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?

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

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.

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.

Being natural

The day I met Master, he could see my awful potential, and he asked if I had ever been abused. A common enough assumption - how else does a person learn to treat themselves this way? I told him the truth, that as far as I'm aware, I never have been. He said that he suspected I was simply a natural.

I still vividly remember, at age 15, lying on the beach on a warm night, surrounded by boys. Hands stroking my thighs, massaging my shoulders, creeping towards my chest... a mouth on my neck... intoxicated with alcohol, THC, and exploitation. Had I had the comfort then that I do now, I might have said, use me.... abuse me...

Last night Master was fucking me and sinking his teeth into my skin while I shuddered and asked for him to draw my blood. He smiled and said "you are extreme, aren't you, babe?" and I felt myself relax and open up even more to him, from the peace in knowing that, under him, "extreme" is an OK thing to be. He started slapping me, making the tears come, with that beautiful release of endorphins that sends me to another world of bliss... the high of my body's natural chemicals, the pain, and the freedom of what it means to ride with it, whatever he may do to me. Afterwards, he let me fall straight to sleep, and I sunk into a heavy ecstasy, thinking, I could just die from this feeling....

When I was 8 or so, I wrote a fantasy that began with a boy from my classroom touching me, accidentally at first, then progressing to forcing me down while he stripped off my clothes. It ended in a frenzied gang rape by about 20 boys - despite the fact that I had little understanding of how sex was done, I knew even then that I wanted it forced on me, that I wanted to be mistreated and used. To my great shame, my mother found the story and was understandably horrified. I thought it best to hide my fantasies from then on.

Master has taught me to let go of so much inhibition, and to be so free from shame. If an abused victim can spend years exploiting their own body, and then learn to let go and treat themselves with love and care, then why not the reverse? Why not a born slut who has become repressed and ashamed, learning to let go and love expressing who they always wanted to be?

Whore

Watched The Libertine tonight, and as with all period-movies, I end up thinking, if I was alive back then, I’d be queen of the whores. I can never quite decide if I’d be the most notorious, sought-after, expensive whore, or the dirtiest, most shamed, most used whore around. Maybe both. The women would hate me, and I would shock them by inviting them in. No man would see me as anything more than an object.

I often fantasise about it somehow being public knowledge that I am a slut to be used. I imagine having some kind of sign, or notoriety, that means every adult I meet instantly knows they may have me. I imagine the humiliation of seeing that smirk on peoples faces everywhere I go. I imagine having no choice but to dutifully comply if anyone, anywhere, tells me to kneel and open my mouth. In line at the grocery store, with strangers pausing to snigger at me as they walk past. Or the waiter at the café turning the tables on me if I say that my coffee is cold. No need to be discrete if everyone there knows who I am.

The night I’ve spent with Master that most often returns to my fantasies, was a little bit like this. I was dressed in nothing but a collar, while a group of his acquaintances came by to drink and play cards. It was never spoken to me, but it was clear what I was there for. All of them treated me like a slave and a slut. I don’t think anyone played cards, lol. While not everything went perfectly, that night is still vivid in my mind as a very fulfilling experience. I was exactly who I’d always wanted to be.

Celebrating the slut

As a 15-year-old virgin, I was so cock-hungry that I hand-made my first dildo. I used a pen as a frame to wrap a long bandage around, layer after layer until it was thick enough, and tight enough so that it would be firm but flexible. I added a layer of glad wrap to keep it from unravelling, then removed the pen and encased the whole thing in a condom, tying off the end. The result was a little scary - I'd never had anything bigger than a couple of my own fingers before, but I already felt that internal longing to be filled.

I still remember my first orgasm, at age 12. I had been masturbating my whole life, and one day the pleasure suddenly changed, and I thought, wow - its never felt like THAT before! I didn't know what it was, only that I wanted it to happen again. Three years later, when I tried my creation, it was like that again: discovering another world of pleasure. I kept that toy for another 3 years, until I was legally old enough to go sex shopping and buy a real one.

The other day, I attended a meeting for work, and one of the men there was someone I knew. The last time I had seen him, I was spread out naked on the floor, with his fingers and tongue teasing me, but denying me, while Master watched, amused, from the next room. Humiliating to sit across from him in a business meeting, the smile on his face growing wider as I tried to avoid his eyes. But realistically, something like this had to happen one day, and probably will again.

I was pondering this in bed this morning, and I thought, how long will it take before I've been used by so many people, that it is no longer a surprise to run into them like this? And I imagined one day, maybe being in a meeting with not one, but two, or even three faces smiling at me in that knowing way... maybe making a sly comment to me in the coffee room... perhaps even noticing each other, and becoming aware that they are not even the only one there who knows nadi... I imagined the shame and excitement of that this morning, as I made myself cum...

How are these stories linked, exactly? Just that sometimes, I think back, and feel amazed at what I slut I am. Its become a natural thing for me, but there are still times that I stand back and marvel at myself, and just think.... wow.... and I feel hot, and excited, and most of all grateful to Sir, for helping me enjoy it to the fullest.

Dark shades

Shall I share a dark truth? Something that gives me a knot in my stomach and makes me uncomfortably lower my eyes?

I make it no secret here that I have violent fantasies. I beg Master to hurt me, and long for him to bruise my body, make me bleed. I dream of being attacked, raped, abused and humiliated. I used to console myself with the thought that if that ever happened, if I was violated without consent, I wouldn't really want it. But when I'm honest, I doubt that it is true. If someone tried to rape me, I think I would fight, not to save myself, but to protect Master's property. If it weren't for him, I believe I would - shamefully - submit and enjoy it.

Is that offensive? It is to me. I don't believe anyone should harm others unless they want it, and the idea of encouraging people who want to perpetrate violence horrifies me. But here I am, admitting that I want to be the subject of that violence. Not in the sense of the relatively common rape "fantasy" many women are said to have, but not actually want. No, I am convinced I genuinely want it. And it doesn't end there....

I love movies that show sexual violence. The kind where the plot requires being horrified at what the "villian" does to others, and wanting justice to prevail... I just want to see the nasty scene again. I want to see the woman get taken, hurt, abused. I want to be her, made helpless, screaming, powerless. I want more. Those scenes make me wet. Irreversible. 8mm. The General's Daughter. But that's just fiction....

The really dark bit, the part that makes me feel dirty in the wrong way, is that I have the same reaction to these acts when they occur in real life. I won't mention specific stories, although many come to mind, because there must be limits to what I can write here and get away with, lol. But when I hear in the media about acts of sexual violence that have really happened, especially locally, my body reacts. I become aroused. I don't mean to enjoy someone's suffering, but I find myself thinking, what would it be like to be them.... with someone doing those things... those degrading, humiliating things.... Yes, I know that they didn't enjoy it, that it was most likely a terrifying, traumatic experience. I'm not glad that they were harmed in such an awful way. But I can't help thinking, what if..... what if it was me.... if only it was....

Shameful, yes? Sick. Insensitive. Disgraceful. For Master, I'm sure it won't be at all surprising. He has known all my dark secrets since the day he met me. He read them in my eyes - the first person who was not afraid to see. Try feeling these things, thinking these awful things, being so ashamed, hiding from yourself, and then meeting someone who knows it all without it being said, and smiles. That person will own you. When someone accepts in you what you find unacceptable, you become more vulnerable than any judgement could ever make you. You cannot not love them.

Catharsis, exposure, and a nice place to be

Today, on my way home from his house, I pulled over and screamed. LOUD. Then I sat and bawled my eyes dry, sobbing right from the gut, roaring, howling, holding nothing back. And as I gradually calmed, I found myself moaning, "please.... please, Sir...." and then finally finished the thought at a whisper, "....... please, hurt me...? "

We all need our coping strategies. And yes, there are "normal" things that I do to release my emotions in times of stress. This morning's outburst is a perfect example. I also swim, create photo-art (not always very well, but thats not the point), get massage... oh, and masturbate, lol. But there is absolutely nothing that matches being really hurt for effective stress management. But if I was to try that alone.... well...... lets not go there.

When I'm feeling the pressure of life, I spend more and more of my energy on control - trying to limit the things that stress me, and the effort it takes to control my reactiveness, to avoid expressing my feelings at the wrong place and time. I crave letting Master take away that control, giving my body up to him, and surrendering. The freedom of trust. And each strike is a chance to give up more - to shift my mind from trying to avoid painful sensation to saying "YES" until I am welcoming it... and when his pattern changes, the struggle of avoiding again.... then once again, welcoming.... Its a practice of submission, to him, but also to myself. Accept the pain and it no longer becomes a threat. Just as that applies physically, the same is true for emotional pain.

Being flogged is almost like psychodrama. Its taking whats going on internally and making it tangible, allowing me to choose how to respond to it. Don't avoid it, feel it. Accept it, then release it. Feel... accept... release... feel... accept... release... until it becomes my whole existence, and I've forgotten who I am... forgotten everything except feel-accept-release, and above all, the love and gratitude for Sir, who has become the Sun. Such perfect peace, as though I could just fade into transparency and slowly disappear. The word 'subspace' only cheapens it.

I don't want to give the wrong idea - I did enjoy my night with him last night. He put me on show performing at his instructions online. I do enjoy it when he shows me off. I love standing in the position he has placed me in while he runs a finger between my thighs and teases me, knowing that someone is watching, someone who knows he can do anything he likes with me.

He asked me at one point if it was the thought that the voyeur(s) might be aroused and excited watching me, that they might lust after me and want to use me, but its not really any of those things. What I love the most is the simple objectification of it. The fact that my Master has me on display, like.... well, like a possession, which is exactly what I am. Not that people are looking at me but that they can look at me. That I have no way of hiding, no dignity, am allowed no modesty, I am not a person but a human object. One of my biggest fantasies is to be tied up in some exposing position, and gagged, then left in the middle of a room while people socialise around me. They would talk, and drink... and make comments about me, tease me... but even more humiliating, they would also periodically ignore me.

He didn't let me orgasm until very late last night, so when I finally could, it seemed to go on forever. Face down, turning my head to the side, I could see his shape over me, feel the power as he pushed hard into me, and I felt small, and owned. Not quite the catharsis I've been pleading for, but a nice place to be.

I have so many worries right now, and I had planned to blog them, but now I feel like leaving it on a more positive note instead. Sometimes its all so hard. And yes, Sista, there is always a choice to make. But sometimes, even through the tough shit, the choice is so right that its already made before the question is asked - and then its easy to forget that there ever was one.

Umm, where was that positive note...? Really, all I'm trying to say is, I love my Master unconditionally. I have given myself to him - my body, my mind, my heart, my life. I have given up my freedom. I have given up my consent. I have no right to take anything back, and I would never want to. I am his, inside and out. Even when its so fucking hard... its still a nice place to be.

Daydreaming...

Sometimes, life just doesn't cut it. Then, all there is left to do is make a different reality, composed entirely of imagination.

Don't you..?

I think of how amazing it would be if I could be with my Master always, a part of his home. I imagine waking next to him, making his coffee while he showers, keeping his house clean while he works, cooking for him before he returns, and kneeling at his feet while he eats every evening. I imagine being there for him to use whenever the mood strikes him, with no need for phone calls, babysitters, and other arrangements. I think about how perfect it would be, to be able to be there for him as much as he likes, keeping him warm at night, and waiting for him at the end of every day... his loyal pet...

Master has fantasised, too... him, as the head of the house, or farm... a Mistress, perhaps his wife, submissive to him... perhaps a sub male, for certain uses... and me, on the bottom of course. His property, available for the others to use with his blessing. How perfect that would be, to serve him, and others under him, whenever he liked. To have no other purpose, no other worries, to not ever be anything other than his slave. Living to please him. That would be happiness.

With possible worlds like this, why would you need the 'real' one? I really don't know. But somehow I keep having to come back - to work, family, other demands, other responsibilities. The world where I really can't stay at his house and not return, it just wouldn't be practical. And where sometimes I miss him, and sometimes (if I may, Sir...), he seems to miss me.

If I could just find a way to escape to an alternate universe... even for a day or two... and be nothing but his...

Multiform artistry

One of my biggest fantasies for the last ten years or so is to be painted. It started when my ex bought home a calender of nude models wearing nothing but body paint. I eagerly studied those images, looking at the tiny creases and strokes, and longed to be under the brush. I imagine standing or lying perfectly still, as unable to move as if I were bound, every tiny detail of my body potentially under scrutiny if the artist should choose to paint there... and then the soft strokes of the brush so slowly exploring my skin, the cool damp feel of the paint changing to a stiff coating and tingling as it dries.... feeling exposed, examined, vulnerable, and then lovingly caressed, contained, embraced, accepted... and then afterwards, when the whole experience is over, the exquisite high of feeling that I have become not a mere person, but a work of art - objectified, not into degradation, but into a thing of beauty...

Sensuality does not rate highly in my fantasies, but to be painted - that is the biggest of only a handful of exceptions. When I found out that Master, too, has a love of body painting and a desire to try it, I was over the moon! And then I came crashing down when he told me he had found a woman with an artistic streak to "practice on"... while I entertain her husband. This was a while ago now, and so far none of these plans have come to fruition, but it still torments me. I still mentally squirm at the thought of him doing something so precious to me with someone else, while I am given the humiliating task of keeping the man "occupied" and pretending to be happy. Imagining it brings up an emotional tension within me: between hurt, jealousy, and anger on the one hand, and on the other, submission, humiliation, and dismayed arousal.

So, why bring it up now? .....ever had a lucid dream? Its a nice experience, to be just asleep enough to dream, but just awake enough to know it's not real, and sometimes, to have some control over what happens. I think it was him referring to me recently (in a very different context) as a "canvas" that made me dream of the body painting scenario this morning. I knew it was just a dream and so I could relax and explore the experience of it, without that sickening "squirming" feeling... well, not so much, anyway.

It took place at his house, and I was waiting there naked until the couple arrived. I offered them both a drink while trying not to look at or hate her. I somehow managed to look at her husband without taking any notice of him at all - he was irrelevant, just another task for me to do in Master's house, like assembling furniture. Master and the woman went to his bedroom. And closed the door. I talked, I flirted, I entertained, I smiled, I was groped, fucked in every hole, used, and it was joyless. I had permission to cum only if I was thinking of what Master was doing with the woman in the other room, and I did that obediently, with a cry that was less pleasure than agony. My eyes focussed on the man I was with, but only to please Master. I cared nothing about this man at all, internally I was standing at that closed door, waiting for Sir.

The dream ended with me waiting, wondering how long it would be. And I woke predictably and despondently wet. I waited a while, thinking back over it, then touched myself imagining I was there. I took my new vibrator, which coincidentally, I realised later, is also called a "Lucid Dream", and brought myself to orgasm almost unwillingly, thinking horrible, agonising, jealous thoughts. And just as I cried out, my phone buzzed with a message from Master. Does this count as synchronicity?

Reverie

I was just changing my bedsheets and feeling extremely horny (which is nothing unusual - feeling horny I mean, it is a little too unusual for me to change my sheets if I'm completely honest...) when I heard a noise at the back door. It was just a rattle from the wind, my dog would have tipped me off if it was something more, but instantly my imagination grasped the idea and came up with a far more interesting explanation...

...there was a man at my back door, he'd just let himself into my house, and was now walking calmly through the kitchen heading for the bedroom, where I was sitting on the floor. He would kneel behind me and grab hold of my hair, pulling my head back before I'd even heard him there. He would whisper to me that my Master had sent him there with permission to use me, and I should be a good girl and make sure he was satisfied or Master would not be pleased. He would ask if I understood and I would say I did, then he would let go of my hair and I would turn around and see the face of a stranger whose name I would never know. He would stand up and present his cock for me to suck, and I would do so obediently. He would stand still and I would know he was evaluating my effort, so I would try hard to please him and he would say "good girl." Then he would take control and hold my head close to him, pushing into my throat and thrusting faster, fucking my face with no reaction to my gasps and gags. Then he would grab my hair and throw me down on all fours and lift my skirt, pull my underwear aside and (with a condom that magically appears, as they do in fantasies, lol) push himself into me hard. I would moan in pleasure, then suddenly realise that I didn't have permission to orgasm... my moans would turn to dread and longing as I reaslied that I would be used to this man's satisfaction and be denied my own. He would fuck me so fast I would struggle not to cum and groan at the effort of resisting something so tantalising and so easy to reach. He would thankfully keep it short, pulling my hips to him as he came, and leaving me frustrated, my wet cunt feeling like a vast empty vacuum needing to be filled. I would kneel there, gasping, while my visitor stood, straightened himself, and then bend down to tell me he would be sure to tell Master I had behaved, giving me a teasing tap on my swollen lips that would send a shudder through my body before he leaves....

....yes, that was what the noise at my back door had really been, and any second now I would feel that hand on my hair, and all that would begin, I convinced myself as I lay on my floor and shook with orgasm - at the thought of not orgasming, no less... lol...

Ah, the wonders of nature!

Summer is moving along quickly and I've found myself thinking about the great outdoors. No, not picnics and frisbees, surely you know better than that? lol Theres a unique kind of freedom in sexual acts where anyone could see you - complete exposure. Ever had a dream where you were nude or semi-nude in public, and didn't mind it? Complete freedom, completely open, completely yourself. Being naked in private in front of one or a small group of people is being vulnerable, which has its own appeal. Being nude in front of the world and not caring, though - that is being invulnerable.

I've moved to a house with a pool recently and I am taking great pleasure in swimming nude in the daylight hours, when the neighbours might see. That, combined with an unexpected outdoor experience with Sir the other day is probably what's inspiring me. I want to go on a drive with Master and flash while he photographs me. I want to take a trip to a remote location for an outdoor gangbang. I want to be tied to a tree and semi-adbandoned, then be used and not know who is using me. I want to be staked out in the grass and tortured. I want to be stripped on the beach and pissed on. I want to be given to strangers to use in a park. I want to fuck at night in the middle of a huge oval. I want to fuck on the freeway overpass. And I want photos! lol

History: How to make a sub-slut in under 30 years

Written 26 December, blogged today due to being offline for a while.

I’ve been a subbie slut my whole life. In early childhood I remember fantasising about abduction, torture, bondage, and rape – before I had any concept of what rape even was. I used to take pieces of elastic and tie my naked barbie dolls in elaborate positions, often suspended outside from small trees – dreaming of such things happening to me.

I was an eager slut, too – I learned all I could about sex long before the opportunity to try it. My initiation was delayed while I was temporarily convinced I was a lesbian, but when I finally first fucked a boy, I became an instant behind-the-scenes slut, somehow managing to remain a "good girl" in reputation.

One day, a group of five male friends offered me a heartfelt collective apology for "taking advantage of me" the night before. I was disappointed in them, but not for the reason they assumed. My only regret was that we had all been too intoxicated to take it very far – I wanted to be gang banged. I had just turned sixteeen.

My first "real" (actually emotional, not just sexual) relationship was a hurtful, twisted affair. I immersed myself in my boyfriend, did whatever he wanted me to, tried to change to please him, and let him treat me coldly in return. Looking back, I now recognise I was trying to be his sub – with no conscious understanding of what I wanted or why. Eventually, Betty stepped in and opened his eyes, prompting the breakup. Significant that she is now so alarmed to find out I am truly owned – perhaps she still feels the need to protect me?

My next relationship was more or less an equal one, but I distinctly remember a conversation where we noted that I had an inexplicable tendency to speak to him with a different tone in my voice than to others. "Yeah," he said, "you talk to me kind of…" he searched for a word, "… submissively." A more significant observation than either of us realised.

It was after several years frustrated in a monogamous (apart from re-discovering my "lesbian" side), vanilla relationship, with an almost asexual man, that I had to concede: I am simply not built that way. I’m a slut to the core. I need to submit to someone. More than that, I’m beginning to believe I will always need to give myself to someone. I can be nothing but myself. Betty asked me recently, "Does he really make you happy?" I said, "Happier, and more content than I knew I could be."

A feminist would be horrified...

I love when I look at his msn window and see that he is displaying a photo of me - being used, by men, women, or both, or restrained and waiting for his touch, or strike. It is true that a part of it is simply exhibitionism - I can't deny that I get enjoyment out of exposing myself to others. But what I feel specifically when I am exposed by him is more a kind of objectification - not in the sense of being made into a literal object, but something that is more a specific type of humilition, in the sense that I am made to feel I am more "thing" than person. When he displays my photo, I feel humiliated in the most pleasurable way, from the knowledge that he can show me to whom he likes, as his possession. And along with that is the expectation that they will not look at me as a person with needs and desires, but as an object there to be used.

Some of my biggest childhood fantasies were of being touched, grabbed, and groped by uninvited strangers. In my imagination I would be minding my own business when someone would approach and slip their hand under my skirt or into my top. My protests didn't phase these characters, they didn't care what I wanted or about anything I said - they just saw me as a collection of body parts for their entertainment. And today the fantasy continues, though now incorporating Master's ownership of me as part of the theme. I am less human and more an object because I am his property. He can choose to expose me, or allow someone to use me. If he tells someone they may fuck me, then they may, and what I think is irrelevant. In a way I feel freed of myself, to become nothing but a plaything, without an identity, without feelings or thoughts of my own - less, even, than a slut.

....I'm finishing this prematurely due to sheer exhaustion, after a long and very exciting, humiliating-objectifying evening yesterday. I can't think straight, or remember all of what I wanted to say... but I will add one more thing: Thank you, Sir :)