“You are my empty, mindless slut.”
There is a tone of voice that Master takes when he is about to turn me on my head. If anything it’s him being TOO nonchalant. I know it by heart in hindsight, but somehow cannot see it coming when I hear that voice. This was how it went this week when I came home from work and jumped onto Skype. I’d spent the day completely aware of my cunt anyway, due to a “wardrobe malfunction” when I got dressed that morning. I’d somehow forgotten to wear panties, leaving my rubbing my clit against the rough seam of my jeans all day. Master had confessed at the end of my work day that I’d forgotten nothing, but rather he’d planted the suggestion the night before, and with that I should have come home expecting play.
I didn’t.
When the first words poured through the headphones I melted. I felt my cunt throb and I closed my eyes, feeling my mind click; become loose. I had all my faculties still, but these words had primed me and now everything in my head felt free-floating – his to move or remove as he wished.
“Get naked.” He commanded and as fast as possible I’ve stripped. He told me I’m his empty, brainless slut, and I took up the chant. Over and over I told him I am his empty, brainless slut. I said the words and little by little they made it so. Next I began to run my fingers over my clit as I repeated the mantra. I was already wet from being played with, but this soon had juice leaking out of me. Master heard my voice go more ragged. “Feel your brains leaking out your cunt, don’t you slut?” I nodded – clearly I was already getting stupid, nodding an answer to someone who couldn’t even see me. The words and the strumming continued and my head began to feel lighter; less cluttered.
Another few minutes of my trying to both remember to chant and touch myself and Master solved the problem. “Rub your slit each time you say the words.” He commanded.
“It will make me go faster.” I giggle to him. Somehow I worry this will be a problem, but he assures me that chanting these words faster is not a bad thing. Soon I’ve been saying them so long they’re beginning to lose their meaning, but I never stop. Never stop chanting or touching.
“Now you feel my cock slide into your mouth and begin to fuck your face.” He adds a new wrinkle. “Continue to say the words around my cock.” The added challenge crashes into my ever simplifying mind and I struggle to keep track of it all while more and more of my brains pump themselves out of my cunt and get all over my hand.
More minutes, less mind and I’m just beginning to float a little. I don’t know when the silly, simple smile smeared over my face, but I’m sure Master can see it even over the divide. “Now you feel my cock push into your cunt, fucking you. Keep chanting, slut.” The more horny I get, the more my brains pour out my cunt and the stupider I get. After only a few minutes of fucking me my Master moves his cock from my cunt to my ass and continues to pound into me. He also tells me I do not need to keep chanting. Though I was oblivious to the pieces of the puzzle then, I realized later that the chanting was no longer necessary – as long as my cunt kept leaking I was being reduced more and more. Literally fucking my brains out.
I vaguely remember asking for permission to touch my cunt as he slammed deeply into my ass, and he granted it. And why wouldn’t he? My hands began molesting my clit and cunt, and I found myself on the verge of cumming constantly, my hands completely coated with my excitement quickly and eager to fill with my cum. I had a residual flash of thought enough to realize that my hands were only speeding up the process, and I tried to protest to Master, stammering in little sentence chunks that I was making myself stupider faster. Stupider faster. Stupider. Faster.
Master said that was just fine, and that I was not to stop fucking with my cunt.
“How do you feel?” Master asked.
“Fucked. Empty. Light.” I panted around my double-assault.
“What do you want?” he asked me
“To be fucked.”
“Do you want me to cum in your ass?”
“Oh god, yes.” I panted so heavily now I felt almost like a dog playing a game of fetch.
“Then beg.”
Master recently discovered how much fun it can be to make me beg. Not only does he enjoy hearing my pleading, but he knows I’m never sure I’m doing it right; doing what he wants. The added desperation of my situation on top of the humiliation and my obvious, but degrading, pleasure at both is a cocktail he’s come to love. And beg I did, pleading that he fill my ass with his cum. That he leave me with his cum leaking out of my ass.
At last I heard him cumming over the line, and as he moaned his final pleasure mine came too. By the time I came I had only the tiniest bit of my intelligence left, and was fully floating on a cloud of pleasure and obedience. As my mind flooded back with my orgasm I thought once again how lucky I am that Master wants me to have my intelligence normally.
And how lucky I am that he likes to take it away too.
Sunday 28 February 2010
Tuesday 23 February 2010
What’s in a Name…
My Master calls me by my full name. Though Delilah is not my real name, imagine that everyone calls me “Di” and only he calls me Delilah. Nobody has called me by my full name for most of my life, and hearing it from his lips is just another example of a way he has claimed me like no other ever has. I hear his smooth voice purr my name and I positively melt.
The other night, as we had a simple, vanilla chat, I noticed that he was using my name. Using it a lot. He would start one sentence with my name, and end the next with it. And the reason I became so aware of it was because I was getting progressively more wet. I had a flash of embarrassment because we were not having such moments and yet there I was getting hot and spicy. In my head I found myself thinking “Good god, woman, are you ALWAYS on???”, knowing full well that the answer was, and always is, YES. But still, we were chatting about things not at all sexual and I was starting to drip.
He’d used it about 4 times and I’d finally made a comment, which he laughed off. Upon the fifth time I heard it I was suddenly, and with no warning, completely naked. As if he’d snapped his fingers and my clothing had evaporated. Then I knew why I’d reacted so strongly to my name – he’d been using it to trigger something in me. And like that I was naked for him. And still dripping.
But when I commented on it to him I suddenly found myself fully dressed again. This is something I often struggle with: I cannot trust my senses to ever tell me the truth, as my master can control what I see and hear and smell as easily as telling me to kneel. So I sat on the couch completely unsure – was I really dressed and the naked had been a mirage? Or was I really naked and only thought I was dressed? He delighted in my conundrum as I sat and fretted. But at least he admitted that yes, my name had been some kind of trigger.
So I wasn’t surprised that he continued to use it, over and over. Or that I got progressively more excited. I could easily use the term “sopping wet” to describe myself eventually, though I couldn’t know what else was happening to which I was oblivious.
A few more uses and once again I was given the clue, this time when I heard my name and found myself slavishly shoving my fingers into my cunt, and then licking them clean enthusiastically. Once I was finished moaning and gasping and licking and sucking I laughed at the surreal moment I’d experienced, but he was far from done.
I don’t remember how the rest of the evening unfolded exactly – these kinds of nights often get a little muddled in my sex-rattled head. I remember moving to the floor, on my knees like a good slave. I remember shoving all four of my fingers into my cunt – something I’m not sure I would have expected that I could even do – and then pulling them free to clean them with my mouth while my other hand burrowed into my cunt even deeper. Back and forth I fucked my cunt with my fingers as my mouth slurped my juice off of my other hand. One hand fucking, the other being sucked, and swap and swap and swap…
He left me there, moaning and whimpering and writhing on my knees, as he built himself to his own orgasm. I loved the feeling of helplessness, knowing that my sounds were inspiring his own pleasure and that was all the purpose I served at that moment. When he uses me I have value. The most value I ever have.
At last I remember hearing him cum, and it filling my mouth the way he does. I know it’s not real – he’s not even on this continent – but each time he fills my mouth with his hot, delicious cum I shudder from the taste and feel of it. Still, though he’d reached his goal I continued to be on the ragged edge of climax, still wriggling on my spot on the floor. Master said the words I longed to hear.
“Cum for me.” And I did.
The other night, as we had a simple, vanilla chat, I noticed that he was using my name. Using it a lot. He would start one sentence with my name, and end the next with it. And the reason I became so aware of it was because I was getting progressively more wet. I had a flash of embarrassment because we were not having such moments and yet there I was getting hot and spicy. In my head I found myself thinking “Good god, woman, are you ALWAYS on???”, knowing full well that the answer was, and always is, YES. But still, we were chatting about things not at all sexual and I was starting to drip.
He’d used it about 4 times and I’d finally made a comment, which he laughed off. Upon the fifth time I heard it I was suddenly, and with no warning, completely naked. As if he’d snapped his fingers and my clothing had evaporated. Then I knew why I’d reacted so strongly to my name – he’d been using it to trigger something in me. And like that I was naked for him. And still dripping.
But when I commented on it to him I suddenly found myself fully dressed again. This is something I often struggle with: I cannot trust my senses to ever tell me the truth, as my master can control what I see and hear and smell as easily as telling me to kneel. So I sat on the couch completely unsure – was I really dressed and the naked had been a mirage? Or was I really naked and only thought I was dressed? He delighted in my conundrum as I sat and fretted. But at least he admitted that yes, my name had been some kind of trigger.
So I wasn’t surprised that he continued to use it, over and over. Or that I got progressively more excited. I could easily use the term “sopping wet” to describe myself eventually, though I couldn’t know what else was happening to which I was oblivious.
A few more uses and once again I was given the clue, this time when I heard my name and found myself slavishly shoving my fingers into my cunt, and then licking them clean enthusiastically. Once I was finished moaning and gasping and licking and sucking I laughed at the surreal moment I’d experienced, but he was far from done.
I don’t remember how the rest of the evening unfolded exactly – these kinds of nights often get a little muddled in my sex-rattled head. I remember moving to the floor, on my knees like a good slave. I remember shoving all four of my fingers into my cunt – something I’m not sure I would have expected that I could even do – and then pulling them free to clean them with my mouth while my other hand burrowed into my cunt even deeper. Back and forth I fucked my cunt with my fingers as my mouth slurped my juice off of my other hand. One hand fucking, the other being sucked, and swap and swap and swap…
He left me there, moaning and whimpering and writhing on my knees, as he built himself to his own orgasm. I loved the feeling of helplessness, knowing that my sounds were inspiring his own pleasure and that was all the purpose I served at that moment. When he uses me I have value. The most value I ever have.
At last I remember hearing him cum, and it filling my mouth the way he does. I know it’s not real – he’s not even on this continent – but each time he fills my mouth with his hot, delicious cum I shudder from the taste and feel of it. Still, though he’d reached his goal I continued to be on the ragged edge of climax, still wriggling on my spot on the floor. Master said the words I longed to hear.
“Cum for me.” And I did.
Wednesday 17 February 2010
The Words that Inspire Me
Before I wrote I read. When I first began to accept the truth of me and my need to obey and to serve and to please my Master it helped so much to have the words of others – people more experienced than me, with more time and more understanding of these strange urges – to give me the perspective I needed. To reassure me that I’m not insane, and that the crazy prism through which I’d come to see the world was one others had come to see. I loved seeing that many other women who thrived at the beck and call of another were themselves fairly powerful or influential women in the rest of their world. Finding out that it was common for submissive women to feel a need to be controlled and managed. Discovering that I was so very, very NOT alone.
Even as I try to stay up on posts for Master on this, his blog, I still have my own favorite blogs and websites that I check most every day. With permission from Master, I’ll be adding a links list to his blog so that those other sites that inspire me might inspire you too.
Here’s my list:
24.7 – a long-term couple who don’t seem to be very current anymore, but who provide an achievable goal for a possible future.
Cassie Fetterred – a woman who is fairly new to this life as well, but has jumped in with both feet. She's married to someone other than her Master; an idea that has always boggled my mind.
Persephone In Love – both a submissive and a woman in love, this blog has a rare additional piece; she’s an exceptional writer as well as being a cherished possession.
Puppy Tales – probably one of the kinkier blogs that I read, and someone who really enjoys this lifestyle. Part of me wants to be her when I grow up.
Read My Kink – written by the pet of one of the best known BDSM couples on the internet, who is also learning so much about how to be well owned.
Slave Musings – probably the queen of the submissives. She and her owner have blazed a trail for many of us who are just beginning to understand.
The Collar – this is not a blog. Instead this is a link to my favorite mind control erotic fiction of all time, posted on the classic “MC Stories” site. Since the day I first read this story it has CAPTURED my imagination, and it’s my guaranteed muse when I need a nudge in the right direction… Some day I will post about that story all by itself...
Please go read these other excellent writers and keep the promotion of this "other" way of life going!
Even as I try to stay up on posts for Master on this, his blog, I still have my own favorite blogs and websites that I check most every day. With permission from Master, I’ll be adding a links list to his blog so that those other sites that inspire me might inspire you too.
Here’s my list:
24.7 – a long-term couple who don’t seem to be very current anymore, but who provide an achievable goal for a possible future.
Cassie Fetterred – a woman who is fairly new to this life as well, but has jumped in with both feet. She's married to someone other than her Master; an idea that has always boggled my mind.
Persephone In Love – both a submissive and a woman in love, this blog has a rare additional piece; she’s an exceptional writer as well as being a cherished possession.
Puppy Tales – probably one of the kinkier blogs that I read, and someone who really enjoys this lifestyle. Part of me wants to be her when I grow up.
Read My Kink – written by the pet of one of the best known BDSM couples on the internet, who is also learning so much about how to be well owned.
Slave Musings – probably the queen of the submissives. She and her owner have blazed a trail for many of us who are just beginning to understand.
The Collar – this is not a blog. Instead this is a link to my favorite mind control erotic fiction of all time, posted on the classic “MC Stories” site. Since the day I first read this story it has CAPTURED my imagination, and it’s my guaranteed muse when I need a nudge in the right direction… Some day I will post about that story all by itself...
Please go read these other excellent writers and keep the promotion of this "other" way of life going!
Happy Valentines Day, Part II
Valentine’s day, a little later. I called Master, having just finished putting together a little lunch. Master’s voice was cool, calm… He gave no hint of what was happening in his mind until he said my name with that almost sing-song tone. “Yes?” I replied, still just beginning to recognize this new tone, but I was too late.
“You are my slave.” He all but commanded of me. I felt my chest cave in and put down the fork before I dropped it. Under my breath I framed the word ‘yes.’ The words that followed are a blur to me now, but I vividly remember how each sentence reduced me, seduced me, enslaved me… Only a few sentences and I was trembling and waiting for the next words to make me whatever next he wanted me to be.
He commanded me to strip naked and I did. QUICKLY. I put the headphones back on and stood, naked save the slave collars on my neck and my ankle. Master bent me over the couch, my legs spread, waiting. “What are you?” he asked, giving me that opportunity that I crave constantly to say to him those words; to tell him what I am.
“I am your slave.” He let loose with that sultry, controlling chuckle that told me I had pleased him. The first trickle slid down the inside of my thigh.
“You feel my hands on your hips.” He began, and with that I felt them. Warm. Strong. “One hand slides a vibrator inside your cunt.” It was humming as it brushed my thigh, and as it moved deeper and deeper my legs threatened to buckle. “You feel my hand in your hair, pulling your head up.” My head jerked back, forcing me to be aware of where I stood; of the moment I was wrapped within. A second trickle worked its way around the vibrator filling me.
“My cock slips between your ass cheeks.” He brought me back to the moment and I felt him beginning to work his way forward, as I stood, clutched in the twin moments of fear and want. I heard my own voice as if from very far away; tiny.
“Oh god.”
“You feel my cock move up against your asshole.” He waited right there, poised. Ready, and I realized I’d stopped breathing, waiting for the next moment. But it was not to be that easy. “Tell me what you want.”
I knew what he waited for. I knew that he knew the words that wanted to leap from my mouth. I could taste them right there, right on the other side of my lips, but letting them go was so much harder than I could have ever imagined. This was something I’d thought, but never actually said. But I also knew that he would only wait so long. And that no matter what else I loved, I loved to obey him. So I spoke.
“Fuck me. Please.” I gasped.
“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asked, and I whimpered something affirmative. “Do you want me to move into you?” Again I hoped that making encouraging noises would give him what he demanded. “Then beg.”
I wanted this and we both knew it. We also both knew how hard it would be to say these things out loud. And this was exactly why he demanded it. So I gulped in a big breath of air and I pushed my heart out through my mouth. “Please,” I started, still too timid. “Please fuck my ass, Master.” Hearing my voice saying the words gave me courage and I pressed on, getting louder even as my words became a mish-mash of talking and moaning, the vibrator in my cunt still whirring and his hand still pulling my head back by the hair. “Please fill me up with your cock. Fuck me and make me feel owned.”
“You feel my cock pushing forward, pressing against your asshole.” He rewarded me, and I felt him moving. “S-l-o-w-l-y I slide inside of you, pushing deeper and deeper until I’m buried totally inside you.” I’d felt him open me up and fill me, and once again I almost collapsed at the moment that the nerves and muscles shifted from resistance to acceptance; even pleasure. His hips warm against my cold ass, his hands still on my hips and in my hair but now his voice breathed hot air on my neck as he never stopped speaking. “How do you feel?” he smiled in his voice.
“Full.” I replied automatically, as at that moment all my mind could grasp was how full I was. My cunt and ass both filled to the limit. My cunt pouring down my legs. But that was not all I felt so I kept talking. “Owned. Used. Fucked.” All this and much, much more.
“Still slowly I pull myself back out of your ass until I get to the opening, and then I thrust back into you. You feel me thrusting in and out of your ass.” I whimpered and pleaded and gasped and I don’t know what else. This was something I had been thinking of for so long and now it was happening and my mind was not up for the moment. I wanted to remember every tiny detail – the feeling of his balls as they smacked the round of my ass; my nerves that fought the penetration while still sending shockwaves of pleasure through me; the amazing sensation of complete and abject abandonment of all control…
“Fucking deeper…” continued his voice, giving me no time to gather my wits. Because this was how he liked me: witless. “Fucking faster…” The sounds coming from me began to take on an almost animal-like quality. “Do you want me to cum in your ass?” he asked next. The words were leaving my lips before his had completely hit the air.
“Yes, please Master.” When had I begun to rut back against his penetrations?
“Then beg me, slave.” I could hear how much he was enjoying this new game. Could he hear how much I was as well?
I do not remember all the words that spilled from me for the next many minutes as his cock continued to pound into me. I remember begging him to fill my ass, to humiliate me, to fuck me like an animal, but I know there were many more words. Because every time my flow would slow Master would prod me again, telling me “don’t stop begging, slave.” I remember the second before each new flow of words, when I would realize what I was about to say and take a deep breath, as if a big gust of wind would push these words out of me when my own heart or mind wouldn’t be able to. I begged him to fill me in that place that nobody ever wants to admit they want to be fucked. I thought of this because it was the sheer admitting of how much I wanted this that had my face bright red and hot as a coal. The tremendous shame and degradation of desperately craving his fucking my ass. “Please,” I ended, “I want to feel your cum slipping down out of my ass.”
“What are you?”
“Slave. Pet. Slut. Toy. Possession…” He continued to thunder into me, my ass taking his length more and more eagerly.
“And what am I?”
“Master. Owner. Possessor. Fucker.” My thighs were slick and cold from my pleasure leaking – no, pouring. Pouring out of me.
I heard him cumming, and simultaneously I felt him filling my ass. I knew he was honestly cumming on the other end of the line, and between hearing his pleasure and feeling mine I was overwhelmed. I hoped that I'd remembered to ask to cum, but I know I came, with my legs shuddering under me and my head coming to rest sweatily on the back of the couch. As I came down from the orgasm my brain cleared; the vibrator faded away; my ass emptied.
I thanked him and thanked him and thanked him.
“Can I sit?” I asked at last, once I could breath and think again. His response surprised me.
“No. Place your food on the floor. Kneel on the floor and eat your food there.” I couldn’t believe there was any ecstasy left to drip out of me, but these words shook me once again. I asked for permission to kneel on a pillow, as my hard, wood floors and my knees have never made peace, and he was kind enough to allow me that. As I sat and ate; sat and talked with him, spent my night kneeling at his symbolic feet I felt at home and right and so where I love to be. Master knew what I wanted most of all on this Valentines Day: to be the slave and pet and slut he likes me to be. And then some.
“You are my slave.” He all but commanded of me. I felt my chest cave in and put down the fork before I dropped it. Under my breath I framed the word ‘yes.’ The words that followed are a blur to me now, but I vividly remember how each sentence reduced me, seduced me, enslaved me… Only a few sentences and I was trembling and waiting for the next words to make me whatever next he wanted me to be.
He commanded me to strip naked and I did. QUICKLY. I put the headphones back on and stood, naked save the slave collars on my neck and my ankle. Master bent me over the couch, my legs spread, waiting. “What are you?” he asked, giving me that opportunity that I crave constantly to say to him those words; to tell him what I am.
“I am your slave.” He let loose with that sultry, controlling chuckle that told me I had pleased him. The first trickle slid down the inside of my thigh.
“You feel my hands on your hips.” He began, and with that I felt them. Warm. Strong. “One hand slides a vibrator inside your cunt.” It was humming as it brushed my thigh, and as it moved deeper and deeper my legs threatened to buckle. “You feel my hand in your hair, pulling your head up.” My head jerked back, forcing me to be aware of where I stood; of the moment I was wrapped within. A second trickle worked its way around the vibrator filling me.
“My cock slips between your ass cheeks.” He brought me back to the moment and I felt him beginning to work his way forward, as I stood, clutched in the twin moments of fear and want. I heard my own voice as if from very far away; tiny.
“Oh god.”
“You feel my cock move up against your asshole.” He waited right there, poised. Ready, and I realized I’d stopped breathing, waiting for the next moment. But it was not to be that easy. “Tell me what you want.”
I knew what he waited for. I knew that he knew the words that wanted to leap from my mouth. I could taste them right there, right on the other side of my lips, but letting them go was so much harder than I could have ever imagined. This was something I’d thought, but never actually said. But I also knew that he would only wait so long. And that no matter what else I loved, I loved to obey him. So I spoke.
“Fuck me. Please.” I gasped.
“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asked, and I whimpered something affirmative. “Do you want me to move into you?” Again I hoped that making encouraging noises would give him what he demanded. “Then beg.”
I wanted this and we both knew it. We also both knew how hard it would be to say these things out loud. And this was exactly why he demanded it. So I gulped in a big breath of air and I pushed my heart out through my mouth. “Please,” I started, still too timid. “Please fuck my ass, Master.” Hearing my voice saying the words gave me courage and I pressed on, getting louder even as my words became a mish-mash of talking and moaning, the vibrator in my cunt still whirring and his hand still pulling my head back by the hair. “Please fill me up with your cock. Fuck me and make me feel owned.”
“You feel my cock pushing forward, pressing against your asshole.” He rewarded me, and I felt him moving. “S-l-o-w-l-y I slide inside of you, pushing deeper and deeper until I’m buried totally inside you.” I’d felt him open me up and fill me, and once again I almost collapsed at the moment that the nerves and muscles shifted from resistance to acceptance; even pleasure. His hips warm against my cold ass, his hands still on my hips and in my hair but now his voice breathed hot air on my neck as he never stopped speaking. “How do you feel?” he smiled in his voice.
“Full.” I replied automatically, as at that moment all my mind could grasp was how full I was. My cunt and ass both filled to the limit. My cunt pouring down my legs. But that was not all I felt so I kept talking. “Owned. Used. Fucked.” All this and much, much more.
“Still slowly I pull myself back out of your ass until I get to the opening, and then I thrust back into you. You feel me thrusting in and out of your ass.” I whimpered and pleaded and gasped and I don’t know what else. This was something I had been thinking of for so long and now it was happening and my mind was not up for the moment. I wanted to remember every tiny detail – the feeling of his balls as they smacked the round of my ass; my nerves that fought the penetration while still sending shockwaves of pleasure through me; the amazing sensation of complete and abject abandonment of all control…
“Fucking deeper…” continued his voice, giving me no time to gather my wits. Because this was how he liked me: witless. “Fucking faster…” The sounds coming from me began to take on an almost animal-like quality. “Do you want me to cum in your ass?” he asked next. The words were leaving my lips before his had completely hit the air.
“Yes, please Master.” When had I begun to rut back against his penetrations?
“Then beg me, slave.” I could hear how much he was enjoying this new game. Could he hear how much I was as well?
I do not remember all the words that spilled from me for the next many minutes as his cock continued to pound into me. I remember begging him to fill my ass, to humiliate me, to fuck me like an animal, but I know there were many more words. Because every time my flow would slow Master would prod me again, telling me “don’t stop begging, slave.” I remember the second before each new flow of words, when I would realize what I was about to say and take a deep breath, as if a big gust of wind would push these words out of me when my own heart or mind wouldn’t be able to. I begged him to fill me in that place that nobody ever wants to admit they want to be fucked. I thought of this because it was the sheer admitting of how much I wanted this that had my face bright red and hot as a coal. The tremendous shame and degradation of desperately craving his fucking my ass. “Please,” I ended, “I want to feel your cum slipping down out of my ass.”
“What are you?”
“Slave. Pet. Slut. Toy. Possession…” He continued to thunder into me, my ass taking his length more and more eagerly.
“And what am I?”
“Master. Owner. Possessor. Fucker.” My thighs were slick and cold from my pleasure leaking – no, pouring. Pouring out of me.
I heard him cumming, and simultaneously I felt him filling my ass. I knew he was honestly cumming on the other end of the line, and between hearing his pleasure and feeling mine I was overwhelmed. I hoped that I'd remembered to ask to cum, but I know I came, with my legs shuddering under me and my head coming to rest sweatily on the back of the couch. As I came down from the orgasm my brain cleared; the vibrator faded away; my ass emptied.
I thanked him and thanked him and thanked him.
“Can I sit?” I asked at last, once I could breath and think again. His response surprised me.
“No. Place your food on the floor. Kneel on the floor and eat your food there.” I couldn’t believe there was any ecstasy left to drip out of me, but these words shook me once again. I asked for permission to kneel on a pillow, as my hard, wood floors and my knees have never made peace, and he was kind enough to allow me that. As I sat and ate; sat and talked with him, spent my night kneeling at his symbolic feet I felt at home and right and so where I love to be. Master knew what I wanted most of all on this Valentines Day: to be the slave and pet and slut he likes me to be. And then some.
Sunday 14 February 2010
Happy Valentines Day, Part I
I had to spend the morning at work even though it was a weekend. AND a holiday. The saving grace was that Master was available to “keep me company” while I worked, even if we had to settle for online chat. I’d been out of sorts for a couple of days and this could certainly have been “out of sorts” day number three, but Master knew how to nip that in the bud. As I sat working at my desk he reached into my mind with the connection that he’s built there and suddenly I felt my collar settling around my neck. He’d not only given me the feeling of my collar, but as I went to look at the illusion in the mirror I saw that he’d added the words “Valentine Slave” to the black leather in blood red, ornate letters.
I told him on chat, when I returned to my seat, that I liked the words so much it made me think about adding words to the real collar sitting in my toy chest at home. Of course adding letters to my beautiful, black leather collar is not an option. But fueled by the naturally calming and yet enthralling feeling of my collar on my neck I was creatively inspired. I told Master that my pet store had a machine that allows you to engrave whatever you want on pet tags, without the awkward need to request words through someone else. He was intrigued by this idea, and ordered me to run an errand on my way home after my work was through.
Standing in front of the tag machine I found something that seemed almost magically perfect – a shiny, silver, heart-shaped tag trimmed with pink sparkly stones, just right for the holiday. And for the words I’d been charged with etching on a tag to please my Master. But I purchased enough tokens to make two tags, as I’d been even more inspired driving to the store. I looked around to make sure no young, impressionable children were about, wanting to watch the strange lady work the magic tag machine, and then I tapped on the screen’s virtual keyboard: V-A-L-E-N-T-I-N-E S-L-A-V-E. Engrave. The motorized stylus moved around and around and in no time my shiny, sparkly heart dropped into the tray, mine for the taking.
I started the process again, this time selecting a blue, bone-shaped tag. On this one I tapped in the four words I love to hear my Master growl into my ear so many nights: O-P-E-N W-I-D-E C-U-M S-L-U-T Just seeing the words printed briefly on the screen sent a shiver through me and my panties went damp. I couldn’t wait to spring my little brainstorm on Master.
Minutes after I walked in the door I had my beautiful collar in my hands, working my festive, holiday tag into the D-ring. Once it was on the collar the collar was on my neck, embracing me with the urges of obedience and ownership. I sighed. I spent the next many hours with Master (which I will detail in the next post) with my collar snug on me, and each time I shook my head or moved around too abruptly it brought a light, silver chime of metal on metal, reminiscent of a dog and her collar. The sound wet me every time, and Master made the most of my delicious humiliation, pushing all of my pet buttons.
Tonight I will sleep in my beloved collar, the tag reminding me of my place at his feet still hanging from the front. Because I begged him to let me. Because he told me he required me to do so.
Happy Valentines Day, my friends.
(To Be Continued...)
I told him on chat, when I returned to my seat, that I liked the words so much it made me think about adding words to the real collar sitting in my toy chest at home. Of course adding letters to my beautiful, black leather collar is not an option. But fueled by the naturally calming and yet enthralling feeling of my collar on my neck I was creatively inspired. I told Master that my pet store had a machine that allows you to engrave whatever you want on pet tags, without the awkward need to request words through someone else. He was intrigued by this idea, and ordered me to run an errand on my way home after my work was through.
Standing in front of the tag machine I found something that seemed almost magically perfect – a shiny, silver, heart-shaped tag trimmed with pink sparkly stones, just right for the holiday. And for the words I’d been charged with etching on a tag to please my Master. But I purchased enough tokens to make two tags, as I’d been even more inspired driving to the store. I looked around to make sure no young, impressionable children were about, wanting to watch the strange lady work the magic tag machine, and then I tapped on the screen’s virtual keyboard: V-A-L-E-N-T-I-N-E S-L-A-V-E. Engrave. The motorized stylus moved around and around and in no time my shiny, sparkly heart dropped into the tray, mine for the taking.
I started the process again, this time selecting a blue, bone-shaped tag. On this one I tapped in the four words I love to hear my Master growl into my ear so many nights: O-P-E-N W-I-D-E C-U-M S-L-U-T Just seeing the words printed briefly on the screen sent a shiver through me and my panties went damp. I couldn’t wait to spring my little brainstorm on Master.
Minutes after I walked in the door I had my beautiful collar in my hands, working my festive, holiday tag into the D-ring. Once it was on the collar the collar was on my neck, embracing me with the urges of obedience and ownership. I sighed. I spent the next many hours with Master (which I will detail in the next post) with my collar snug on me, and each time I shook my head or moved around too abruptly it brought a light, silver chime of metal on metal, reminiscent of a dog and her collar. The sound wet me every time, and Master made the most of my delicious humiliation, pushing all of my pet buttons.
Tonight I will sleep in my beloved collar, the tag reminding me of my place at his feet still hanging from the front. Because I begged him to let me. Because he told me he required me to do so.
Happy Valentines Day, my friends.
(To Be Continued...)
Thursday 11 February 2010
Good Girl
Two small words that have come to mean the world to me. They fill me with elation and send a shiver down my spine; it’s all I can do to keep from purring when I hear him praise me with these two, small words: Good Girl.
The first time Master used it on me, barely weeks into his claiming of me, I rankled at the term. “I’m not a girl” I explained, “and it sounds so condescending. Like you’re patting me on the head.” I could feel his amusement at my reaction, and looking back on it now I am sure this is another moment where he already knew what was to come, but decided to let me have my little moment of independence. He knew that soon enough I’d abandon independence willingly and entirely.
As such, Master let the term go for a while, but was wise and strategic enough to bring it back into play later. When he did he chose just the right time, linking for me the phrase with a feeling of pleasing him. Of being a good slave, and of stroking my head or patting my ass or otherwise making me feel like a quality pet or possession. In no time my rejection of the term became a deep desire to earn the words whenever I can. I sought out those little actions that I knew would let me stroke my ego and my need for proper obedience all at once.
Not long after that the phrase “bad girl” popped up. To my amazement those words brought me angst and despair and even a sense of almost panic. My reaction was so significant that Master has purposefully avoided using the phrase ever since, and the few times its popped out he’s corrected himself and soothed me immediately. In the same way that “good girl” fills me with joy and pride and peace, “bad girl” empties me of all good feelings, replacing them with a blackness that sometimes threatens to overwhelm me.
Amazingly the things that I didn’t like about “good girl” initially are now some of the very things that make me crave it. The feeling of his condescension. The idea that I’m a silly, little thing from which he can take pleasure when he likes; that I’m his toy or pet, who lives only to earn that tiny pat of approval from him. It still reduces me, as I told him the first time; the phrase never changed. The change was all in me. I now enjoy being reduced and simplified and redefined. I prefer the definition this gives me. I live to be his toy; his pet; his plaything, and to dance and beg and serve him to hear two small words. And to feel that shudder through me that means “I’ve fulfilled my purpose once more.” To be Master’s Good Girl.
The first time Master used it on me, barely weeks into his claiming of me, I rankled at the term. “I’m not a girl” I explained, “and it sounds so condescending. Like you’re patting me on the head.” I could feel his amusement at my reaction, and looking back on it now I am sure this is another moment where he already knew what was to come, but decided to let me have my little moment of independence. He knew that soon enough I’d abandon independence willingly and entirely.
As such, Master let the term go for a while, but was wise and strategic enough to bring it back into play later. When he did he chose just the right time, linking for me the phrase with a feeling of pleasing him. Of being a good slave, and of stroking my head or patting my ass or otherwise making me feel like a quality pet or possession. In no time my rejection of the term became a deep desire to earn the words whenever I can. I sought out those little actions that I knew would let me stroke my ego and my need for proper obedience all at once.
Not long after that the phrase “bad girl” popped up. To my amazement those words brought me angst and despair and even a sense of almost panic. My reaction was so significant that Master has purposefully avoided using the phrase ever since, and the few times its popped out he’s corrected himself and soothed me immediately. In the same way that “good girl” fills me with joy and pride and peace, “bad girl” empties me of all good feelings, replacing them with a blackness that sometimes threatens to overwhelm me.
Amazingly the things that I didn’t like about “good girl” initially are now some of the very things that make me crave it. The feeling of his condescension. The idea that I’m a silly, little thing from which he can take pleasure when he likes; that I’m his toy or pet, who lives only to earn that tiny pat of approval from him. It still reduces me, as I told him the first time; the phrase never changed. The change was all in me. I now enjoy being reduced and simplified and redefined. I prefer the definition this gives me. I live to be his toy; his pet; his plaything, and to dance and beg and serve him to hear two small words. And to feel that shudder through me that means “I’ve fulfilled my purpose once more.” To be Master’s Good Girl.
Saturday 6 February 2010
Flipping a Switch
Master and I have both a "vanilla" relationship and our kinky one and both work exceptionally well. Sometimes, however, making the transition from one to the other can be difficult, like changing gears from Neutral to Turbo in one shift. Master, being the devilishly brilliant man that he is, has found a bridge between our two speeds.
He calls it Slave Mode. Simply put, he’s created a version of me that is essentially the same in every way save one: this version is completely servile. All the time. She has no other way of seeing the world other than through the lenses of being Master’s obedient, adoring slave. She has my intelligence, my personality, my memories and my experiences, but over them all is a thick blanket of complete and total devotion to serving Master above all else.
Understand that the regular me is also Master’s slave; I love and obey and serve him as well, and am eager and enthusiastic to do it always! However I will admit that when you’ve just finished a conversation about your normal life it can sometimes be hard to make the shift to a simpler view instantaneously. Now with this new version of myself I can and will make that switch any time Master requires.
And it is a switch. One he can flip like turning on a light.
The Slave Mode version of me is new, but already Master is beginning to train and improve her. His plan is to use the next few months until he can come and visit again to mold her to be the slave he truly wants, so that he can use me any way he likes while he is here without worries about helping me adjust or what mood I might be in. This week he began cultivating such aspects as my always referring to him as “Sir” (though that one might have been mine – I’m not sure.) and teaching me proper positions to know and take by command. The first of such positions he gave me this week.
I kneel before him, preferably naked, with my tits held together and presented to him, my face held up slightly, as if looking up to him, and my knees pulled apart. This pose has the distinct feeling of being presented to him for approval, and when I fall into it upon his instruction I find myself getting wet on instinct. Right now this is the only pose that he’s given me, but we need to find it a name so that when the next pose is provided I know which is which.
So I ask you, my reading public: what should the Slave me’s first assigned position be called?
He calls it Slave Mode. Simply put, he’s created a version of me that is essentially the same in every way save one: this version is completely servile. All the time. She has no other way of seeing the world other than through the lenses of being Master’s obedient, adoring slave. She has my intelligence, my personality, my memories and my experiences, but over them all is a thick blanket of complete and total devotion to serving Master above all else.
Understand that the regular me is also Master’s slave; I love and obey and serve him as well, and am eager and enthusiastic to do it always! However I will admit that when you’ve just finished a conversation about your normal life it can sometimes be hard to make the shift to a simpler view instantaneously. Now with this new version of myself I can and will make that switch any time Master requires.
And it is a switch. One he can flip like turning on a light.
The Slave Mode version of me is new, but already Master is beginning to train and improve her. His plan is to use the next few months until he can come and visit again to mold her to be the slave he truly wants, so that he can use me any way he likes while he is here without worries about helping me adjust or what mood I might be in. This week he began cultivating such aspects as my always referring to him as “Sir” (though that one might have been mine – I’m not sure.) and teaching me proper positions to know and take by command. The first of such positions he gave me this week.
I kneel before him, preferably naked, with my tits held together and presented to him, my face held up slightly, as if looking up to him, and my knees pulled apart. This pose has the distinct feeling of being presented to him for approval, and when I fall into it upon his instruction I find myself getting wet on instinct. Right now this is the only pose that he’s given me, but we need to find it a name so that when the next pose is provided I know which is which.
So I ask you, my reading public: what should the Slave me’s first assigned position be called?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)