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.

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.

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.