Follow along with the video below to see how to install our site as a web app on your home screen.
Note: This feature may not be available in some browsers.
When he gets home, I am in the middle of preparing dinner. His review went very well and he is to be promoted soon so L is in very good spirits. He celebrates by tying my hands with a dishcloth, forcing me into a corner on my knees and facefucking me. I know the dinner is getting ruined but am given no opportunity to say so. By the time he smells burning he's nearly there so Master removes the food from the oven and then throws me across the kitchen table and enjoys some almost dry anal - my punishment for ruining his dinner. Afterwards, we go and shower and L plays computer games while I clean the table and salvage the meal.
One mark of a slave is the vulnerability and the soul-deep need to make him happy. It's knowing your heart and quite possibly your life are in his hands. It's the utter lack of self-preservation you feel in his presence. It's knowing that if he handed you a knife and told you to slit your own throat, you'd do it, all the while praying you were dying to his satisfaction and leaving your windpipe intact when you sliced, so you could apologize for bleeding on the carpet.
Another mark of a slave is knowing him so well and trusting him so deeply that while you know he realizes this about you, you also know he would never ask.
Ah.
We'd already decided by then that we were together until death, and I remember thinking it would be one helluva ride.
And now, more than twenty years later, our life together is orderly and stable, with steady jobs and PTA meetings, decisions we made for the benefit of the kids.
But I'm still getting fucked behind the train station when he steps into our bedroom and I realize he's got something in mind that I can't predict, and don't want to.
Thank you, VelvetDarkness, for sharing your day with us.
My view of slavery--and it is only my own--is different than most. It's neither harsh, nor overly romanticized. It is what it is.
Not an endurance test.
Not a perpetual honeymoon.
Not a selfish jackass making up excuses to punish.
Not a slave orgasming wildly while Master flays her back to shreds.
Not someone doing something to remind me of "my place." (If you're doing it right, I'm not going to forget.)
Not lying around mooning up at some guy who calls himself "Master."
Not cleaning the house or cooking dinner or sucking cock or running errands or any of a million other things that, in the end, don't matter a bit, not really.
It's something a lot different, a lot more complicated, and a lot more poignant than that. It cannot be described accurately with mere words. It can never be captured in any single anecdote. It's a love so deeply beautiful and painful that it can't be understood by any but those who have felt it.
I find it most often in the quiet moments. We sit there, listening to one another breathe. No words need be spoken by either of us. The love doesn't have to be voiced; I can sense it in the air. I feel his fingers run through my hair. I stroke his legs and massage his feet and look up at him, making some sort of weird purring noise. I'm happy because he's happy. He's happy because I'm happy. I'm spoiled because he wants it to be that way.
I've always been afraid of the word "slave." I've never minded "pet" or "subbie" or "little girl" or whatever. They apply, too, and helped me circumvent the whole labeling problem.
But I am what I am, whether I like it or not.
One mark of a slave is the vulnerability and the soul-deep need to make him happy. It's knowing your heart and quite possibly your life are in his hands. It's the utter lack of self-preservation you feel in his presence. It's knowing that if he handed you a knife and told you to slit your own throat, you'd do it, all the while praying you were dying to his satisfaction and leaving your windpipe intact when you sliced, so you could apologize for bleeding on the carpet.
Another mark of a slave is knowing him so well and trusting him so deeply that while you know he realizes this about you, you also know he would never ask.
One mark of a slave is the vulnerability and the soul-deep need to make him happy. It's knowing your heart and quite possibly your life are in his hands. It's the utter lack of self-preservation you feel in his presence. It's knowing that if he handed you a knife and told you to slit your own throat, you'd do it, all the while praying you were dying to his satisfaction and leaving your windpipe intact when you sliced, so you could apologize for bleeding on the carpet.
Another mark of a slave is knowing him so well and trusting him so deeply that while you know he realizes this about you, you also know he would never ask.
My view of slavery--and it is only my own--is different than most. It's neither harsh, nor overly romanticized. It is what it is.
Not an endurance test.
Not a perpetual honeymoon.
Not a selfish jackass making up excuses to punish.
Not a slave orgasming wildly while Master flays her back to shreds.
Not someone doing something to remind me of "my place." (If you're doing it right, I'm not going to forget.)
Not lying around mooning up at some guy who calls himself "Master."
Not cleaning the house or cooking dinner or sucking cock or running errands or any of a million other things that, in the end, don't matter a bit, not really.
It's something a lot different, a lot more complicated, and a lot more poignant than that. It cannot be described accurately with mere words. It can never be captured in any single anecdote. It's a love so deeply beautiful and painful that it can't be understood by any but those who have felt it.
I find it most often in the quiet moments. We sit there, listening to one another breathe. No words need be spoken by either of us. The love doesn't have to be voiced; I can sense it in the air. I feel his fingers run through my hair. I stroke his legs and massage his feet and look up at him, making some sort of weird purring noise. I'm happy because he's happy. He's happy because I'm happy. I'm spoiled because he wants it to be that way.
I've always been afraid of the word "slave." I've never minded "pet" or "subbie" or "little girl" or whatever. They apply, too, and helped me circumvent the whole labeling problem.
But I am what I am, whether I like it or not.
One mark of a slave is the vulnerability and the soul-deep need to make him happy. It's knowing your heart and quite possibly your life are in his hands. It's the utter lack of self-preservation you feel in his presence. It's knowing that if he handed you a knife and told you to slit your own throat, you'd do it, all the while praying you were dying to his satisfaction and leaving your windpipe intact when you sliced, so you could apologize for bleeding on the carpet.
Another mark of a slave is knowing him so well and trusting him so deeply that while you know he realizes this about you, you also know he would never ask.
I would love to better understand what the dependence you speak of feels like for you, Catalina. You are such an intelligent, and seemingly independent thinker, I believe I could learn much from your insight and experience.
Each relationship is different, of course, and your comments made me reflect on issues of dependence in our relationship. In fact, I shared your comments with him and we discussed it together.
We agreed that we both feel deeply dependent on each other. At the most basic level, he is dependent on my labor. And I depend on him for my bed and board.
On the other hand, over time I have also become more independent of him. More able to spend time apart, pursuing my own interests. More able to withstand the insensitivity and petty cruelties that inevitably mar a relationship, because I am more certain of my basic worth and goodness. More able to pursue a spiritual life that strengthens my core.
Compared to the girl I was when we met, I have grown and matured into a much better, more pleasing "slave" and wife.
The crux of my "slavery" today lies in the fact that I cannot escape whatever situation I find myself in.
As a "slave" I cannot ask him to change for me, but I can try to change. I cannot expect him to make me happy, but I can take the actions that will make us both happy. I cannot find a better world in someone else's bed or in my fantasies of what could be, but I can make a better world by learning what it really means to love another imperfect person. I understand that some people prefer separating sexual "slavery" from love. But speaking only for myself, I have given my life to this man. And I could not live without love.
Whew. I need to catch my breath.
I think I'm ready to return to my coffee cups and laundry. I'm much more comfortable there.
Thank you, again, Catalina, for giving me something to think about.
I see many saying it should be about improving the slave as a person, and their life overall...this is not necessarily the basis of our M/s. My service to him in what ever form it takes is expected and hoped to improve his life, his role as my Master does not hold the same obligation or expectation.
Catalina
I think you bring up an incredibly important aspect of the relationship, BiBunny.
Power over another person can bring out the worst in people. And we have wrestled with its corrupting influence.
It takes incredible discipline, generosity, and fairness to exercise power with love. .
I have been telling him for awhile if there were a submissive dictionary or word for the fact I feel no more at peace and home when I am at his side on my knees serving him. I enjoy as you do the simple things in life as well as when he decides he wants something.. He is my life...
May I be so bold as to ask you how long you have had this total devotion to your man ?
And Bibunny, that was a wonderful post!
Thank you and everyone else who responded kindly. I figured y'all would give me hell for the revelation, considering my previous distaste for being a slave.
Ah, well. Crow is a dish best served cold, etc., etc.
A long time. I'm only just now realizing it.
Thank you and everyone else who responded kindly. I figured y'all would give me hell for the revelation, considering my previous distaste for being a slave.
Ah, well. Crow is a dish best served cold, etc., etc.
I have a policy of not giving anyone grief for personal growth, regardless of any possible irony. Personal growth should be celebrated.
...i think your post was great and displays depth of understanding
pet
I have WAY too much appreciation for the irony that the universe likes to throw at us for me to let it go unacknowledged. But your advice is a good bit of the reason for the revelation, you know, and it's muchly appreciated.
Thank you lots. I feel like I don't know what I'm talking about 90% of the time.
I wonder if the word is "devotion."