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.