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.