Bitch

It was a couple of months ago now, that Master’s dog last pissed on the carpet. After kicking him out, he grabbed my hair, and, while fucking me from behind, shoved my head towards the stinking wet patch on the floor. He said “I want to hear you sniff it!” and I tried, but not well enough – it was repulsive. Master ordered me again, “Sniff it! I want to hear you sniffing like a dog!” He was holding me roughly and pushed my face right into it. I was revolted by the smell and wanted to pull away, and I whimpered at first, but had to try to please him. I started to sniff loudly and quickly, a sort of panting through my nose. He held me there and fucked me and rubbed my face harder into the dog’s piss on the floor, forcing me to inhale its scent. It was bitter and concentrated, and with my eyes clenched shut, my hair spilling over my face, and a cock throbbing in my cunt, the animal smell and the sound of myself huffing like a canine took me somewhere primitive inside my mind… I lost self-consciousness and dignity, and for a short while I could truly believe I was not human.

It seems to be the latest direction Master is taking me in my training: to become a bitch. And it suits me well. I have always felt there was something beautifully simple and purifying about animal-training, but the common choices seem somewhat absurd. A Dom I met a long time ago once said he’d like to train me as a cat, but in all honesty I think there is nothing cat-like about me. Puppies are far too innocent and cute, it would feel ridiculous. Yes, I am more like a bitch. Bitches are dirty and unashamed. A bitch is wanton and yet vulnerable. A bitch is there to please, to be used as a hole, and sometimes, to breed. I am definitely a bitch.

The other night it was a nice surprise, when Master showed me what he had me doing. He had placed something over my head and was taking photos while I posed on all fours, not knowing what this was about. Until he showed me the pic on the camera, and I realised what was over my face: a leather dog mask. I was posing as a bitch.

As a bitch, .... I am to spend nights on the floor, and eventually, outside in a pen or kennel. I may one day be replaced in my human position by another woman, one who will slut by my Master’s side and treat me as the animal that I am. Worth less even than Master’s ‘real’ dog. A situation so awful and yet so attractive…

If Master does indeed progress with teaching me in this vein, I know I will be challenged. But also rewarded. I do long to be taught new ways to please him, and if this is what he wants of me, I will learn to be the best bitch I can be. Woof.

All I want for Christmas is a welted arse...

I have come to realise something over time: my Master is not just a Master. He is a manslut. Please note that I mean nothing offensive by that. Merely that he is a man who loves to ‘get around’, and fuck as many people as possible in as many ways as possible. Variety is the spice of his sexual life. And he loves to mix spices – orgies and groupies of any kind are top of his list. As are any new hot bitch or tight arse. That is why he spends so much time browsing for newcomers, and why it matters to him if any one of them doesn’t pan out. Because he wants to fuck them all.

I, too, am a slut. But the point of difference between my priorities and Master’s, is that I am primarily a subslut. The top of my list is whatever will be the roughest, the most painful, the more humiliating, the hardest kink. But obviously, it is not my list that determines what we do.

Occasionally I try to tell Master, that I don’t care about vanilla playmates. I would forgo any number of them for time at home with his most sadistic self. But he doesn’t seem to believe me. And perhaps rightly so… I am, after all, addicted to cock.

When we first met, one thing that made me hesitate most to give myself to him, was worry that I would not get to slut enough to be satisfied. Master made a promise to me, that I would still be used regularly and thoroughly, by many people. It has been my surprise and delight that he has kept his word. But even more surprising is that my frustration has taken the opposite form: being allowed to be a slut has made me miss out on what I want more.

I know I have blogged about this before. But my frustration rises and gets to me over time. I want to be hurt. I want to be flogged and bruised and welted and made to scream and cry. I want the sheer limits of my pain to be pushed and pushed until I fear I won’t survive. And I am forever postponed to avoid offending the sensibilities of new fucks my Master considers essential to his pleasure.

I am trying not to sound bitter, but probably not succeeding. There doesn’t seem much point in being apologetic about it. What I really want to say, when Master avoids marking me because of what others might think, is Fuck them. So what if they don’t feel ok about S&M? We don’t need prudes who want their sex all fluffy and friendly. They are boring and need to get over it. Let’s just stick to the kinky bastards, the ones who understand how to have real fun. Please, Sir….

But like I said, Master wants to fuck them. It doesn’t matter if they are vanilla as essence, he still wants to fuck them. I guess it seems that, when it comes down to it, Master preferences sex over kink, figuring there will always be time for more kink later. Whereas I preference kink any day, and feel that there will always be more sex around when you need it.

Patience, nadi… keep showing patience…

Passer Pipiabat

It’s a strange quirk of fate that the book I am reading lately is a collection of love stories. Why I picked it up, I don’t know – it is not my usual subject of choice. But it turns out to be a selection I feel close to. Each story has a unique pain, a sad passion, and an uncommon truth – just like mine, in a way.

Two years ago when I first began to tell my Master I loved him, I knew it would mean pain. But I had to make that offering. It was part of my surrender. I felt I would earn something. What; I no longer know. Approval? Affection? Tolerance of my flaws? But not for him to love me back. I never thought he would give me that.

There is a woman, I will call her ‘Elle’, who my Master adores. She seems to my limited knowledge to be so many things I am not – independent, successful, strong-willed, and beautiful. And most important, she has my Master’s love.

…I apologise, Sir, for such a bold assumption, but this is how it appears to my eyes.

So, why, if I never thought he would love me and never presumed to wish for it, does it ache so much to see his smile when he speaks of her? It is not the competition – I know very well that she and I can’t fill the same place in my Master’s life. And yet, it is the comparison. The very differences between us that make me safe, are the same things that break my heart. Every distinction between Elle’s life and mine, becomes proof of my inferiority – why else would Sir be so happy with her? She deserves something – something wonderful – that I do not.

And yes, I do want my Master to be happy. Even as it breaks me, that his happiness can be better given by someone else, I do feel glad for it. And I try to make him even happier, when he is pleased by her. I look hard for ways to serve him; I name my jealousy but suppress my sadness; I try with more determination to satisfy him when he fucks me. And sometimes, I feel like I succeed. Sometimes, I earn his praise. But love can’t be earned. It can only be given, and not to me.

A long time ago, when I submitted to Sir J, he fell in love with another submissive. At first I was happy for him, but soon I realised what that meant for me. I may have kept my place, but not his attention. I was soon wanted less often by him, and found myself waiting. When I had my turn, he was distracted and lackluster. He stopped correcting me as if he could no longer be bothered. More and more frustrated, I eventually lashed out and told him what I thought, in an effort to provoke him into putting me back in my place. I was horrified that he didn’t. Instead, he told me I was right, let me go, and focused completely on her.

This is certainly not the same. Master Paul is nothing like Sir J, and Elle is not his sub. My role and feelings for my Master now have little resemblance to what they were back then. But there is one element that remains the same: I was not as desirable as someone else. Even with no love for Sir J and not a great deal of respect for him, it cut me to be second best. And now, with far more of myself at stake, it feels crushing.

How is it possible that someone so far away, who barely knows of my existence at all, has so much power over me? If she were ever to take up residence with my Master, as his partner, she would have me as her slave without effort. Just her existence is enough to remind me of my place, bring me down to nothing, and show me that I am weak and small.

Sometimes it feels unfair. I know I am an incredible slut for him. I know I give him far more than her, and make far greater sacrifices to please him. A part of me feels I deserve “something”… she gets love… how do I get to be something special?

Maybe I don’t…?

Maybe I just get to love him and suffer for it. At least that is something I can do somewhat contentedly. Something I can feel is my blessing. Master may not care enough to give me love, but sometimes he cares to give me pain, and I am grateful. When he hurts me, I feel like I am something to him.

Please, Sir… Please may I have some more pain…?

Thwarted

Master hates it when people don't follow through. Even if it is not personal, it is personal. Each message sent, each photo shared, is an investment of trust to the other person to keep their word. To not do so is a disrespect and a betrayal.

On the third day he was away, I opened the envelope containing my chores for the day and was stunned. He wanted me to make him a video - with others. In his absence. I must have re-read it more than ten times, just to make sure I hadn't misunderstood. Master never invites me to play without him, and never ever allows me the freedom to choose who I play with...

Well, there was a time... it seems like decades ago now. I once had some kind of choice. I remember reporting to him each time I was used, giving him the graphic details of my slut life without him. I remember him narrowing the scope of my choice, until I had limited range, and then nothing without his consent. And then I remember giving it up to him, promising him my whole self, freely giving my choice away. The thought of choosing whether someone can fuck me or not has become completely alien.

So at first, the task he had written for that day was barely comprehensible. I went about finding someone carefully, and settled on a couple who seemed sufficiently deviate but not too risky. And then, it was going to happen. They had agreed to everything, all that needed to happen was for me to give the ok for them to come over. And I just couldn't do it. Panic came over me. I couldn't just do this, I had to be sure I wasn't halucinating the whole thing. The consequences of mistakenly cheating my Master were too unthinkable!

I messaged him, asking for confirmation. I had to be sure I had his word. And to my relief, I did. So I said, okay. Come over, lets do this........

.......and they didn't turn up.

I sulked. I was angry and frustrated. And not because of any of the reasons above, and not because I had wanted my fun, either. I was furious that I had been so careful to be sure it was approved by my Master. I had fretted over it, and agonised over who he might want me to choose. I had finally felt sure this was what he wanted of me, and committed to it in my mind. And more than that, I had realised I was on the verge of completing the most difficult of all the tasks he had set me while he was away. I would score one hundred percent. I would not fail to please him. AND THOSE SELF-SERVING BASTARDS TOOK THAT AWAY.

Exposure

I am in a normal public place... let's say a cafe... surrounded by people, and every one of them knows I am below them in every way. Just by looking at me they know I am a slut, a whore, and they can treat me as they wish. The men look me up and down and smirk. The women snicker and point. Once in a while someone will walk past and give a slap on my arse, or casually jerk my hair as they stand beside me, considering their order. Strangers place their hands up my skirt or tweak my nipples, chuckling at my embarassment and compliance. Everywhere I go is like this... I am marked, known, and always humiliated. I have no rights, and no dignity.

An unlikely fantasy to become true in the world we live in. But possible, to some smaller degree. Like when Master takes me out dressed as a tart... trotting alongside him in a tiny skirt, knee high boots, my cleavage bulging out of my top... an obvious slut. And him, dressed neatly, appearing unmoved by the sight of my cheeks jutting out from below my hemline, carrying on with his shopping or chatting to a friend, while I wait silently at his side.... making it clear to the astute observer, that I belong to him, nothing but his smiling whore.

And some people do notice, and make it clear that they do. Which is how I wound up with my skirt around my waist while the security guard at the local late-night shop casually strolled up to the car, put his hands in the window, and helped himself to a feel of my holes... then pull out his cock at the window, and speak one word to me: "suck." And thats how he knew, not to ask me, but to ask the mysterious man I was with, if I could be fucked.

Master asked me recently, for the reason why, if I enjoy being seen as a slut so much, do I dress so normally when I'm not with him? I found it hard to articulate a simple response... really, there are several reasons, and I'm not entirely sure which are most significant. But I'll try...

Firstly, I just like dressing the way I do - in long skirts or jeans, and singlet tops, outfits that show my tits and hide my legs. They are loose and comfortable, and I like to dress comfortably. I don't wear high heeled shoes, for example, because it is just not comfortable.

Second, I feel attractive dressed that way. And while I know that many men's attention is drawn by exposed flesh, mine is not. I find women who show it all off to be, well, kind of dull. I find a woman beautiful if she looks mature, comfortable, natural, and confident enough in herself to not try to seek attention. So I can't help but seek to look that way myself.

The third reason is pride. I will confess, I am like a lot of women, in that I judge people by the way they dress. When I see a woman in a short skirt shivering on a winter night, I think she is not very smart. If a woman can't leave the house without her hair and makeup done, I think she is insecure. And while I do want to be a public slut, I also want to be recognised as intelligent and confident.

All this begs the question, why, then, do I enjoy being such a slutty whore sometimes? Well, its the same list of answers. I enjoy the mild anxiety of feeling uncomfortable. I enjoy dressing in a way that is attention-grabbing, but, in my mind, not at all attractive - just obviously easy. And I enjoy the humiliation of being seen and judged to be 'less-than'... to be nothing but a whore. If I dressed in that way every day, it would soon lose these effects for me. I would become comfortable as the slutty type, and no longer notice I was being watched. And then, what would be the point?

0

When Master asked me, What are you, deep down? If you strip everything away to the core, what is left? I could only answer, ‘nothing’. I didn’t think it was the answer he was expecting. But the truth of it was, the question left me feeling empty.

When Master found me, I was a slut. Now, I am his. I am still a slut, because that is how he wants me. See the change? Being his is the centre, the beginning. I am openness. Yielding. Submission. With him, anything. Alone, stripped of my reference point… nothing.

Being a slut was just a filler. A way I could be something that what was wanted of me. I want to please – that is why being a slut comes naturally to me. Now I have someone to please, and the slut part becomes secondary.

See how it’s not a choice? Once I let that become my purpose and my meaning, there was no taking it back. I don’t decide what I am anymore. The slut was given to him, in exchange for nothing.

The question of consent is a cunning one. The reality of who determines what, and for whom, can run people in circles. I am his because I gave myself to him. But at the same time, I was his long before I ever even considered making that surrender. Probably from the moment we met.

I may not ever leave him, and I am glad. If I ever try, I hope he drags me back. I would be devastated and grateful. Because that is his right. Oh, sure, I know that legally things are more black and white than that. But legal or not, and consenting or not, I would willingly serve him, and defend his right. He owns me because I gave my rights to him; and I gave them because he already had them. It's a chicken and an egg, and there is no answer, and no undoing the cycle. Take away any part, and you are left with nothing. Consent becomes a myth that you can try and believe in, or...

Inside, out

I was chatting to Blknight a while ago and we got to comparing different styles of domination. He is very much the physical guy: the kind of Dom who wants to take control via the subbie's body - pushing the physical limits, manipulating by blunt force. Master, on the other hand, is a psychological controller - he pushes me with words and mental images, to the extremes of experience that sensation alone could not induce.

There is a place for both, and as I said to Blknight, a perfect balance is ideal, but probably we all have our predilection to focus on one over the other. For me, there is nothing like the psychological dominance Master uses to control me. Don’t misunderstand: he is undeniably strong and more capable of using force than most. But so much of his power comes from carefully-chosen words, making it seem effortless, and so all the more intoxicating. Anyone can take control with a pair of cuffs and a cane, but to do it just by speaking inspires awe. And it is that emotional effect that is most important for me…. (perhaps because I fear so little physically…?) Being physically controlled is amazing, but the mental control is what makes it real. When Master chooses what he will say - or what he won't - to show dominance over me; or when he uses words to push my limits until I am shaking and sobbing, wide-eyed and enraptured by what he is saying... that’s how he owns me: from the inside, out.

Like Master said, I am an emo slut. I know it’s not the perfect way for a sub to be, so I try and keep it within tolerable levels. Sometimes, though, I fail. I could write about how that lets him down sometimes, but to dwell on that would be making the same mistake even as I apologise for it. Instead, I want to say how that, too, means he owns me so deeply – because I feel so much. That is how his words capture me – by tapping into the parts of me that are most vulnerable, that hurt most easily: my mind and my heart.

It means I am powerfully dependent on him. All my inevitable ups and downs are deeply tied to him, because it is his influence that devastates me or relieves me. Yes, soaring from grief to bliss partially on someone else’s calculation is an agonising way to live – but also a very gratifying one. To borrow someone else’s words I am an “affect junkie”. An addict for intensity. An emo-slut.

Life’s stress can bring me down so low I don’t just want to die – I want to suffer, too. The tension builds up over days and I become muted, flat, and confused. I feel afraid and disoriented. I try and tell myself to keep functioning, but in retrospect I always know I wasn’t – and that regardless of how I try not to bother Master with my frame of mind, it is foolish to think he can’t tell. He can read me effortlessly……. And then eventually, if he decides I am deserving, he takes my body, and hurts me.

He takes me away from my mind and into only my body using physical extremes. It might be partly the endorphins, and partly the sheer cathartic effect of being made to cry and scream, but mostly I think it is the sense of absolute surrender that releases me. When it hurts, I need nothing but to know I am his, and then when it is over, I re-emerge, myself again. My despair disintegrates. It’s like hitting a ‘reset’ switch…. Or like shock therapy.

Emo slut

Last night, as I begged Master to cut me, he said, "Are you an emo slut? Or just a slutty emo?" and for a second, I felt like I'd been sprung… exposed… a secret discovered. Of course, that is one of my Master's most captivating talents – he sees right through me, and speaks aloud exactly what makes me shy away.

I would like to pretend I am a poster girl for cheerful, emotionally stable submissives, but I most definitely am not. I am moody and anguished. I am drawn to darkness, and to the 'edge'. I try and hide it, even from myself, but a part of me is fascinated with the idea of my own destruction. I want to feel my blood running over my skin. I want to feel my head float away from lack of oxygen. I want to feel the fear and exhilaration of wondering if I will live through this. Recently when Master released his hold on my throat and allowed me to gasp for air again, I thanked him for my breath… for my life. I remember thinking I would also have wanted to thank him if he had chosen to deny it.

No, I am no rainbows and fairies girl.

But my Master makes me feel light. Pleasing him I feel blessed, comforted, and secure. I feel I can live and be happy. As he said to me more than once, I can do anything.

Today I had the pleasure of being the subject of a media interview – with my Master's permission, to talk publicly on radio about what it is like to be a slave without limits. The portion they played was short and sweet and positive, and I was pleased to hear what they chose to include. But there was one hard question they asked that was edited out of the final… they said, "has he brainwashed you?" That was a question I couldn't answer – not in a public statement. Instead I laughed. The response on my lips, though, was "I don't care." If the type of training my Master performs on me – on my heart, and on my mind – is brainwashing, then so be it! I am just as grateful to him no matter what the name.

.... and it doesn't stop there

I was on my back, my arms spread wide and tied to the bedposts, almost hyperventilating with nerves. Master had just played back his recording of what I'd said to him: "Please, would you shit in my mouth, Sir?" The recording meant even more than the act – he had my plea, my longing, and there was no taking it back. A part of me tried to believe he wouldn't really do it… reaching for denial. But I needed to ask for it, the time was right. I opened my mouth and shut my eyes, and my mind was crowded with thoughts that came down to "YES/NO". Trying not to move. Putting all my will towards keeping my mouth open. Not failing him. Oh god, this is disgusting….

… and next thing I know, there is something in my mouth, and I gasp with shock so hard that for a second I am choking on it. It momentarily occurs to me how utterly absurd it would be to die now, choking on my Master's shit while he shifts position to fuck me, and then it dislodges and I can breathe again, but fuck its still in my mouth, and I can't move my hands and I can't sit up and I can't get it out of there…. And Master tells me to come, and I try, I really try, but for the first time since I've known him I simply can't… it's too shocking…

… But he was so pleased with me. I have never seen him smile so proudly. It was horrible, and I did it, and I would do it again for him. No matter what. Because I have proven it – I have no limits for my Master. He smiled and said to me later, "Now you have reached the point where you are really of use to me," and I felt elated… finally, two years of training and I know I have really become something he truly wants… something he would not throw away.

A good toilet

Two years ago, I was in a hotel room, exhausted and recovering from the first of many gangbangs my new Master would have me available for. He dismissed me to shower while he showed out the last of the guests, then entered the bathroom where I stood - wet, exposed and trembling. He ordered me to sit down and open my legs, and I did as he asked with trepidation. He said "spread your lips" and I held them - swollen, overused, and open - and I knew. I briefly shut my eyes, then looked down to watch the first stream of his piss touch my skin, spraying my cunt. He emptied his cock onto me and I waited, accepting it, until he appeared satisfied, and told me to resume my washing. That was my first golden shower.

Last night, I laid down on Master's floor, and positioned a large funnel in my mouth. When he urinated into it, I didn't choke, and I didn't gag, I just swallowed. I concentrated on keeping the pace it went down my throat fast enough so it wouldn't spill, and I didn't stop until I sucked nothing but air through the tube. Afterwards, he told me he was pleased, that I had become a good toilet, and I felt proud.

When he asked how it felt, I delved deep and answered that it felt dirty, humiliating, and submissive - and that I felt happy to have pleased him. But what surprised me that I couldn't put into words was that I felt so little at all. That is, I felt a little of all those things, but mostly there was a sense of normality about the whole experience. Of course I would swallow his piss. Of course I would be his toilet. Those thoughts came well before any sense of it being degrading in any way at all. I remember a similar feeling two years ago: testing myself in my mind, replaying the scene, thinking: he PISSED on me... waiting for a reaction, and hardly finding one at all.

Yes, of course I will drink piss from my Master. If it pleases him, it is right. I thanked him last night for training me in this way - his content little piss slut. And of course, I know it doesn't stop there....

"Yes please, Sir."

"Would you like to be whipped until you bleed?"
"Yes please, Sir."
"Would you like me to shit on you?"
"Yes please, Sir."
"Shall I fill your cunt with hot melted wax?"
"Yes please, Sir."
"Should I dump you naked in a group of drunks to be raped?"
"Yes please, Sir."

It's a powerful experience, to say those words: yes, please - to something a big part of me finds unthinkable. But I can't answer any other way, even if I try. Recently Sir asked me something I felt so horrified by that I did say "No, thank you Sir." .... but then I paused.... and retracted it with a "yes, please". When he asked why the quick change of heart, I answered truthfully - that I'd heard the no come out of my mouth, and felt disappointed. I couldn't stand to hear myself limit my desire. The high that comes with saying "yes" to anything at all, is enough to make me give up all my defenses.

For a long time, it has been a relief to be permitted no limits - to know my Master may do what he likes no matter what I say. It absolves me of choice, and thus responsibility. But it seems that is no longer enough. It seems that not only do I want to give up my control over what happens, and not just embrace and accept anything he decides... but I want to ask for anything he might consider entertaining, or that might prove my complete submission to him.

Sometimes I wish he didn't ask me so often. I want to be led, taken, and forced without even the opportunity to say no. But Master asks, even though his choices have little to do with my answer. I guess as much as he enjoys the thrill of force just as I do, my Master wants to know what I'm feeling - and he wants not just a slave, but a willing one. Or maybe he just finds it entertaining to hear me ask for it. *smiles*

Last night was a case in point. He was taking a jar of Tiger Balm, and smearing the contents onto my nipples, over my pussy, and shoving it inside my cunt and arse. Each time he asked if I wanted more, I hesitated, and asked myself, could I really stand that burning sensation engulfing me, to intensify again? And then I would realise that, pain aside, I couldn't stand the thought of saying no. Each time I momentarily feared the knowledge that once the balm was added, there was no escaping it - and then that was exactly what I loved the most once it was there. I was under him, swinging like a pendulum from yes to no...
.... and there have been far worse things...

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It has been a disappointingly long time since I've blogged. I know Master is unhappy about that, and I am grateful to him for allowing my block to take its course. There are many reasons, and "worse things" is one of them... as the exploration of the depths of my submission to him becomes more extreme, there are more and more things I just can't write about. And that makes me feel despondent. When I started this blog I felt inspired by the freedom it brought - to express what was in my mind freely and openly, without constraint. As much as I longed to share it, I also appreciated Master's choice to limit the blog's audience - it allowed me to be much more honest to bare all without fear. And now the things I want to write most - the powerful, most meaningful things - I must censor. It is a struggle to write at all when no matter what goes down on the page, I really want to say something else.... and all I end up with is a bunch of fragments.

There are other reasons, too, but I don't want this to degenerate to a list of excuses. I still don't know how to overcome it. All I can say is that, my lack of words has certainly not been caused by a lack of inspiration.

Thank you, Sir.

A snapshot of blessings...

I love lying in bed in the mornings and feeling a hand grab my hip, and a cock push its way into me without any lead-up. I love knowing that my Master can use his cunt whenever he wants to. I love that even more now that I may not use it when I want to.

I've been having more and more sexual dreams lately - and all focus on being owned, denied freedom. In one Master carved his initials into my flesh with a knife while I lay face down, quivering, my hands tied and his knee on my hair. In another, he owned a strip club and put me to work as a slave - while the other girls wore skimpy costumes, I was naked except for a collar and wrist cuffs, chained so that I was unable to reach my hands below my waist. Ranked below the other staff, the 'rules' did not apply to me, and I was free to be touched, teased, and played with in whatever way people liked.... but I was not permitted to orgasm.

It now feels amazing when Master is fucking me and he tells me to touch myself. I jump at the chance to feel that soft wetness that I can't take for granted anymore... and the scent on my fingers afterwards...... a rare delicacy indeed.

His cock is taking on a new personality for me now. It has become the foremost bearer of my pleasure and something I long even more to please. I find myself gazing at it openly and with admiration. After it has emptied into me, I don't want it to go away. I find myself fantasising about ways to keep Master's cock inside me forever, and it almost seems that I can't feel content any other way.

I'm feeling far too horny to string these things together fluently today.... just some thoughts on my mind.... things I am grateful for...

PS. I have written an online Slut Test.... enjoy if you dare

Evolutionary wank

Masturbation has been a major pleasure for almost my whole life. I was an early starter, playing every night in bed as a child. Long before I was old enough to orgasm, I'd bring myself to a magical brink of something... and sometimes manage to slip over it into a sudden sense of satisfaction and contentment, sending me peacefully off to sleep...

No wonder, then, that for me, playing with myself is about far more than just getting off. It is a comfort, a release of endorphins, a way of decreasing anxiety and increasing wellbeing. I use it to de-stress and unwind, to cure insomnia, to wake myself up, as a motivator, and as a relaxation technique. If I don't get to play for a while, emotional stress accumulates in my body as sexual tension.

It has been quite some time now since Master took away the freedom to touch myself and made it an occasional privilege... and honestly, I'm surprised at how well I've coped. It has probably been good for me, not just for my training, but also for life - I'm being forced to find alternative, more 'traditional' ways of letting off excess energy.

But sometimes, it is so hard to bear. Like yesterday. Yesterday, I spent hours quivering on the edge of orgasm. When I sat I found myself tilting my pelvis and rocking back and forth against the chair. I compulsively pinched the skin around my pubic area, clenching my thighs, the closest I could come to touching my pussy without feeling I was being disobedient. Peeing becomes an intense experience at times like these, the stimulation of the warm fluid followed by the paper makes me twitch.... almost enough to tempt me to orgasm.... but I don't dare.

Does that even sound believable, that I wouldn't give in?

When I first became my Master's exclusive property, I struggled to convince some of my old "playmates" of my loyalty to him. Many tried endlessly to convince me to sneak a fuck, thinking that if they just said the right things, surely this horny slut would put out once more... he'd never know, right? But he would know. I would never be able to keep it from him, even if I somehow summoned the insolence to try. And thats beside the point anyway, because I would never want to keep my mistakes from him - and thats something vanilla people always have a hard time grasping. I don't want to get away with anything!

For starters, my dignity as a submissive and my pride as his property depend on complete devotion to him. If I compromised this, how could I respect myself? And secondly, I want, as much as he does, to be under his complete control. As much as it can torment, and even frustrate me at times, I belong there. His ownership and his faith in my loyalty mean everything to me. If I betrayed that, it would not just mean his anger, his disappointment, his severe punishment, and my own shame - but most of all, the loss of this blissful sense of belonging to him.

That was my reasoning in the beginning, for not breaking my Master's trust. Over time the reasons changed to one that is much simpler, but has even more meaning: I am my Master's property. I have no right to lend his property to anyone else, only he can. And the same applies to playing with myself - I don't have the right to use his property any more than anyone else does. I must wait until he offers me the privilege.

That principle feels deeply right when it comes to play with others, but when it comes to playing with myself, although I can recognise its truthfulness, the real meaning hasn't sunk in yet. I am sure it will, and in time, my reasoning for not masturbating behind Master's back will also evolve from rationale to philosophy. In my thoughts, not just my actions, I will become even more a slave.

I have changed from fighting my desire to sleep around, to dependence on his permission - even in fantasy. I have grown to need his permission to orgasm, to the point where last time I was able to play, I had to imagine his voice to achieve it strongly. Now I'm on the way - slowly - to needing him even to touch myself. What next? Will he eventually have control even over my arousal? Will he become the very definition of my sexuality so that without him I have nothing - no desire other than what he permits and creates...? If that happened, then even if I was given back my freedom, I would have no choice but to be a slave for life...

Take it from me

Sixteen months ago when my Master first told me to blog, his instruction was that I should begin by writing about love. I was afraid then, and while I still am in some way, it is tempered by other things: most strongly the compulsion to please him. Some say that all emotions are made up of measures of fear and love.... that I'm not sure of, but I know that my feelings for Master can be summed up in that way. Fear, love, fear, love... fear of love... love of fear.... my most basic and most passionate self has its time through him.

I have learned to love him with a great deal more abandon since then - but by that I don't mean any degree of romanticism. It still amazes me that some people can remain, persistently, drawn to love as a cure.... as a resolution.... as a faith...
Love does not overcome. It does not give any more than it takes. Love is not an ideal of joy - it is an ideal of power.

The love I feel comes with a sense of sorrow, of liberation, and of death. It is utterly disempowering, an emotional sacrifice. It is no less consuming than it was sixteen months ago - what has fallen away is doubt.

Because it is beautiful in its pain. Owing to it. Those who only see beauty in the benign aesthetic are losing out - only half living. Incredible bliss lies in our most agonising emotions - because they contain so much life. Living - really living - is not about the accumulation of happiness and avoidance of suffering..... it is immersing oneself in both.

I am emotionally masochistic. I can take measures of sadness, and hurt, and guilt, and shame, in the same way that I do the strokes of a hand, a whip, or a knife - the goal being to surpass my resistance, embrace the feelings, and accept the bliss that is pain.

The shame when my Master is disappointed. The bitterness of his care for others. The hurt of believing that he does not love me. The horror of inevitable loss. These things are the grief that is love.

Bittersweet

Some things you have to do, that you’d much prefer to hide from. Some things creep up on you and present themselves to your consciousness horribly at some pivotal moment in such a way that you are tied – and you find yourself merely existing through some excruciating event of your own doing, with no other path to take.

Right before her impending visit, I have disowned my sista. Not from hate, or anger, or even because I was compelled to, but out of appalling necessity. Unplanned and unanticipated, but unchangeably all I could do. I feel like I’ve had to amputate my own limb, keeping the preparations outside my own awareness, maintaining denial right up until the moment when the knife split my skin.

For a long time there has been a friction among the four of us – s., myself and our Masters. Naively, I thought I was powerless, caught in the middle. But now it occurs to me that maybe I was the one holding it in place. I apologise – both for letting go, and for taking so long to do it.

Even greater than the shock of my own actions, was Master’s reply when I told him what had happened: "I told you I’d make you pay.”

On the issue of whether I could see her, he had done nothing and said nothing. His silence on the matter had been eerie, deliberate, but complete. I had no sense of being subject to his guidance, just waiting uneasily. I had no suspicion whatsoever that it was I who would finally perform his will.

Did he really plan this? Is his power over me really that great that he can alter my own choices without so much as a word? And without even my own recognition? I feel like a toy that has finally looked up for the first time, and seen puppet strings. I now understand more than ever the question of why my Master so rarely chooses to force his will over mine. Why, when he can quietly change my will?

What also hits me hard is the irony behind his words. For so long now I’ve dwelt on what I might have to give in order to see my sista. I never would have anticipated that it might have been her. And not by force, either – oh no, that would not have been enough. I had to give it up willingly, straight from my own heart.

I still have love for my friend, of course. But in such a short time so much has changed, sacrificed to my Master. Not to please him in order to be rewarded, and not to do his bidding to avoid being hurt. Just to honour and serve him, because that is what I am here to do.

Spoils

"The four friends gathered in a circle, and in its middle was placed the girl, dressed as she had been at the moment she had been seized.... she was stripped, and, naked, passed and passed again, five or six times over, from one of our libertines to the other, she was turned about, she was turned the other way, she was fingered, she was handled, they sniffed, they spread, the peeped, they examined the state of the goods, was it new, was it used, but did all this coolly and without permitting to upset any aspect of the examination."

I've been reading a delicious peice of literature lately, and its images are imprinting themselves on my mind. Its author is incredibly cruel to his characters, and I think what makes me enjoy that the most is the utter lack of feeling for them. They are described factually and coldly, and their tortures are outlined with total impartiality. Its not the events of the story that turn me on, so much as the incredible indifference - what can only be called pure sadism.

It was in this frame of mind that I waited in Master's bed last night, until he finally climbed in, followed closely by a visitor who walked in the front door and straight to the bedroom. I was fingered and fucked, loving feeling as insignificant an object as a girl from the book. The visitor knew not to ask what I wanted, that I was there to be taken, and regarded me as a thing for my Masters pleasure.

Afterwards, he told me I was spoiled. What can I say to that? Its true, on this occasion Master gave me permission to orgasm freely for some time.... and he did some things specifically to get a hornier, wetter reaction from me. But our visitor wasn't around when I had begged him for permission to masturbate that morning, then spent and hour in front of the pc touching myself at his instruction, but not allowed to come.... and he didn't see me squirming and sighing all day because I was so desperate for a fuck that I couldn't sit still. The visitor had never been there when I was deliberately made sick with jealousy, or when I was reduced to tears by having my emotional buttons pushed for Master's entertainment. He hadn't been there to see me tied outside, soaking wet and shivering in the cold, or forced to kneel until I cried from the cramps in my legs. Would he still call me spoiled if he'd seen that?

Maybe he would. Master sometimes asks, "don't you think you are spoiled?" and I really don't know what to say then. To answer "no" sounds so ungrateful. To answer "yes" sounds both critical and smug. The honesty rule doesn't give me an answer either: I genuinely don't know if I am spoiled or not. Who am I to measure how he should treat me?

All I want to say when I'm accused of this is, so what? Master treats me the way it pleases him to treat me. Sometimes that means making sure I enjoy myself immensely - but does that mean its just for me? What about the fact that it pleases him to see me writhing in lust and enjoying myself sometimes? What about the sensation he likes to get when I orgasm so intensely that he says it is like an earth tremour around his cock? If I'm spoiled, its not because Master feels an obligation to my enjoyment, but because he has much to gain from spoiling me.

The thing I have loved most when Master doesn't spoil me, when he is simply mean and cold and hurts me, is that he regards me with the exact same detached level-headedness as when he gives me more obvious pleasure. He is indifferently passionate, and tenderly cruel. Spoiled or not, I am his object, and I love it that way.

The last limit

There is one last taboo left in nadi's mind that has not yet been transgressed. One thing that still makes me want to say "please not that, Sir..." (but I wouldn't dare). One thing I have never done, and a big part of me would prefer was left that way.

But the problem with that is, I would stay limited. My goal has always been to break the boundaries - to transcend myself. The one thing I was most desperate for, that Master gave me, was to have my limits stretched - to face them, and then to erase them. To become completely free of my own fears and embrace obedience without hesitation. Even I am stunned at how much I can do now. But this one thing sticks that still makes me struggle....

Of course, Master owns me and has the right to do what he likes - I may not refuse his wishes. So if he orders me to lie still and keep my mouth open wide while he kneels above me preparing to fill it with his waste, I will do that. And I did - with tears running down my face, my shoulders trembling, and mentally pleading, please don't.... And he didn't. This time.

Because that would miss the point. Forcing me to do something I truly find shocking doesn't push me far enough - it lets me off too easily. It would allow me to comfort myself with the knowledge that it was not my chioce. No, to truly become limitless, the dirtiest slut I can be, I will have to ask for it. And I suspect it won't be given until I mean it.

I know I will ask for it, as does Master. Because its my final frontier - the last line I need to cross to be all I can be. It repulses me, and disturbs me. But the promise of defying the last limit is within reach, tantalising me, and Master knows me well enough to be sure that I can't resist a temptation like that forever. I didn't get into BDSM to be inhibited.

All in good time (not my time)

Sometimes, hidden in my jealousy is a kind of frustration. An "I-want" that I don't get. A fantasy of mine that is not yet fulfilled.

The latest two are local events I've been hearing about in my email inbox. One is an outdoor gangbang - something thats been circling my mind for the last few weeks... imagining myself spread out on a picnic table, wide out in the open, inviting anyone to play with me without speaking a word..... 'I want' it so bad..... but someone else is getting it soon, not me.

The other is a gangbang in bondage. This has been my fantasy as long as I can remember... and the first one Master spoke to me the first time he used me. To be restrained and helpless, and used over and over, nothing but a peice of slutmeat, degraded and abused.... that is a huge longing for me. And to make it even more frustrating, Master wants me to attend this one with him... making me watch as my fantasy is played out on someone else. I don't know what my role would be, but it won't be where I feel I belong. Sigh.

That is a lesson, I know. I don't choose where I belong, Master does. I am not there to get what I want, I am there to do as I'm told. And if I make it to this party, I will not behave as a jealous, selfish slut. I will be silent about my negative thoughts, and I will smile, and obey, and please. I will be restrained by my Master's wishes, made helpless by the futility of 'I want', and used as a good slave. It will be good for me.

The bigger picture, too, is a lesson. Patience. I can't have everything I want now. It takes time, and that is a good thing - if nadi's fantasies were all fulfilled on her own timetable, I'd have been bored long ago! Its also a lesson in gratitude. Master told me on the day I met him, that if I was his, my fantasies and more would be fulfilled. So far, he has absolutely kept his promise, and I should not forget that! Silly girl.

A week or so ago, I was tied up on his bed with my breasts bound and bulging, conductive pads stuck to my nipples, delivering a varied array of shocks through my skin. I had wanted to try electrical play for a very long time, and this was certainly a fantasy fulfilled. It was me lying there, pulling against the restraints, screaming against the duct tape, squirming and shaking, tortured and helpless. And grateful.

It is me who he has chosen to keep for this long. It is me who he has had gangbanged, not once, but many times.... it is me who he has used not just for himself, but for whomever he chooses.... me who he has whipped and pain-tested past the point where I was crying.... me who he has beaten, and pissed on, and abused, and cut, and suffocated, and so much more.... And most important, it is me who he has taken as his possession, invested his training, and made his own. I am far from neglected. I will remember that as I watch others have fantasies fulfilled, and remind myself to feel grateful that that I am my Master's slave.

Larger than life

The first time I was allowed into Master's bedroom, my face was covered by a leather hood . I couldn't see a thing, and perhaps because my senses were limited to such a small, dark cavity, I had the feeling of a vast space around me. I pictured the room I was being led into, as enormous! A decadent hardwood bed.. elegant, well-placed mirrors... heavy, plush curtains... high-ceilinged and rich with the smell of lust.

It was just a regular-sized room, of course. There were mirrors, but otherwise it was nothing like I imagined. Master's bedroom is perfectly normal, and now I know it very well. But sometimes... when I lie in his bed and close my eyes... I sense that vast space around me once more, and again feel as though I am in some kind of royal chamber. Blind awe.

Master takes on larger proportions in my mind, too. When I am next to him, my body feels smaller. I am fragile and expectant. I kneel and feel tiny. I close my eyes, and he becomes mammoth.

Its not just his power over me that brings on this sense of his greatness; its him. Master seems full of endless stories about other lives and experiences, times and places I will never see. I admire him for his intelligence, his integrity, his sense of justice. I adore him for his playfulness, sense of humour, and incredible knowledge and passion for music. I revere him to the point where at times he seems omnipotent to me.... knowing every secret corner of my mind, all my fears, my longings, and my weaknesses. I could hide nothing from him, if I tried.

I was lying in a hammock today contemplating nothing, and I suddenly remembered a fantasy from childhood. I recalled wrapping a hammock around my young body so that I was cocooned, and imagining that I was trapped there. In my mind, I was bound, mummified, suspended and waiting for my captor to return. Lying completely still, I would summon the feeling of perfect helplessness, and the ambivalent longing to know where I was and who was holding me there, mixed with the fear that when they returned, I would wish for the familiarity of my restraints. I was blind to their intent and both eager and fearful of my fate. I would lie there, as an innocent child, secretly creating an erotic tension in my mind around the question of where I would be taken and what would be done with me.

Two years ago I never thought I could really become who I am now. But I did know I was ready for something, and I wanted to be taken as far as I could go. It was my choice to give myself to him, but I had no way of knowing where that choice would lead - mentally, emotionally, or physically. I could only wait and see. In many ways, I feel less that I went to him, and more that I was willingly captured.... and led blindly forward into a new place, able only to hope and trust, as I slowly learned what waited for me in his arms.

Happy birthday Sir, and thank you.