earth he does these little things that torment me so genuinely.  But when I'm rational, the reason is obvious.  My Master is a sadist.  That doesn't just mean that he likes to whip me til I'm wearing a blissful smile, or rape my ass til I thank him.  If I enjoy his cruelty every time, where is his fun?  No, it also means something I don't like to remember - that he gets real pleasure from doing anything at all that makes me pout, or sulk, or grimace in disgust, and forcing me to tolerate it.  There is sadism, which I could find anywhere, and then there is real sadism, which is far more rare.

So I try and remember the days before I met him, when playing with so-called "sadists" who would hit me and then stop to check if I was alright.  It was boring.  To truly embrace masochism one needs the sadist to be believable.  My Master is certainly believably, notably cruel.  I hate it, and I'm glad.

Kinky Exposure

Yesterday was a rare day - a day when I had the guilty pleasure of being visible as a deviant.  I blogged just recently about the desire to be seen for what I am - and for a full day, I was, via a leather studded collar Master left on my neck for the day.

It was titillating, to have the work colleague who dropped by, and the conservative women at the library, and the checkout lady at the supermarket, all look me in the eye and know something of what I am.  Seeing the passers-by all meet my gaze felt transparent, as if my slavehood was advertised on my face.  Some, of course, would not have known the meaning of the collar exactly - but they would know it made me different from them in ways they most likely dared not think about.

Apart from making me incredibly wet from sheer exhibitionism, though.... the day's experience also made me think about exactly how different my existence would be if I could be seen as a slave every day.  Just to be looked at everywhere I went was daunting.  Seeing the concentrated way people looked only at my eyes, and were ultra-polite to me, was telling.  I felt dangerously proud - dangerous because I knew that for every twenty people who were afraid of me, there would also be one who might voice their disgust.

I read a blog recently in a psychology site, about introverts and their desires.  The author commented on how much introverted types hate to stand out, to dress up, or to let their inhibitions down.  Now I am very introverted: give me my own company over a crowd any time.  I have always preferred to be the silent one, taking in what is around me, and thinking on it.  My voice is small, and even smaller with a larger audience around.  So why, then, do I get off on standing out in public as a kinkster?  Why do I love to occasionally dress with my tits and ass hanging out like an avid slut?  Why do I love parties where I get to be whipped almost unconscious while a group looks on, or get to suck twenty cocks in a gangbang frenzy?  Such is not the typical role of the introvert.

The only conclusion I can draw, is that I love to be noticed only when it's for the "wrong" reasons.  I wanna be a bad girl - and to be seen as a bad girl.  My exhibitionism is not really about showing my tits - its about showing my wanton depravity.  I just want to say, "I am not the good girl you think I am."

Just thinking about it makes me wet!

Take me instead

With International Women's Day on the horizon, there are countless stories being shared about the worldwide abuse of women.  Over the last two weeks, I've personally encountered stories of rape, torture, murder, slavery, and much more - often condoned by authorities in some parts of the world.  I won't go into detail about it - anyone who wants to read a human rights blog can check out Anmesty International.  This one is quite the opposite.

And in a way, that is the dilemma I face on the whole women's rights issue - and that I am particularly conscious of at this time of year.  Because I don't believe women should be treated in these ways.  I am horrified that they are still treated as property in some places.  I am sickened at how common it is for women to be beaten and raped.  And yet...  I want to be treated as the property of men.  I relish my helplessness in men's hands.  I fantasise feverishly about my own torture, rape, and even death.  As much as I am appalled, I am also wet and aroused at these horrific stories, and their similarity to my dark imagination.

So when I'm invited to domestic violence rallies, or asked to sign a petition for women's rights, I am struck by my own hypocrisy.  I can't bring myself to be involved in the cause.  Instead, I try to remain silent and offer a kind of sideline-support.  I admire what people are doing, to try and improve the lives of women around the world, to bring them greater freedom.  But I don't want my freedom, thanks.

What's a degradation-loving feminist to do?

Opposites attract

Something struck me when I was talking with Master last night.  We deal with unsolvable problems in such different ways - and it occurred to me that those ways are so much the essence of who we are to each other.

When I'm impacted by something I cannot change, I let go of it.  If something is solvable, I can agonise over it for days - but if I'm powerless, I shrug my shoulders and move on.  It's submission.  Being unable to control something is more comfortable for me than the dilemma of how to control it.

But a Dominant doesn't let go so easily.  When Master is confronted by a problem he can't change, he simply pushes harder until he finds a way to change it.  Letting go is not an option.  He will keep at it until the dilemma submits to him.  Anything less is not acceptable.

So when we try to solve a problem together, Master and I inevitably end up looking at each other, bewildered, a lot of the time.  I am thinking, why drive ourselves nuts over this, if we can't fix it?  It's just crazy-making.  He is thinking, how on earth can you give up so easily?  We haven't solved this yet!

None of this is ground-breaking stuff, really.  Just typical relationship dilemmas that everyone has - different values, communication styles, etc etc.  But it got me thinking about D/s relationships in particular, and how they are essentially formed when two people deliberately chose one another specifically because they are polar opposites.  So with that in mind, there are many more differences in thinking styles than just whether to give up or not in solving problems.  How the hell can any Master and slave partnership ever learn to "get" one another when the very definition of their relationship is that they are opposite ends of the same scale?

Buggered if I know the answer.

But maybe we don't need to understand each other the way so many vanilla couples do anyway.  Maybe the only reason so many feel that way is because of the love of the illusion that our other half is the same as us.  In D/s, we can't pretend they are the same in any way.  Nor would we want that.  So maybe, putting it in that perspective makes it easier for us kinky types to accept differences?

Invisible slave

Look around you at the office, or the shop, or the restaurant.  Take a glance at your neighbours, scrutinise your family, and contemplate your friends.  Who among them knows the euphoria of being tied down and whipped?  Who knows what it is, to surrender totally to another person?  Who understands the passion and devotion of committing themselves to being a slave?  Or on the other side of the coin, of owning one?  It most likely won't be obvious, but the most innocent-looking gesture, or gaze, or word, can be an important clue.

Yesterday I found myself agitated, frustrated and basically envious of an outspoken lesbian woman at work.  She was making herself known, and people were joking with her and smiling to let it be known that they supported the office "gay".  The delight on her face at being the centre of attention, loved by all, was grating.  I imagined the response if I had made similar comments about my own relationship status: shocked silence, followed by awkward attempts to steer the conversation away from anything to do with sexuality.

In the same meeting, a demonstration of sorts used a piece of rope.  Naturally, its appearance was met by nervous giggles and joking references to who was "into" what.  Would that lesbian woman have sat in silence while people teased one another about being dykes?  Hell no.  But kink - that's allowed to be a joke.  It's far too scary to be taken seriously.

A girl who works the checkout at my local supermarket comes to work wearing a leather collar.  One day as she made polite chitchat to me, I gestured to my neck, and asked her, "fashion or lifestyle?"  She smiled, obviously pleased to have been asked.  "Oh, lifestyle!" she replied.  I smiled back, happy to have engaged with a fellow deviant... until she went on.... "I've always been into Goth, it's really important to me!"  Goth, huh?  Not really what I'd meant by "lifestyle".  Just as well she hadn't known any better.

I hope I'm not misunderstood - I don't actually take myself so seriously that I feel this way all the time.  I don't go around giving people evils for not "respecting kink".  I wouldn't want to be any part of a recognition movement called "kink pride".  I enjoy that D/s is fairly "underground" - it keeps it personal, and allows more freedom in some ways.  If kink were "out", there would be even more wannabes and fakers to find our way around, and no doubt the "rules" people try to promote as universal would be equally well known, and even more invasive than they already are.  I like it this way - when people are afraid to know, they mind their own business.

But sometimes, I want people to know what is important to me.  Sometimes I want to tell them that kink isn't just a new way of having sex.  And when people compliment me on that lovely necklace I have on, I wish I could tell them why I smile with pride.  Because it makes me happy, brings me excitement, and - yes, I'll admit it - makes me feel special.  But I can't be seen like the lesbian in the room can.

Next time you are in a group, and someone cracks a joke about kinky sex, have a look around.  Who there is not blushing or laughing?  Who looks a little more comfortable than the others with the subject matter?  Who looks a little bored, waiting for the nervous giggling to die down?  That's the person who knows something real about kink.

Consequence

Something disturbed my sleep - I looked around in the dark.  But before I even saw him, Master's hands took me, one grabbing my hair and the other clamped firmly over my mouth.  Uh-oh.  There was no rush of excitement or fear - just the awareness that I had pissed him off.  And whatever he was about to do, it wasn't going to be very comfortable.

He walked me outside, leading me by my hair, pushing me ahead of him, naked in the cool breeze.  He chose a corner of the garden covered in dirt and leaves, and spoke:  "On your back."  I laid down slowly, and waited.

His piss was warm in the cool air, and smelled strong.  He pissed on my body, my legs, my cunt, my tits, and my face.  I choked a little as he sent some down my throat and it splashed into my eye and nose.  He made sure to wet my hair.  He finished, and I waited for what was next.

But all he did was look down at me for a moment.  Then he uttered "I suggest you find a spot out of the wind," turned, and walked into the house.  And closed the door.  There was no question in my mind it would be locked.

Almost since immediately after we met, Master has claimed his right to me at any time, by having a key to my house.  So when I moved last weekend, one of the first things I made sure to do was to have a key cut for him, and deliver it so that he had access to his property.  But I neglected something - thinking I wasn't going to use it, I didn't think it necessary to cut a key for the security door.  So of course, the following night, when Master came to use his slut and found himself locked out, he was not pleased.  A stupid oversight on my part.  And now here I was, locked out... naked, wet, dirty, and stinking of piss.  Perfectly fitting.

In the past, being punished for my mistakes was devastating to me.  I have blogged before about some of these times, and how they would sicken me with grief and regret.  My Master's approval was, and still is, of paramount importance to me - his disapproval leaves me feeling shamed.  But something has changed in more recent times, and I think, been cemented with my collaring - I am less afraid.  My greatest fear since I became his property, has been his rejection.  In the early days, it seemed always imminent, looming just beyond the next mistake - his realisation that I was not worthy of his attention or time.  Each time I failed him, it felt like the end - I would be discarded now, as I should be.  I was worthless to him... nothing.

But now?  Somehow over time I have come to trust that, if my Master has kept me this long, he must see some worth in me.  If he keeps using me, he must take pleasure from me.  If he spends time with me, he must like me.  If he reassures me, he must care about me.  And most of all, if he has collared me, he truly intends to keep possession of me.

I reflected on this change, standing there in the dark, realising that I was not panicking, expecting disposal, and grieving for how much loss it would be to be freed.  Instead, I was calm, and simply accepting.  This was what Master was doing to me, as was his right.  That's all there was to it.  It did not mean I would be thrown away, it simply meant I was getting what I thoroughly deserved.  I thought about this, as I took a sheet off the washing line, wrapped it around myself, and huddled up for the night.

I was surprised that he didn't leave me there all night, though.  He came out with a bowl and used it to wash me down with cold water, splashing it over me until I was shivering.  Then he took my asshole, as he does, with no preparation, with no lube - just opening my tight, dry hole and forcing in his cock.  Sometimes the pain makes me scream, but this night I held it in, conscious of the neighbours so close by.  He used my hole, fucking it as his own, with me squirming under him on the pavement, alternating between pain and pleasure.  And after he had filled it with his cum, I was allowed back inside.

I slept in my bed last night, smelling of sweat, cum, shit, and the stench of piss still in my hair.

Trick of the trade

There's a kind of plumber's tool, but I don't know what it's called.   It's made of thick, rigid plastic.  One end is a  large, crimped cylinder wide enough to fit over any drain, and the other is a strong handle made for a tradesman-sized fist.  It's big.  And it really hurts having one shoved up your cunt.

Master had an old friend over to fix a blocked drain in his kitchen today.  And as part of the deal, the friend had free use of me while he was there.  It was someone who has fucked me before, but it was a long time ago and he looks quite different now.  It seems a fitting illustration of what a slut I am, that I didn't recognise his face at all - but once he undid his pants, I immediately recognised his cock.

So, for five minute's work, he had me bent over the dining table, hand gripping my hair, his plastic tool wedged in my slut hole, and his flesh one pressed against my crack.  He pushed me to my knees and forced his cock as deep into my mouth as it would go, so that I struggled to breathe against his skin, gagging and retching with drool running down my chin.  Master joined him at that game.  Then I was filled from both ends, Master cumming into my cunt, after his guest shot his load directly into my throat, holding my head firmly still.

It is so good to be used!

By far the best part of my memory of this morning, is my own displeasure.  Master's guest is nice enough, but doesn't fuck the way I like it at all.  He smells and tastes unpleasant, and his cock is not very satisfying.  He uses his tongue and fingers a lot - both of which I hate.  My list of men I dislike fucking is short, but I'm sorry to say he is on it.  And that was part of the beauty of today.  Because if what gets me off most is feeling used regardless of my own will, what good is it to only be fucked by those I like and feel attracted to?  What good is it to be fucked in ways that are choreographed to what I want?  The real lustful, slutty headspace comes from the bad fucks - especially the ones that pay no mind at all to my pleasure or comfort.  The ones that see a slut, and use her - how they want.  The ones that acknowledge openly that they have been given the right to, and are not afraid to take advantage of it.

No, I don't want to remember fondly ever fuck I ever have.  When I relive one and find myself thinking, "ugh... I hope I don't have to do that again soon...." - that's when I know I've really been had.  And that feels good - to be treated as what I am.

Chasing the High

How many times can I say it before it becomes a cliché? I love pain! There is nothing more refreshing, and calming, and liberating than being guided into position, holding still, and then being thoroughly hurt. It takes me to a clear space inside, where there is nothing but the sheer sensation and Master’s will, inching me closer and closer to nothingness.

The secret, I’ve discovered, is to say “yes” to it. Don’t brace myself, if I can help it. Relax, and feel the pain. The reflex is to flinch away and mentally try and make it stop – but I can’t. So the secret to freedom is to accept it, and concentrate on the pain and how it feels and to want only that. Of course, given enough pain, there is a phase of resistance where I do want Master to stop – I will beg him to stop, eventually. But beyond that, there is a deeper acceptance still – pure submission becomes effortless. Bliss.

I heard a lecture recently about the pursuit of ecstasy. I justified it as relevant to my work, but of course, I was just as motivated by curiosity about what the presenter might say regarding my own unconventional experience. He argued that it was simply a matter of brain chemistry – people addicted to dopamine. I love pain because it alters my consciousness by flooding my brain with feelgood neurotransmitters.

I can agree to a point. I am aware that, over time, as I’ve been exposed to more and more pain in play, I’ve developed a liking for it in many ways. I can endure an uncomfortable dentist visit, or an accidental injury, by focusing my mind more strongly on the pain, instead of wishing it gone. I don’t really enjoy it, in those contexts, but I can take a small compensatory degree of pleasure in it by putting myself in the right frame of mind. I can suppose that I have learned to purely enjoy that chemical change.

But there is something important missing in that idea. Something very important: my Master. Without someone inflicting the pain on purpose, the experience is dull and shallow. With a random sadist, it can be decadent and gratifying. But if the sadist is my Master, it becomes ecstatic – even transcendent. I love pain, but in and of itself, it is nothing compared to my Master’s will on the other side of the whip or paddle. That’s not just dopamine – its chemistry of an entirely different sort. When Master hurts me he penetrates my mind and wraps his hands around a deep, animal part of me. It’s more than just pain: it’s a kind of rich, perfect intimacy – surrendering my deepest self to him in joy.

I would have liked to hear what the lecturer would say about that. But it might have made too strong an impact on question time.

A wallet-sized halo

If I like watching videos of women getting bound and whipped, does that make me a danger to children?  According to our government I am.

It's a strange circumstance, wanting the world to see what a dirty slut I am, and yet having to maintain a "professional" persona each day.  Although I don't work with kids, I require clearance confirming I am safe with them.  And that means proving there is no legal evidence that I am a deviant.  But, of course, I am a deviant - and not a mild one, either.  Just lucky enough and grudgingly discreet enough, to not be on record as one.  And here's what tickles me today:  I will have a new photo on my I.D. soon, the card that says I'm not a deviant.  And on this card, under my smiling face, will be the collar that signifies visibly what a deviant I am.  Nice...

An open contradiction, signifying the hypocracy and lunacy of it all.  No one wants their kids to be in danger.  But is it really relevant what I do alone with my Master in the privacy of his home?  No, of course not.  As long as I keep it a secret what I am, then the children are safe.

Everlong

It was six months ago that I last blogged, and it was pretty clear I was struggling.  Not just struggling to write, though that was true - I was struggling to subsist.  Even now, the reasons why are hazy.  But where it led me, where I am now, and why... that much makes sense.  Perhaps this is why, to tell the story, I think it best to start at the point where things began to make sense again... the moment clarity began to return.

On September 20th last year, my Master and owner directed me to my bedroom, where he told me to kneel with my eyes closed.  He placed a beautiful, and carefully chosen band around my neck, and my breath left me.  Just like that, so simply, I became his collared slave.

To say I was overjoyed would be far too simplistic.  I was awed, near-speechless, hot and trembling.  I had spent three years longing and striving for this moment, and to my shock, it was here.  It finally was here, almost defying belief - defying my whole reality.

What was most shocking of all, is less than a week earlier, I had tried to leave.  Because although I had spent three years waiting for this moment, some months ago, I had given up.  Hope, faith, joy, and will, had left me slowly.  What remained was a sad, desperate loyalty - and bitter love.  I was drowning.  All my senses screamed ESCAPE.  So I tried.

But those three years had not been spent idly.  Master had built something with me, and I had participated more than gladly.  Put simply, I was not allowed to leave.  I had given him my rights, my freedom, with every intention not to ask for them back.  I had hoped - and pleaded - that he hold me to that promise... that if I ever did try to be my own person, he would prove to me that I was not.  If I ever tried to run, I should be dragged back.  How was it that I grew so hopeless that I didn't believe in this promise anymore?  It would take a thesis to try and explain.  And even then, it might be more confusing than enlightening.

Suffice to say that hope had left me - I no longer believed he would take what had been promised.  I thought I could simply leave, and be alone, horribly free.  I say horribly because I truly did not want my freedom.  Only the turbulence in my mind seemed worse, and I wanted free of it, even if that meant I was alone.

But the most incredible thing happened.  Master said no.  He simply would not allow me to leave, regardless of what I said or did.  He would not let me go that easily, he said... "you are mine."  To my amazement, my Master followed through on exactly what he had said he would do.

The days that followed were a strange mix of grief and comfort.  Something had happened that I had both dreaded and dreamed about - I had become an unwilling slave.  I truly had no choice, it had been proven to me.  But something else had been proven, too - I had been worth taking.  If I could rely on my Master to keep his word even when I swore I did not want him to... then perhaps I could simply rely on him.  And was there really an alternative?  I swung back and forth between resignation and fear - relenting in my actions, versus submitting in my heart.  Which would I choose?

As it turned out, the choice was again made for me.  When Master collared me, he told me in his actions and his words, that I was worthy to him.  He intended, always, to keep me.  He valued me - enough that I was worth the effort it took to maintain his hold.  All my fear that I meant nothing to him, all my doubt that I was worth anything at all, was gone.  And my heart was his again.  I have not faltered in my commitment since.

In some ways, the collar represents only what was true before it was put physically in place.  I was already his, for as long as he decides, by choice or by force.  But in other ways, it changes everything.  It is public recognition of my place - and therefore, of his pride.  And it is private recognition of what I have given him: everything of my self.  That I had to try and free myself, and be made to surrender, in order to earn what I had wanted willingly for so long before, is both a perverse irony and a rightful law.  It gives me certainty of my place and my worth, a tangible reminder of who he is to me, and who I remain to him.

But most of all it gives me peace.  Peace from the turmoil inside my mind that tortured me as little as three months ago... that made me want to escape, at any price, just to ease the pressure inside.  Because it was only based on fear grown so overwhelming, that I could see nothing else.  Master came through on his promise, and eased my fear, so I could willingly give myself to him once more.  My bliss came back.  And now, a new phase begins...