Master, as well as his more unusual interests, has an enthusiasm for TV box sets. Not trashy sitcoms etc, but mainly sci-fi series and classics. When I'm at his home and not busy serving him or engaging in deviant forms of entertainment, we often spend time watching a series on DVD together with some food or a bottle of wine.
But anyway, nobody came here to read about TV, right? The reason I mention it is that his latest series hire has got me thinking some interesting things. The context is survival - most of the population of the earth has been wiped out and resources are scarce. What would I do in this situation? Well, my first impulse was, of course, that I'd whore myself out for sure. One thing men will always want, is women to fuck. And I am already "used" as currency from time to time - so naturally, I'd turn to what I know to help myself survive. Not to mention have some fun (grin).
But when I think about it even longer, sex is really just the beginning. Ultimately, if the whole human species is at stake, what is really needed is women to breed. Bring things down to the most basic level of survival, and the whole women's movement comes to naught. In the end, they don't have much choice in the matter: it is a biological necessity to get knocked up, or we all die. That's the simple truth of it. As a woman, my body is a commodity - not just to help a man get off, but because I can have his child. Strip humanity of all its laws and customs, drag each man down to a matter of "live or die", and women become one essential thing: breeding stock.
All this brings me to a new perspective on an old fantasy. Master has spoken many times about using me to breed, and it is something that never fails to terrify and excite me on a very deep level. To be used as a body to create a child, by Master or someone else, without a choice, is ownership at its most primitive level. By control of my most basic biological functions, Master's use of me would be complete unequivocally. Physically and psychologically, there would be no return, and no denying my true place as his property and his slave.
But putting it into a survival context, that makes it real in a new way. Because not only could I become breeding stock if my Master wished it, but in some deep, biological way, I already am. It is only by chance allocation of my social environment and place in history, that we can all pretend otherwise. I have had bestowed on me, by my social world, a right to choose what my body is used for - but that social world is no ultimate authority. The reality is, at any time it could die. The ultimate authority is nature, and it dictates that I am here for one primary use. In my relationship with Master, that reality is recognised and embraced. I am stock.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, March 19, 2010
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.
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.
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?
Friday, February 26, 2010
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?
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?
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
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.
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.
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