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...