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.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
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!
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!
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
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?
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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
