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.