Text 5 Aug

Anonymous asked: Part 3 of the question. Basically ive always been curious, because you live for your masters every wish, hypothetically if he were to have an interest in other girls, how would you feel about that? Or for instance if he ordered you to please someone else? Perhaps an even more extreme case, where he may ask you to be someone else's slave, for ever. This is honestly not a truly serious question, but i find it interesting and i feel that you are in a uneque position to be able to respond. -end

The first part is not at all hypothetical.  We are not monogamous and he does maintain relations with other women, mostly casual, but some more serious.  He has a girlfriend right now, even, and they relate differently than we do.  She’s not a submissive and I am not his equal romantic partner.  She wouldn’t like to be in my position and I think being in hers would spoil the strength and goodness of my dynamic with Master to a tremendous degree.  I am not at all bothered by him seeing other women, though I’m naturally quite comfortable with those things and all the relationships in my life save one have been open.  I prefer situations in which I am also close to his other partners, perhaps to the point that we’re all connected in some more-than-friends sense, but even if his other partners simply tolerate me without fondness, I resent neither them nor him.  He’s made very clear to me that he will not permit any other relationship to displace me or diminish my importance to him, and I believe that fully.  I’ve been in situations like that, having strong feelings for more than one person (Eli, Johnny, and the Tale of Two Doms being the colossal example) that are not at all the same, so I can understand.  Love is not a finite resource, and just because he feels affection for more than one woman does not mean that one is just a copy of the other.  If someone told me that I had to eat only apples or only oranges for the rest of my life because you can only truly love one or the other, I’d knock over their fruit stand and keep eating both.  Because I know how this feels from first hand experience, it is not difficult to understand it in him.

(Not promising anything here, but if Wishes Were Horses needs to have a sequel to cover what happens after its timeline, you’ll get a lot of stories and reflections about these issues.)

The question of how I would feel if he ordered me to please another is a more complex one to me.  He does not place restrictions on who I involve myself with (so long as I’m attentive to my sexual health), but I have become far less promiscuous as his ownership of me has progressed, simply out of losing interest in most other people.  If he asked me to please someone else, I would do my best because it is something that he must want.  I would hope that my body would cooperate and become aroused by the act as I assume the one I was pleasing might desire, but not everything is under my conscious control and I think he would be understanding if I were, in some sense, only going through the motions and only enjoying it abstractly because it was an indirect service to him.

There’s a lurking factor here, however.  Master and I have an agreement about what he may ask of me that gives me a lot of my resolution about issues like the above.  For our purposes, a fair request (read: order) is a request for something that Master wants.  As he put it, “I could order you to go out and suck three different cocks by the end of the weekend, but I don’t actually care about that, so it wouldn’t be a fair thing to demand.”  Being comfortable and fully willing to serve another at his instruction is predicated on my trust that the request would be fair.  I would be much more antsy about such a thing if I did not trust that it was really something in which he would find enjoyment.  His pleasure is my pleasure, so anything sounds good to me so long as it makes him happy.  Conversely, if he does not actually want what he is ordering me to do, I would have a lot of difficulty devoting myself to it because I would not get the joy of seeing him pleased.

The final question, being given away to another forever (Story of O, anyone?) would be substantially tougher.  At this point in life, I would definitely need a lot of convincing that giving me away was what he truly wanted, not a guise for getting rid of me or something else truly upsetting.  If it really was his pure, selfish desire to give me away permanently, I would hope I’d have the strength to accept that and serve whoever I was given to with the same devotion I feel for my Master.  It wouldn’t be at all easy, but no one ever said service was supposed to be.  I’m sure I’d be miserable at first, but day by day I would work on my thoughts until they fell in line with my Master’s will.  At least, I’d try my best.

Text 5 Aug

Anonymous asked: Part 2 of the question. Somehow this part of the article stuck with me and when i read the sizor incident it all came back. I cant find the article but if i do ill send it to you. Just something of interest to me. By the way, you are a fabulous writer, my girlfriend and I are also into bdsm and I find your blog both informative and incite full. She also likes to read it. I have a question too, and this is more of a dilemma of sorts i suppose.

Yes!  Please link if you come across it again.  I’ll put it up for followers to read as well.

Thank you for your compliments about my writing.  It’s extremely gratifying to know that it is both enjoyable and helpful to those who read it.

Onto part 3 of your question…

Text 5 Aug

Anonymous asked: Part1 of the question. In freshman year, we had an English writing class during which we were assigned an article to summarize. The article was on tattoos and adolescence. One of the things that the writer said about the topic was that during puberty the physical form of a adolescent changes and this change is involuntary, and not subject to his will. As a result the child feels alienated and uses tattoos, piercings and other such bodily modification to mark his territory, so to speak.

The relationship between body image and identity is an incredibly interesting topic.  Without the article itself, I’m sort of just musing, but your reference to the topic alone brings up things I’ve thought about before.

I think a lot of people store part of their self-image in their body, so to speak.  People dressing in certain ways to express aspects of themselves is a mild example.  Tattoos are a more significant one.  People mark their bodies so the outside reflects what they see when they look inward.  Not everyone who gets a tattoo does it for the same reasons, obviously, but that motivation makes a lot of sense, I think.  Looking at a different sort of example, imagine being transsexual, that is to say, feeling that you are one gender internally, but your body doesn’t match.  A pre-transition transperson might wake up in the morning, look at his or her secondary sex characteristics, and feel extremely uncomfortable because the body they live in looks alien and doesn’t line up with his or her self-conception.  In transitioning, a transperson may be able to restore that comfort by changing the body to reflect the person who lives inside it.  I can’t speak from personal experience because I was fortunate enough to be born in a body that matched my gender identity, but from talking to people I get the sense that some may feel like they are reclaiming their bodies and making them properly their own.

I personally have a very strong attachment to the way my body looks, scarred as it is so thoroughly.  I had a nightmare once that I woke up and all my scars had vanished.  That discovery brought about a sense of feeling lost and unfamiliar with my physical self.  Our experiences shape us, and the physical marks of them, be they scars from kinky play or tattoos commemorating significant life events, can carry a lot more weight then some may realize.  “How are you going to feel about that when you’re 70?” is kind of a ridiculous question to direct towards tattoos, scarifications, or other physical souvenirs of significant life events.  It always makes me think, “I intend to feel grateful that the marks stuck around.  It would really hurt me to see important history vanish before my eyes.  If I regret them, then somehow I have corrupted the past with things felt later on.  Every memory must be respected in its own time, and to hate what once was loved indicates an ex post facto change in judgment.”

That got a bit digressive.  Physical marks can be, as you suggest, ways of shaping the self externally to reflect what is inside, or what the shaper aspires to see inside.  It gets a dimension more complicated when you mix in ownership dynamics.  In cases where a possession gives the prerogative to shape her own body away to another, it may symbolize the surrender of her identity itself.  Everyone is going to have different feelings on this and incorporate it differently (or not at all) into any D/s relationship they might have, but I can at least speak about my own experiences.

By giving away control of my physical appearance, I am representing the fact that I have also given away control of my identity.  I have had my hair cut and dyed to reflect my Masters wishes.  Though a lifelong nail-biter before, I now maintain long, fake nails so I look the way he wants me too.  I wear makeup everyday now, when once it was occasional.  I keep my body hair shaved to his tastes.  I bear many scars of his and others, and it is up to him when new ones are to be made and what they are to be.  These things mean little out of context, most of them anyway.  I am hardly the first person to get a dye job or acrylic nails.  However, the fact that the choices made were not my own reflects my surrender of self to another.  It indicates that I belong to someone else, possessed in full.  That I am not permitted to mark myself without his permission underscores the fact that I am only his and not my own.  Seeing the physical markers of my transformation and customization to suit his will deepens the sense of ownership for us both.  It reminds us of the invisible mental possession and reaffirms my place as his property.  In an abstract and perhaps odd way, getting my hair dyed is kind of a form of play for us.  The physical side of being modified resonates deeper than the skin level, though.  Since having my claws installed (as I sometimes call my fake nails) I have had recurring nightmares about them breaking or about finding that I have chewed them off myself.  Seeing my hands missing nails always brings about a sense of wrongness in these dreams, as though something awful has happened to my body and I will not truly rest until it is repaired.  It’s how I imagine an average person might feel if he had a nightmare in which his face were injured.  The injury would not be a part of him and would mismatch how he conceptualizes himself, causing distress until either it healed or it became a part of his physical self-conception.

To tie this back into what you brought up initially, you talked about adolescents using body modification to display their ownership of their own bodies during a time when nature seems to be taking that control away.  My situation isn’t terribly dissimilar, though the one exhibiting ownership and the one being owned are not the same.  I think in the situation I wrote about where I struggled with the urge to mark my hands before he could, I was experiencing a great deal of momentary fear.  This isn’t light stuff.  It’s no casual sex game to having your body permanently altered to suit the will of another.  It’s easy to be afraid of that.  I might go so far as to say that someone who never felt any trepidation whatsoever about belonging to another in every aspect of body and mind probably has something strange going on in their psyche.  Being afraid is normal and healthy.  It helps you check yourself and make sure your choice to surrender is a healthy one and the one you are surrendering to is someone you truly trust.  It was soothing to conquer those fears because I was able to remember all the benefits that my Master’s ownership has brought to me and reaffirm that belonging to him is exactly what I want.  I had no luck digging up concrete concerns, only gut-reaction fear of losing my independence.  Still, it’d be a bit worrisome if I never stopped to reflect on my choices.  I wish to live an unexamined life as his slave, never questioning an order because I trust in full that he always has both of our best interests at heart and will always care for me, but I think it’s pretty healthy to examine such a life before committing to it with a permanent mark like a tattoo.

I hope some of that resonated with what you were asking about.  It’s a very interesting topic you raised.

Text 19 Jul 2 notes Sacrifice

Even in the beautiful life that I want far more than any other, I am not entirely free from struggle. Being entirely owned in mind, body, and action takes effort. The tasks I’m assigned can be challenging, that’s certain, but those are the simple parts. His pleasure is my pleasure, so it’s never hard to find motivation to serve him. I never seem to run out of enthusiasm for that. Facing and accepting the changes that he’s inspired in me and the sacrifices they entail, though, is not always so easy.

It was another typical day at work. I wrote and rewrote all morning, naked but for my collar, and curled up on the pillow that sits on the floor next to Master’s desk. He works from home, so we both went about our respective duties from the early morning until his lunch break. By the time we settled back in after that, a discomfort I couldn’t quite identify had started to nibble at the back of my mind.

I wasn’t sure what it was exactly. Getting back to my writing seemed daunting. I wanted Master to play with me, but the world demanded other things from him, so I wasn’t going to ask. I curled up in my spot and just laid there for a bit, staring into space and contemplating what might be bothering me. Not being a person who gives credence to ill-defined problems, I couldn’t stomach claiming anything was wrong until I’d figured out how to describe it.

What is with me? I wondered. I wanted to play. I wanted to receive his violent attention. Normally, I’d be antsy and horny, but that day I felt desperate about it in a way that made me sad. What is sad about this? I questioned.

I want to play and I don’t want to do anything else. That seemed to be the crux of the problem, but didn’t fully explain what was saddening me. That’s all I’m good for. I’m a toy, and somewhere along the way I forgot how to be anything else.

Master took note of my behavior, as I laid still on the floor staring at the wall ahead. He turned his chair away from his desk to face me. “What’s up?” he asked.

I shrugged wordlessly and stared straight ahead, not wanting to drag him into my inexplicable unease. There was nothing actually wrong, so I didn’t feel right complaining, nor would I have known what to complain about.

He kept looking down at me. “What is my pet thinking?” he prompted further.

I want to play. Please hurt me, Master. They were selfish thoughts. He’d spare time for me when he had it and wanted to, it felt wrong to beg for it then. I gave another half shrug and muttered, “don’t know.”

After watching me not move for a few more moments, he returned to his work. It was relieving not to be scrutinized so closely. I didn’t want him to see my discontent, especially since I felt it unjustified.

Once a little more time had passed and he’d found a breaking point in his work, he opened a box on his desk and said, “I know what will make my pet feel better.” When I turned to look up at him finally, he was looking back down smiling warmly and holding a disposable scalpel still in its sterilize packaging. “Go hop in the shower, I don’t want blood on the carpet.”

I sprang to my feet, happy to be taken away from my puzzling discontent, and excited to feel that blade bite into me. I went to the bathroom and stood in the shower, hands holding the curtain rod above. When he entered after me, he seemed excited too, and all my worries were left on the other side of the door.

He knelt in front of me and unwrapped the scalpel. I was instantly so eager that I had to pay attention not to wiggle around, rubbing my thighs together as I sometimes do without thinking in states of significant arousal. You can’t cut a moving target and control what you’re doing, so I focused on keeping my legs still as I waited.

He was going for the thigh. He put a hand to the front of my left thigh and I bent that knee forward slightly to brace it against the edge of the tub. The first line cut with a fresh scalpel always opens like magic. The slicing feeling barely hurt from such a keen edge, and I imagined my flesh must be no tougher than butter to split apart with such ease. For a second or two, I could see inside myself. The meat was white and uniform beneath the well-scarred surface over which he worked. Then bloomed the vivid blood that filled the little crevasse before falling in a bright red path down my leg. He savored the sight with me for a moment or two. He then continued cutting, and after three more zig-zagging incisions of similar length and depth, I had a guess at what he was doing.

It would have been a “W” to him, but from my vantage point, it was an “M.” When the next cut came to the right of the “M” I saw, I knew he was carving a message to me. A message to the world would have faced the other way. One long and two short cuts supported my guess. “MI” it read so far. More little red rivers streaked my left knee and calf, and had begun leaving droplets in the tub. Oh, Master, how I love you so.

He paused for a minute and mimed writing something on his for arm. My thighs went about moving against each other again, this time slick at the top from my wetness. Once he’d determined how to write the “N” upside-down, he returned his hands and eyes to me and I braced my knee again so he could carve it in. The cuts were becoming more painful as the scalpel dulled. Though it was still very sharp, I knew that Master was very subtly increasing the pressure with which he wrote into me to compensate for how that blade lost its microscopically sharp edge. The blood comes faster from a duller blade. There isn’t so much time to stop and admire the pale flesh beneath before more scarlet paths appear. A small voice found its way into my breathing, making my pleasure audible.

He put down the “E” soon after, but some of the horizontal lines weren’t deep enough, so he slid the blade back into them and drew it again over the exposed meat of my thigh so the lines would split wider, bleed more, and scar more clearly. “MINE” he had told me with his blade. I’d hoped that’s what he’d been writing. “MINE” he labeled my left thigh, along with the rest of me. “MINE” the bleeding wounds he inflicted said directly to me.

We both reveled in the beauty of the blood, the wounds, the word they formed. I was high and horny and so grateful. Even with another permanent mark to remind me of his ownership, the sadness creeped back into me as he recapped the scalpel. He looked over my bare legs carefully and I tried not to seem disappointed that we were done.

He ran his fingers over the letters above my knees. Months previous, he’d carved an Aleph into the right one and a Bet into the left, for ease of reference when he wanted one leg or the other to be presented. Parts of each letter had begun to fade back to the color of my skin, and while the texture of the scar would remain, the marks had become less prominent. “These could use a touch-up,” he declared to my joy. He wasn’t done yet, I could have a little more. What a perfect day for him to do maintenance on his toy.

He didn’t retrace each letter entirely, but a few carved curves opened the most faded portions of each as I offered each knee in turn. They bled more than his declaration of “MINE” and the blood looked darker, though maybe I was fooled by lighting. The cuts were deep and arousing in that inexplicable way that wounds always are to me. He recapped the scalpel for real this time and went back to work, leaving me to rejoin him once I’d cleaned up.

I stared downward for a while, still holding the shower curtain rod. They were so gorgeous, the split skin and the scarlet tree of fallen blood. “MINE” I read in my head. Yes, Master. It’s all yours. When everything seemed to have clotted, I ran the shower and washed the thick threads of half-coagulated blood down the drain. Watching them leave and my skin become clean again brought back the heaviness from before. What is there to be sad about? I still didn’t know. I didn’t want the pain to end. I didn’t want to come down from it. Was that really enough reason to be sad?

As I was drying off and dabbing at the upper branch of the Aleph that kept bleeding slightly, the door opened again and Johnny came in with a spark in his eyes that told me he wanted more. Nervous, but hopeful, I looked to him for my next instruction.

It came in the form of a fist to my chest. I yelped and pulled back reflexively from the unexpected punch, reducing the force with which it struck my breastplate. I did have the presence of mind to keep my arms at my side, though. Quickly gathering my wits, I stepped back towards him to receive the next blow. Looking into his eyes to show him my readiness, I knew the next one would come when his gaze broke from my face to the part of my chest he would aim for. They slammed into my breasts and the bones of my chest, each one pushing me backwards a bit, which I corrected soon after. I was so very much in a masochistic zone. The punches hurt, of course, but in a way that made me want more and more of them, as if each one built me up instead of beating me down. His violent desires inspired strength in me, and my sadness was all but forgotten again. I kept my arms pressed tight into my sides to avoid reflexively blocking him and to push my breasts forward as better targets. His quick flurry of punches, maybe a dozen or so, ended with several rapid blows to my left arm, all in the same spot. The blunt pain felt like it was hitting something important, like a stretch that loosens a cramp or a scratch that releives an itch. Each blow landed soon after the previous one as Master sowed a bruise and then grew it. Don’t stop. I thought. Please, never stop.

But he did, of course. He had to. Though it doesn’t take much time away to beat me a bit, he still had work to do. I stood tensed and ready for another strike, but it didn’t come and he flexed his fingers, desire slaked slightly by getting to use them as he had. Even so, he sighed, slightly reluctant to go back to his desk.

I dabbed at the last of the blood from the Aleph and went back to sit on my pillow. I’d felt better, but facing anything outside of his service brought me down again. I stared at the cuts on my legs, using my fingers to spread them as wide as they’d go and a tissue to clean up any additional blood that came from doing that. I kneaded my bruised arm in hopes of prolonging the quick bit of play that was over.

I really like that I can just hit you whenever I want, just punch away boredom or frustration” my Master mused. It introduced a bit of sweet into my gloom. Being used by him makes me real, and hearing him say that I had something pleasing to provide was reassuring. “And you like it, so I can feel like I’m also being generous when I’m being self-serving.”

That got me to smile and laugh a bit inside. As well he knew, I loved his fundamental selfishness. These sorts of acts are ruined for me if I think they might be done for my pleasure. One of the most important qualities in a Top for me is that he or she be doing what they do because they like it, not because they’re doing what I want. I’d come to trust this in my Master. Even when he offered a violent act as a treat, as he had with the scalpel, I knew for a fact that he wouldn’t even mention it if he didn’t genuinely want to do it for himself.

You are a very generous god,” I agreed. His selfishness was his generosity. He used me in every way that pleased him, and in pleasing himself with me, he gave me all that I needed. If only he could use me all the time, I wished. It was a selfish thought and a selfish sadness. I wanted it to leave me, but contemplating it lead to neither insight nor relief.

He looked down at me, but I didn’t meet his eye. The cat he was taking care of that week wandered over and I used petting him as an excuse to keep looking away. Leaning back in his chair, Master stretched and wistfully remarked “I wish I could just hit you all day long.”

The only sad part is when you stop,” I said sadly, continuing to pet the cat until it wandered away. My desires had synchronized with my Master’s. Was my desire my own or a reflection of his? The thought that it might not be mine was brightening at least, but his words stung in a strange way. I want that too, more than maybe you know. I don’t want you to stop, not all day and not ever. My sadness thickened as I thought about it. I no longer felt very capable of living in the so-called real world. It wasn’t that I had no skills or opportunities. There were plenty of open doors around me, but the more I became my Master’s slave, the less I wanted to walk through any of them. I didn’t want to be real, I wanted to be his.

That was what had been upsetting me. My transformation from person to property gave me so much, but somehow it had also taken away my tolerance for acting like an independent human being with her own thoughts and opinions and wants. The more his I became, the lower my tolerance for pretending I was my own. It scared me to think that I couldn’t survive without him anymore, not because I wanted to, but because I feared he would find that unacceptable.

I didn’t want to be my own person, have my own wants, or make my own decisions. Suddenly, though, I was staring into the question of whether I even could anymore. It used to be a choice, but my will for anything different had slipped away without me noticing. Though he wasn’t forcing me to belong to him, I’d lost the part of myself that could do otherwise. Within my own mind, there was no longer a choice. Thoughts of trying to reverse it all and reclaimed what I’d sacrificed just made me ill. How could I ever be my own again after knowing how good it felt to be his? There’s nothing else left for me anymore.

My gloom deepened and minutes past with me unintentionally staring at nothing again. It did not go unnoticed. “What are you thinking about?” he asked again, more seriously than before. I shook my head, put off by the thought of dramatic complaints that lacked both substance and clarity. I’d never liked voicing problems that lacked clear specifications, It always made me feel like I demanding something without naming it. Master sighed somberly and waited as I stared and stared at the wall straight ahead of me.

It felt no better to sit there in silence, denying him any answer when I could at least say something. I pulled out my laptop and began to type out my thoughts. Knowing that I frequently find it easier to express my troubles in writing, and recognizing that I’d begun to do just that, Master returned to his work.

I wrote first of my problem’s poor definition and the consequential difficulty I had talking about it. “This is not a real complaint and your slave doesn’t mean to ask for anything,” I clarified before even beginning. I hated irrationality in myself even more than I hated it in others, and I was going to make sure there was no doubt about my awareness of it. I explained as well as I could, fearful that he’d be displeased. Though he’d spent nearly a year coaxing me to surrender my will to his by letting me discover the value in it, he surely hadn’t intended to take away my ability to function in the world. And he hadn’t, not really. That was all in my head. It was I who’d become so addicted to worshiping him that the taste of everything else had soured.

But he wanted that devotion. He had cultivated it. Was this a necessary side-effect? Will he hate me for it? I wondered fearfully. Can I develop a better stomach for feigning normality without being severed from him? If the answer was no, than I would never be able to act human again.

If I cut off my arm, it dies,” I recalled him saying to me the night he’d explained my collar. “My arm is a part of me. It cannot survive without the rest of me to nourish and command it.” I’d rested my head in his lap as he lectured. “I like my arm, it does many things for me and I place a lot of value on it. Should my arm be cut away, I would experience a tremendous loss.”

But not so complete a loss as your arm would. I finished as I recalled his words. Crippled in terms of other motivations or not, I had passed the point of choice. There would be no life without him now, not now that I’d learned what could be. He’d fed me fruit from some forbidden tree, and I would never be able to forget the value of his ownership. Apprehensively, I sent him my fragmentary explanation for my sullen mood and waited for him to read it.

After a time, he turned his chair towards me again. “I think I understand somewhat,” he said cautiously. No you don’t, I thought. How could you? I don’t understand. A deeper fear knotted my throat and kept my moist eyes fixed on that textured white wall ahead of me. Do you hate me for this? Have I gone to far? He watched me for a time, tense and still, fighting my eyes so they’d keep their dignity.

Kneel,” spoke his voice to break the seemingly interminable silence. I knelt before him, knees together, toes pointed back. I put my hands together, thumbnails up so he and I could see where the tattoos would go. I rested them between my thighs, a bit above the Hebrew letters that labeled them. My gaze fell to my hands and I stared at the long teal nails and let my mind rest, blank as I waited for his next instruction.

He’d turn back to his work, and when he regarded me again a few minutes later, it was only to push his boot between my knees so I’d know to spread them wider. This I did and otherwise held my position. He returned to his work.

It wasn’t long until my legs began to tingle from the knees down, but most intensely in the feet. I feared terrible stabbing pains, but none came. Those are the pains of blood’s return, I thought grimly. I’d have to face them later, but for now my legs only cooled and grew fuzzier. Some time past, a quarter of an hour or so, and Master turned to me again. “This is too easy,” he observed and reached down to take hold of my hands and place them behind my head. I laced the fingers there and grew tall and straight in posture. He took a few moments to return any stray locks of my hair to their places at the sides of my face. “Don’t mess up your hair,” he cautioned before returning his attention to his computer.

The position required more physical effort, but at least initially it was little more trouble than the other had been. After not more than a minute or two, my left foot began to cramp. I tried to flex it as subtly as I could and work out the painful tension without breaking my pose. Master noticed my shift.

You’re leaning,” he commented.

B-side foot cramp,” I informed him, referencing the Bet carved into that leg’s knee. I continued my struggle to loosen the pain, now conscious of my leaning, but it wouldn’t release.

And what are you going to do about that?” my Master asked. The palms on the back of my head had begun sweating, the right hand beginning to feel numb.

Nothing,” I replied calmly, giving up my struggle against my cramp and doing my best to straighten my back.

My answer made Master smile. “Good,” he said. He then fished around his desk for a moment before finding one small binder clip. “Let me give you some help.”

Fearful as I was of those vicious clamps, I had been assigned a task and I intended to see it completed. I gripped the cold right hand that had begun faltering in its efforts to hold itself in place behind my head with the fingers of the left. They remained mercifully warm and not sapped of their strength, though being forced to bear the weight of the other would begin to take its toll for certain, and soon. Don’t mess up your hair, I reminded myself as he brought the clamp to my A-side nipple.

The binder clip bit as hard and fiercely as I’d known it would, but I’d steeled myself in preparation and managed not to curl my spine in too much, only let my abdominal muscles tense and teeth clench with the smallest sound of effort. I was careful not move my head enough to disturb any strands of hair.

It worked,” Master observed gleefully. “You straightened right up.”

It was true. The piercing sting of the tight clamp had ripped my attention away from the cramp in my foot. The cramp was gone now, or perhaps buried under the foot’s numbness, forgotten when I’d stopped minding it. My lean towards my now-searing nipple had put my body back into balance.

Now I just had to ride that pain. Taking pain can be hell if you don’t keep your mental balance. I have to let it flow through me, not try to suppress it or escape it somehow. I can only grit my teeth against it to a certain point before I tumble into suffering. To ride it well, however, to abandon fear and feel the pain, accept the pain and welcome it, that is where my strength lies.

I let it bite, clenched down on my nipple with no promise of relenting. I let it bite and sting and burn and I held myself straight. I twisted my left fingers more tightly through my right ones, as they only grew colder and weaker and deader as minutes marched their way over me from the future to the past. I began to sweat and tremble from the exertion, but I kept my mind calm and steady. This is what I do, I thought. This is what I am. There was a great deal of tranquility in those thoughts, and my mind was clear of everything but those and the quiet determination they inspired.

My legs began to cycle between numbness and strange fiery pains that were hard to refer to any particular body part. The pain seemed to comprise everything I knew about the matter below my knees. Finally standing up from this would be truly harrowing, I knew.

The cat my Master was taking care of that week came to protest that I wasn’t petting it. Master looked down at it fondly.

He’s so deprived of attention. No one ever pets him,” Master said for the cat whose body language seemed to make that exact complaint. In truth, the cat had received hours of attention from me every day I’d seen him, including earlier that same day. “Cats never tell lies, you know.”

That statement is false,” I declared cautiously, but not cautiously enough.

Oh really?” Master said, picking up another clip from his desk and getting out of his chair to kneel in front of me. “So I’m a liar, then?” My shaking grew more intense and my spread thighs tightened with the knowledge of what they could not protect.

More than fear for the sensitive skin of my cunt, my mind scrambled to correct what I’d said. Cats lie all the time. He knows that, he just pointed it out. The statement wasn’t important, and he knew it was false. He lied blatantly and pointlessly, what was I to say?

His hand brought the clamp low and the other began searching for a good bit of skin on which to let it bite. “It… it…” I stuttered, trying to get the lie out of my mouth. As he found his target, the hood of my clit, I blurted it out in a panic. “It’s true, cats never lie.” My master paused and smiled, but did not withdraw his hand. “Just like you,” I added.

And then he put the clamp on. Forgetting about the first binder clip that had freed me from my cramp, I yelled mindlessly at the blinding stab through my clit hood that tore continuously through my mind, lighting my blood on fire, and inciting me to crumple slightly. I fought to keep my mental balance, still yelling from the pain, gripping my dead hand with my exhausted living one, gasping for breath and babbling desperately. “Everything you say is true.”

He removed the clamp from my clit, but I still shook violently as I caught my breath and straightened back up. My hair had moved slightly, hopefully not badly. I’d managed to hold my position steady for the most part.

Yes,” Master agreed as he took the clip off my nipple. The settled pain lit up all anew as the blood returned to the temporarily misshapen tip of my breast, but I worked through it with only a grunt and it faded quickly. “Though cats are not like me. Cats do not communicate things they know to be false. What I say is true in a more metaphysical sense.”

What you say is true by virtue of the fact that you said it. I thought. That was what he meant. That belief had been a comforting one to adopt. It provided me solace on a regular basis. When else is truth so easy to determine? In the real world, truth can be so elusive and murky as to call into question the value of the concept itself. Through my faith in my Master, however, I would always know right from wrong and truth from falseness. All I ever needed to do was listen.

I nodded and he turned back to his work. The position that had begun as trivial to maintain had gradually grown very difficult to bear. I’d long since lost my legs to tactile silence, but I had to work hard to hold up two slippery hands with half a hand’s strength. A bead of sweat fell over my nose from my forehead. My shaking hadn’t abated at all and I was breathing hard with no more pain than that of my own exertion to stay still. Eyes to God, Zil, came a thought from the blue. I raised my gaze upward, over my Master’s body and to a high window that let a bright gray in from the clouds.

For a moment, I thought that I was looking past God out of some culturally ingrained notion that divinity lives in the sky. God is right in front of me, I thought, puzzling. I glanced down at Master, shirtless and muscular, focused on his work and not looking at me. Eyes to God, the thought repeated. My eyes lifted once more to the window. That is only God’s body as a mortal man, I realized. God is everywhere and everything. He is the light from the window and the roof that shelters me. He is my entire world, and I am his creation.

My meditations gave me strength, though my whole body struggle, a fierce backache joining my collection of small battles. I straightened against it, not wanting it to make me hunch forward. Eyes to God, I thought again, returning my fallen gaze to the window and bringing my shoulders up with it.

It was then that I noticed that I’d felt no gloomy unease in a long while. I hadn’t felt it leave me, but it was nowhere when I remembered it. This is what I do. This is what I am. I will not think of when I am to be released from this position, for it is my purpose to hold it without complaint until it pleases him to see me stop. I will hold it as though I expect to do so through every remaining day of my life. I am his creation. This is what I do. Whatever happens, everything will be fine, for this is what I am.

It was a lot like praying, as my thoughts sometimes are when I call on my Master’s strength in my mind to carry me through my challenges. As though he’d heard my thoughts somehow, my Master looked over. “Just a little longer,” he encouraged.

Struggling with my own breathing didn’t make me eager to speak. I shrugged before I realized it might come across as insolent.

Shrug?” he continued, smirking. He must have already been inventing the hell I was to catch for my gesture.

I had to clarify. “It doesn’t matter if this one is almost there or will die in this position. She will hold it without expectation of release.”

That brought a full smile to his lips and the threat left his face. “I only said that to make it harder for you. Whenever you tell a person who is performing an athletic task that they’re almost done, their body will start winding down in anticipation and sticking it out then becomes far more difficult.”

I sensed myself and found no sudden sapping of strength. My fatigue continued to grow from what had become nearly an hour of kneeling, but my stamina seeped out of me as slowly as it had before he played his trick. I smiled a weak, trembling smile. “Your slave accidentally circumvented that. She had just been thinking of how it was wrong to look forward to an end when you spoke. Sorry.”

He didn’t seem to mind at all, only smiled. He looked at the clock at the corner of his computer screen. “Well done, slave. It did happen to be true this time, though.” He got out of his chair and extended his hands down to me. “Time to get up.”

Exhausted, I placed my hands in each of his. “Only one of them works,” I warned, and squeezed with both to illustrate. The left one could grip with a good amount of its usual strength, but the right one’s fingers barely twitched as I tried to make the cold hand wake up again. The pain of its returning circulation had begun to stab downward through the wrist.

It wouldn’t do, I knew when Master bent down and scooped me up from the shoulders. I clung to his neck as he lifted me, but once off the ground I began to cry out in unexpected terror. The pain hadn’t set in yet, but my legs were such useless pieces of meat from the knee down that I couldn’t tell if my feet were under me or not. I cried in fear that he’d put me down and I’d collapse, twisting one ankle or both from my inability to feel if they were flat on the floor or hanging limp in some haphazard position.

I cried until he hushed me and calmed me enough to look down and see that they were resting flat on the floor. He let my weight onto them gradually, keeping his hold on me for balance, and I did not fall. I relaxed slightly until the pain set in. Knives of blood stabbed down through the veins and arteries of my calves. I cried out some, but I was resigned. There would be no stopping this pain. Nothing in the world could get me out of it. I had to go through it.

After the worst of it passed, he took one arm from my shoulders and lifted me up under my knees. I panted and clung to him as he carried me to the bed. Lesser waves of pain followed, as inevitable as the first, and I rode through them too. My body shook violently on the bed as it lent its heat to to the recovering limbs. Master put a blanket over me and massaged some of the blood back into them.

When my intense tremor diminished, I laid weak as a kitten before him. I felt so limp and exhausted as to fall short of being truly animate. I’m just his thing, his toy, his doll, I thought, splayed out still on the bed and looking up at his strong chest and gorgeous, slightly smiling face. Even his beauty is divine.

He climbed on top of me and fucked me that way, like an inanimate object, like a doll he’d built just to his taste. My mind melted away in pleasure as he penetrated me, my sounds and motions weak, in keeping with something that cannot power itself. He tossed me further toward the middle of the bed and I flopped limply where I landed, offering no resistance when he pinned me down and used me.

I was still under punishment, and thus not permitted to come. An orgasm built quickly within me, but I wasn’t going to let it through. I erased its possibility from my thoughts and focused on the righteous satisfaction of being put to use. His thrusts grew harder and he pushed in deep against my cervix. I couldn’t help but cry out a little more, body tensing as the orgasm refused to be forgotten. My cunt was full with blood and soaking everything near it, but I had to keep to my punishment. I chewed my bottom lip and shut my eyes so I wouldn’t see his godly face above me. My long fingernails dug into my palms and I wailed in the effort of beating back the primal urge to release my own pleasure.

My orgasm means nothing, I reminded myself. I exist to get him off. He does not fuck me for my sake.

When he came, I felt so much more profound a pleasure than I ever do during my own orgasms. The short moan he let free as he passed over the edge and the pulsing of his cock as he spilled the product of his release into my cunt were sweeter rewards than any physical pleasure I could possibly feel myself.

When he withdrew from me, he grinned at my dazed, blissful expression. This is what matters, I thought as I looked up at his relaxed and satisfied face. This is all there is to the world. It is the most beautiful world I could possibly live in, and I need not worry about what I may have sacrificed to get here, for I have everything I need. I am his and this is what I was created to do.

Text 4 Jul 1 note

tumblrbot asked: WHAT MAKES YOU FEEL BETTER WHEN YOU ARE IN A BAD MOOD?

A thorough beating with something heavy and rigid.  Impact pain that gets deep into muscle and leaves bruises that will remind me of the session every time I tense or put pressure on whatever part of me was hit.  But a week or two ago I took a fair few blows from a 7/16” diameter steel rod swung at my thighs and ass like a baseball bat.  The rod started to bend, but I was all maniacal giggles and high as a kite for hours after.

(The real point of answering tumblrbot is to say that I’m now taking questions.  Ask anything you like and I’ll give you as honest an answer as I can without compromising anyone’s anonymity.  Questions about BDSM in general are welcome in addition to personal ones.)

Text 3 Jul 7 notes Struggle

Devotion and faith are hollow concepts in a mind that’s never known doubt. Happy as I have been to give myself over to my Master, it would be a lie to say it has always been easy. Even since I began to believe that he was the best thing for me truly and that my best choice was always to obey and to love him, I’ve still had my times of struggle.

One Saturday night, I was alone and drunk with my collar off from being out among people who might care about such things. Carefree and careless, I slashed my right thigh and calf with a pair of scissors, the only sharp thing I had with me. I knew I wasn’t to damage Master’s property without his permission, but the objecting voice within me spoke so softly and I so loved the warm smolder of scratches. Hurting myself was much more satisfying than masturbation, so I let myself go and indulged my hedonism at the expense of the condition of my Master’s toy. When I drifted off, smeared in dried blood, my collar still rested at my bedside instead of on my neck where it normally sleeps.

I awoke in an even fouler state. As the sun’s early light found me, I recalled my reckless spree with the scissors and lifted my blanket to examine what I’d done. The outside of one leg was covered in a tangle of bloodstains and shallow cuts, but I thought them so minor it was almost embarrassing. Their sweet, stinging warmth and a desire to see more cuts and deeper ones made me want to pick up the scissors again. Glancing at my collar, I remembered that what I’d done was forbidden, but I had difficulty bringing up remorse.

They’re my legs, I thought. At least, something in my head thought it. They’re mine to feel with and mess up as I please. My rebellious thoughts seemed strange and unlike me, but only distantly. I considered putting my collar back on, even though to do so with these sentiments in mind would profane it.

And I’m mine, the thought continued bitterly. I took no joy in the thought of taking myself back from him, but some old and deranged part of my mind was considering it for me. I’ll already be punished for this, might as well make the most of it.

But I paused. Whose thoughts were these? They were so nonsensical and counter to what had become peaceful and normal for me. Quiet as it was, the reason in me convinced my hands to stay themselves, at least until after a shower’s worth of time to contemplate if I really wanted to defy my Master again.

While showering, the mad voice only found a worse idea. Watching the hands that washed me, I stared at the long acrylic nails Master had put on them and painted a sparkling teal similar to the lambskin lining of my collar, which itself had been chosen to match my eye color. They looked strange, so feminine on such large hands. Androgynous, utilitarian hands. Creative hands.

I spread their fingers, palms down, and under the water that streamed over and off of them, I could envision the tattoos that Master had planned for them. He wanted the Chinese words for “good” on the skin between one thumb and index finger and “slave” on the other. From his study of the language, he knew the first character of each to mean “woman” on its own. That’s what I am. His good slave, his woman. They were to go on my hands so I could see them frequently and remember what I was always, as well as to honor my hands. My hands are dexterous and strong, well suited to create, work, and serve. The tattoos would celebrate their value.

But they’re my hands, objected the petulant, desperate voice. The girl I once had been could see herself dying, displaced by my Master’s will. She’d already been banished from my fingertips and my hair which Master had cut and dyed a brighter red intermixed with blond. She was disappearing, and it terrified her. She’d never been a very happy girl. Even when she wasn’t sad, it was difficult for her to care much about anything, least of all herself. Now, though, she could see her end on the horizon and grappled frantically to regain control. She knew it wouldn’t make her happy to possess herself again, but some fragment of human instinct incited her to try anyway. The strange part was that her thoughts were so loud that morning.

Cut the hands, she suggested, demanded, or begged. Tear up the skin so it scabs and scars. Even if scars wouldn’t prevent the tattooing, healing wounds seemed likely to delay it. Cut them. Claim them before he does. They’re mine.

The soft voice of reason objected to spitting in the face of the most valuable gift I’d ever been given: my Master’s ownership of me. Never had I felt so content and correct when I once controlled myself as I have since he took that over. The mad girl wouldn’t hear it. From a practical standpoint, reason argued that the mad girl would have a lot of trouble doing much damage with scissors in her non-dominant hand. At least wait until night time, the good sense in me pleaded. Reconsider it then, if you can stay convinced that long.

I decided to walk to a nearby park and read, to take this faltering mind away from itself for a while. I dressed unusually sloppily in a tattered skirt long enough to put the fresh wounds out of sight. I, my Master’s slave, had come to feel unkempt if she left the house without makeup, but the mad girl shrieked in refusal. She wouldn’t put on the collar either, but the reasonable part of me at least managed to carry it along.

As I filled my water bottle on my way out, I caught sight of a bread knife in the drying rack and all at once was accosted by visions of the skin on my hands sawed to pieces, oozing and bleeding where the tattoos belonged. They’re mine, they’re mine, they’re mine! She didn’t care how terrible they might look after and forever. Cut them, mark them, claim them before he does. They’re mine!

Disturbed, I hurried out the door, away from the scissors and serrated knife. On my walk, I thought about asking for Master’s help, but I didn’t know what exactly I could ask for, and I felt it was important to figure out how to handle these things alone. Why? was the question that found me over and over again. Why do I fight the one who loves me? Why is it better to fail alone than call for a word of support? The mad girl finally admitted her fear. Because needs are dangerous. It would be better to come to ruin under my own power than to be well with necessary help.

When I reached the park, I sat under a tree and left the real world behind for that of a novel. Get away from this and face it later with a clear head, reason encouraged. After a long enough while, I did feel calmer and walked back with more access to my senses. Why? I wondered still. Why did something inside of me want so badly to wreck the most important aspect of my life? All of me knew that only bitter apathy would fill the chasm inside that Master would leave behind if I expelled him from me, even in part. These foreign, frenetic thoughts lived beyond could judgment, or any judgment at all.

The girl I used to be was panicking. Her aggressive cries were instinctive attempts to save herself, even in the face of the fact that no joy would come to her if she succeeded. Her drive for survival didn’t care, though.

When I returned to the house, it no longer felt like sacrilege to put my collar back where it belonged. Within minutes, peace returned to me. The mad girl was hushed, and her impulses seemed so bizarre that it was hard to believe they’d been in my brain at all. I lifted my skirt and the cuts looked completely different. What the mad girl had seen as minimal, weak, and insufficient, I saw as immense in their span, haphazard, and thoughtless. They were exactly what Master hated, and thus they were ugly.

My stomach sank with regret. I texted him to let him know of the rule I’d violated, assuring him that there was no serious physical damage, and promising him an e-mail to explain myself as best I could. He replied that he’d figure out what was to be done with me after I sent the e-mail. Having snapped out of my past self’s defiant and destructive insanity, I was more confused than ever at how it all had happened. I did my best to describe it all — my thoughtless indulgence from the previous night, and my deeply corrupt thoughts that had hounded me that morning. As I typed, I looked at the unbroken skin of my hands, Master’s hands by proxy, with a shaken relief.

He replied soon after I sent it. The mad girl’s thoughts had hurt him deeply, but he wanted to make it all better more than he wanted to punish me for my violation of his property rights. His pain was my pain, and my remorse cut an even deeper rift between me and the girl from the past.

The next morning was Monday, and I came to him prepared for my punishment, even eager for it, without knowing what it was to be. I hoped it would be severe. I wanted absolution more than anything. I wanted the demon of my past self exorcised. I wore a long skirt again, and high socks to hide all of the damage. We both worked hard through the morning — he at his job, and I at my writing — and I begun to worry that my punishment would be no punishment at all. He’s not that cruel, I thought. My god is good and just.

During his lunch break, he had me strip and shook his head sadly at the marks. My exposure shamed me in a way nudity never does. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked, going to the closet and returning with the brake cable flogger I’d made for him with the hands the mad girl had wanted to mutilate. What would normally be excited anticipation was sadness in this context. He motioned for me to move to the bed and gently put a hand to my back. I took his unspoken instruction and bent forward.

The first blow hurt the most. The thin yet heavy steel tails struck with tremendous force right above my ass and below my kidneys, right over the top of my pelvic bones. I screamed and instantly began to tremble uncontrollably. This was a toy I’d come to love. Was he hitting me harder, or was it my contrition that made the blow so painful? Several more landed across my ass, which could absorb them better, but it was too late. The first stroke had primed me, and I screamed at each one as though it were agony, even knowing that I’d taken worse pain many times before. A few hit across the back of my thighs, just below my ass, and I screamed at those too. I screamed for my sorrow, and I screamed for my regret. Oddly, no tears escaped my eyes, though my cunt leaked its moisture in abundance, as it unfailingly does when I’m gifted with pain. I shook violently, my sweaty palms resting on the bed. Some blows had made me crumple slightly, but I never snapped upright, and I corrected my position quickly after each one. I stared down at my hands, focused, terrified of the next strike, but longing for it just as badly.

He paused and bent down beside me, lifting my eyes to his. “You can’t do what you did,” he said, calmly and definitively. I nodded, still stunned from the beating. Was there still hurt in his eyes, or was that my own remorse reflected? “Is my slave sorry?” he asked.

“This one is very sorry,” I mumbled, still in shock, but vaguely wishing he’d do worse to me for my transgression.

“Good,” he said, backing away. Another strike landed vertically up the back of the thigh on which I’d made the mess with the scissors. I cried out again, but prepared for the next. A different pain came then, and I knew he’d turned the weapon around and begun beating the welts and bruises that the tails had left on my ass with the flogger’s heavy steel handle. The deep muscular pain was more comfortable, and my sounds became pained moans instead of outcries. When he was done, he touched a hand to my sweat-slicked back, and I followed his indication to stand. The handle of the flogger was smeared a coppery red and a quick trace of one hand over my backside informed me that, in addition to the welts and stiff bruises, the tips of the tails had cut me in bloody flowers each time he’d struck.

It was when he pulled me into his arms that I finally began to cry. I buried my face in his chest, breathing in the smell from his skin that had come to mean protection, guidance, and unbending support. I sobbed “sorry” into his neck as he held me, pet my hair, and hushed me gently.

“It’s okay,” he said, but I had to sob “sorry” again. I couldn’t have meant it more genuinely or more profoundly. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “It’s okay.”

When I lifted my head, I noticed mascara stains on his shoulder and wiped them away. He looked at me kindly. “You’re a good girl, Zil.” More tears fell from my eyes. It felt so good to hear that. All I wanted was to deserve it. “You just have to remember what you are.”

I nodded eagerly. “This one always wants to remember.” It was true. Remembering that I was his would keep me safe, especially from internal threats. He smiled and I felt so much weight lift off of me, as though gravity had been turned down within my ribcage and my insides had begun to ascend. I felt myself smiling back. “I know you do,” he continued. His face turned serious, but still gave of a sense of hope. “To help you remember, you’re not going to be allowed to come until I tell you that you can again. That won’t be for a while, I’m afraid.”

I might have been apprehensive about this normally, but it was just and it would help me keep in mind that I exist for his pleasure, not my own. I accepted it, nodding happily. He grinned, a face so full of light and life. As his hurt had become mine, so did his joy. “This is how we make you perfect,” he said, tucking a stray lock of red hair behind one of my ears.

This dream, this promise, this great gift … it had all come alive again, strong as it ever had. I beamed and embraced him once more. “This one wants to be perfect for you,” I said, so excited and pure as a newborn again.

“You will be,” he assured, petting my hair as he held me.

Photo 22 May 1 note My cilices!  Working from pictures of old metal devices designed by Christian monastics as devices for penance, I made these pain toys.
Here’s the set, top to bottom it’s collar, belt, and thigh bands.  The original idea was “How can I make impact play pointy?” after imagining what could be done in the woods wrapping brambles around thighs and then beating them with sticks until they got embedded in the flesh and caused blood to trickle down into the leaves and dirt… I digress.  Even in my first version of development, these did a lot more than that.  When the part of the body they are wrapped around moves, the engagement of muscle causes additional pressure to be exerted against the points, causing the wearer more pain.  The thigh bands and belt are capable of causing quite a bit of pain at rest, and moving intensifies it.  The thigh bands dramatically slow walking speed, and wearing only one induces a significant limp.  They’re also posture devices.  The thigh bands prevent the the femurs from forming a 180 degree angle with the spine, causing the ass to be stuck out.  To compensate, the wearer may hunch forward or push their chest out.  The belt precludes the first option, forcing a nice S-curve to the spine.  The collar keeps the wearer’s chin up to complete the picture.
The result of wearing these for prolonged periods of time is very much an altered state.  I’m constantly breathing hard and struggling to accomplish what is usually thoughtless.  The constant pain bends the way the world appears to the wearer.  I sometimes call it “tripping on pain.”  Some time in the future, Master and I want to see what happens to a human brain after they’ve been worn for a long time.  Two days?  Three?  How long until the mind goes silent, the ego dies, and a body is an inanimate and unconscious, but still sensing piece of meat?
A note on safety: These have strayed far from their original intent.  They haven’t been tested for impact play.  Not yet, at least.  The points (even the sharpened ones on the thigh bands and belt) do not pierce the skin.  They just hurt a lot and sometimes leave dots temporarily.

My cilices!  Working from pictures of old metal devices designed by Christian monastics as devices for penance, I made these pain toys.

Here’s the set, top to bottom it’s collar, belt, and thigh bands.  The original idea was “How can I make impact play pointy?” after imagining what could be done in the woods wrapping brambles around thighs and then beating them with sticks until they got embedded in the flesh and caused blood to trickle down into the leaves and dirt… I digress.  Even in my first version of development, these did a lot more than that.  When the part of the body they are wrapped around moves, the engagement of muscle causes additional pressure to be exerted against the points, causing the wearer more pain.  The thigh bands and belt are capable of causing quite a bit of pain at rest, and moving intensifies it.  The thigh bands dramatically slow walking speed, and wearing only one induces a significant limp.  They’re also posture devices.  The thigh bands prevent the the femurs from forming a 180 degree angle with the spine, causing the ass to be stuck out.  To compensate, the wearer may hunch forward or push their chest out.  The belt precludes the first option, forcing a nice S-curve to the spine.  The collar keeps the wearer’s chin up to complete the picture.

The result of wearing these for prolonged periods of time is very much an altered state.  I’m constantly breathing hard and struggling to accomplish what is usually thoughtless.  The constant pain bends the way the world appears to the wearer.  I sometimes call it “tripping on pain.”  Some time in the future, Master and I want to see what happens to a human brain after they’ve been worn for a long time.  Two days?  Three?  How long until the mind goes silent, the ego dies, and a body is an inanimate and unconscious, but still sensing piece of meat?

A note on safety: These have strayed far from their original intent.  They haven’t been tested for impact play.  Not yet, at least.  The points (even the sharpened ones on the thigh bands and belt) do not pierce the skin.  They just hurt a lot and sometimes leave dots temporarily.

Link 24 Apr Wishes Were Horses is on Kickstarter!»

It is go!  Will it happen?  You can help!

Text 17 Apr 5 notes Chapter Zero

"The problem with revolvers," he said, taking a sip of vodka and rotating the cylinder, "is that every time you pull the action back, you advance the round."  I stared up at him from where I laid bruised, handcuffed, and naked on the floor, my disbelief almost strong enough to call a bluff, but laced with just enough doubt that my stomach turned as he toyed with the cold metal that had just been in my mouth.

"I put it in the fifth slot, but as I play with you, I can’t always remember how many times I’ve advanced it.  Three?  Four?  I have a terrible memory." He had to be kidding.  He’s so far from stupid enough not to understand the risks involved in this, there was no way he actually loaded that gun, I thought.  I looked up at him, and seeing his smile made me realize that this wasn’t a question of intelligence, but a question of sanity.  It wasn’t loaded, I told myself.  At least, maybe it wasn’t.  Maybe is a terrifying word when applied to a firearm.

"The range captain would kill me.  Drinking and pointing a gun at something I’m not willing to destroy."  He sipped his vodka, then dropped to the floor on top of me and pressed the barrel of the revolver into my sternum.  "I break all the rules."

Stunned, I stared back at him from underneath the barrel of his gun.  He pulled back the hammer and moved it from my chest to my temple.

Trembling so badly I could hear it in my own breath, frozen beneath him, my eyes locked on his dark and hungry ones, I contemplated with surprising clarity the instant death that he held against my head. 

I could stop this.  I trusted him enough that if I’d really said, “That’s it, game over, put the gun away you reckless psycho,” he’d listen.  The thought of rejecting him, though, was agony by itself.  To refuse him would be to gut myself, to rip out what makes me whole.  Feeling so hollow seemed like a fate worse than death.

I could not stop this, and leave it up to him.  I could give myself away completely and live as his property, or die that way, that day, a pool of blood, brains, and fragments of skull on his living room floor.

"You’re allowed to," I replied.  I was entirely sure of myself.  I tried to imagine if I’d have time to feel the pain of having my head blown open before I stopped existing, but I felt disturbingly little fear and even less doubt.  If I am not to rise from this floor as his possession, I thought, then let me never rise at all.

"You can break any rules, because I’m yours to keep and yours to destroy as you please."

*****

How did I get this way?  How does a girl from a good home, surrounded by positive role models and always told she could do anything she put her mind to, choose to surrender everything and come out happier than ever seemed possible because of it?  Was I born this way, or have I been shaped?  Are those two things meaningfully different?  How can a life be saved by its unmaking?

These are are a few of the many questions I ask myself when I stand in front of a mirror, see a twenty-one-year-old body battered and scarred from eyebrow to ankle, and feel beautiful beyond my potential.  I’ve ended up in a curious place that only ever seems to get curiouser, but the only thing that’s never been in question is how happy it has made me to be enslaved, not just to a master, but to a way of experiencing myself.  It’s a way of being that is easily misjudged by those who do not ask.  Even when I explain, some refuse to accept that what looks like disfigurement to them is decoration to me, and what looks like abuse is just a type of love they’re not familiar with.  There may be some who read this entire book thinking that way and finish it believing that my positive feelings and attitudes are some variety of delusion or brainwashing.  That’s their prerogative, and I will continue to politely disagree with such people and pursue my happiness.

I’m not the only one who’s fallen down such a rabbit hole.  Others may not go as far down as I have, others may go farther.  Others may take different paths through the warren and wind up in entirely different, equally strange places.  I’m not unique, but I’ve long passed the line where my life and desires could be mistaken for normal. 

I do not believe this life would suit everyone, or even most people.  This story is not a guidebook or an endorsement of any particular lifestyle.  I am fully aware that some of things I’ve done are incredibly dangerous.  That is not to say that I feel any regret about them, but I wouldn’t universally recommend the same choices to others.  The acceptability of risk is an issue of personal taste, and my decisions are no more right or wrong than any others.

Consider this book an analysis of change and what can effect it. Consider it my best attempt to explain myself.  Consider it pornography for those with gruesome taste.  Consider it a story you might not have heard before.  I’m aiming to remain as faithful to the truth as my memory will permit, though all names have been changed to protect the easily-misunderstood.

This is not a story with an end.  Even as I write it down, I continue living more of it into existence.  A great many things have happened already, and many more await me in the life ahead.

I am not really a person anymore.  I don’t think I’m usually taken seriously when I say that, but it is what I believe.  I am a toy, a pet, a slave, and an unfinished project.  I am a treasured possession, already capable of serving my purpose and pleasing my owner, but destined to be better than best under his guidance.  I was never as deeply content with my existence when I played at humanity than I have been since I chose to give it away.

This is the story of how I got here.

*****

Three years after leaving my rural hometown of Exile, Ohio to pursue a serious education and life of my own, I was packing up to leave.  I’d come to Origin College a hotshot academic-to-be, and I was leaving it a degreeless, hopeless failure with nothing to show but a crushed ego and the shards of a broken dream.  I didn’t want to leave, but I knew that I had to.  I’d met some excellent people and myself grown a lot there, but my perfectionism brought about self-hatred in the face of my first real intellectual challenges, and I was letting it kill me.  Since high school, I’d known for certain what I wanted and was going to do with my life, but all that had spoiled and decayed.  In a way, deciding to leave vented a lot of pressure.  I’d failed, but my nightmare was over, and the numb feeling of loss left me room to breathe again.

My last weekend was Spring Festival, Origin’s big end of year festival.  It turned out to be a sweeter bittersweet than I’d expected.  I hooked up with one person I’d had my eye on, and one who’d had her eye on me.  Empty though they were, I wanted a last hurrah for libertine me.  I spent the days stoned in the gray May chill that I pretended was sunshine and danced naked for hours with a hoop that’d been collecting dust in my room all semester.  Hoop dance was a hobby I’d picked up the previous year, but quit because my focus on mastering impressive technical tricks made practicing a chore and an exercise in facing what I couldn’t do.  With the floor pulled out from under my life in every respect, however, I finally understood the art.  Unconcerned with my technical skill or what anyone thought of me, I fell into music in a way I hadn’t before and danced my stress-sickened body into a high of sweaty abandon, becoming a whirling angel to some tripping freshmen in the dark.

At some point, breathless and light-headed, I flopped down in a corner full of cushions.  A stranger approached me and asked if I was alright.

"Yeah," I said, somewhat dismissively.  He probably assumed I was tripping, I thought, which is a good guess at Spring Festival, but I’d decided to avoid hallucinogens that weekend in light of poor emotional weather.

"I’m Eli Reflection," he told me, getting close enough to be heard over the swells of the bass.  Lifting my head from the pillows to get a better look at him, I saw a smiling face, cute with cherub cheeks like my own are when not starved hollow.  Though maybe this isn’t a reasonable thought for a girl spinning a hoop stark naked, smeared with UV-reactive paint under black lights, I found it surprising that he saw me. 

I’d grown accustomed to being invisible a lot of the time.  I disappear in groups, sometimes wondering if I’m actually imaginary when comments I make seem to be extinguished before they can reach anyone else’s ears, or when someone bumps into me where I’ve been sitting in direct view for hours and says they didn’t realize I was there.  I was surprised to be seen, and more surprised to be approached.  This stranger had pierced my invisibility cloak.  It’s a magical cloak I can’t control that has me vanish in plain sight when I wish I could be present, yet seems to shut off completely or even draw attention to me when I least want to be noticed.

I think I saw his brown eyes flash as they looked down at me.  “I’m Zil,” I replied, lifting myself up from my resting place and reaching for my hoop to get back on the gym-turned-dance floor.

"Nice to meet you," he said, drifting back out as well to find a space to dance.

It wasn’t the last I saw of him.  Eli Reflection was a recent alumn returned for Spring Festival, and happened to be crashing in the common room of my dorm.  The last night before the beginning of reading period and his departure to return to California the next morning, I was sitting out on my balcony (the one less favored by my dormmates) and having a cigarette, playing on my laptop.  I ended up being joined by a close friend of mine, a few people I didn’t know, and Eli.  I sat silent in my usual ratty armchair under blankets, ostensibly focused on my laptop screen, but also watching the socializing that occurred around me.  Different individuals wanted to do different things, and they seemed like a handful of horses tethered to each other by the hind legs, futility spending energy trying to pull the whole group in their desired direction.  They expended energy bickering and nipping at each other without actually going anywhere.  It didn’t bother me that the group behaved much as though I were wallpaper, but a few times I caught Eli’s eyes on me, and when he saw me noticing this, he’d smile.

As the night wore on, the group morphed, people came and left, but Eli conspicuously stayed put.  I offered him one of my blankets, and this seemed to be enough for him to tell his friends that he was comfortable where he was and that they should go on without him.  My suspicions were solidifying.  A girl among the departing group, Sarah, glared at Eli.  I’d gathered that she was his girlfriend, though polyamory was so commonplace among Origin students that I assumed she understood what he was doing, and by leaving, acquiesced.

Once alone, he produced a pipe and we went halvesies on a bowl.  Beyond the cover of the balcony, it’d begun to rain more seriously, and I put my laptop away to keep it dry.  We smoked the mixture of his weed and mine and discussed our interests.  We both enjoyed mathematics and psychedelic drugs, exploring the abstract and the dream-like, pushing the boundaries of what the human mind is typically thought capable of doing and understanding and experiencing.  He believed, much more strongly than I did at the time, in the transcendental power of music and dance.

"I think I’m just beginning to understand what you mean as of this weekend when you saw me hooping," I confessed.  "I’ve never been into that sort of music before, but now I want more."

He beamed.  “Psytrance.  It’s made to help achieve meditative states through dance.”  It turned out to be something he was very interested in, and he’d even helped organize that part of Spring Festival before he graduated.  Since finishing at Origin and moving to the Bay, it’d remained a large part of his social life.

"We should stay in touch and you should recommend things to me," I suggested.  The idea seemed to please him.  There was a pause in which we looked at each other, four curious eyes and the sound of rain on the metal overhang.

"I asked someone who in this dorm was worth meeting," he said.  "Your name came up.  You were described as a crazy math major and a pain addict." 

Ah, there it was.  It all made sense now.  I hadn’t identified the smell of sadism on him, but he’d stood out even without me recognizing why.  This also explained why he noticed me so keenly.  Freaks like us can smell each other, even if we can’t always put our fingers on it.  Like magnets, the attractive force is there with or without the knowledge that a particular item is magnetic.

"That’s fair," I acknowledged, shrugging and half-smiling.  "While I love psychedelics, pain is my real drug.  I never get as high on drugs as I do when I get good and brutalized."

He smiled his cherubic smile and I let my gaze be as suggestive as it wanted to be.  “I can understand that,” Eli said.  “I’ve got a masochistic side, but I’m more of a sadist than anything.  Though I’ve never felt like I’ve gotten to go nearly as far with that as I’d like to.”

"I’ve been lucky enough to meet some real sadists, but they’re not at all common.  Most people won’t play as hard as I want, and I still don’t think I’ve ever hit my true limits when it comes to pain.  I always want to push it just that much harder, get just that much higher, and break my brain just that much more.  In a good way, I mean."

"I know exactly what you mean," he said, clearing the ash out of the cashed pipe and putting it away in his jacket.  "Why don’t you come over and share this chair with me?" Eli suggested, brown eyes outsmiling his mouth.  With a small nod of assent, I got out of my chair and sat across his lap, hiding the two of us under the blankets.

As his hands began to move over me, I leaned in for a kiss.  He turned away.  “I don’t like the smell of cigarettes,” he said.  Unusually embarrassed by my filthy habit, I turned my head to the side and rested it on his shoulder as his hand found my nipple under my shirt.  Gripping it between two fingernails, he twisted it.  Hard.  This one meant business.  As though a source of current had been switched on, my body tensed and I clung to him, breathing harder and trying to keep my sounds of enjoyment quiet, since, though it was around three in the morning, we were on a balcony in plain view of anyone who might have passed by.

He pinched harder, edges of his nails feeling as though they might actually cut in.  I gasped and struggled to keep calm, biting my lip and pressing my face into his shoulder.  “Look at me,” he said.  Timidly, I lifted my head and found him smiling with an almost childlike glitter in his eyes, long lashes and rosy cheeks incongruous to the way his fingers mercilessly bit and stretched and torqued the sensitive ends of my breasts.  I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt so much pain in my nipples simply from someone’s hands.  I wondered if this was how he always made his first impressions.  It certainly worked on me.

When he let go for the first significant amount of time, I could finally take deep breaths without being interrupted by the the sharp crush of his fingernails.  My chest heaved against his and for half a moment he was almost comforting.  That is, until his hand moved under my skirt and the same vicious, concentrated pressure found my clit.  He curled his fingers and dug the nails relentlessly into my most sensitive flesh.  I gritted my teeth and almost choked trying not to cry out into to the night.  Reflexively, I grabbed onto him and buried my head against his shoulder again.

"Look at me," he ordered again.  With effort, I lifted my gaze back to his, a couple of tears beginning to form in the corners of my eyes.  My struggle must have been apparent, because his pure and childlike pleasure had acquired a primal thirst that snagged like a fishhook in the dark parts of my psyche and reeled me in against his chest and into his mind.

He continued to push me, and I kept hanging on.  It certainly hurt and I had to work at handling it, but the fight against my instinctive fear and the screaming of the dense web of nociceptors in my clit was exhilarating.  Clinging to Eli’s shoulders, I battled the remains of my humanity in an effort to appreciate the intensity of what I was being given.  I focused on keeping my eyes open and on his smiling face, letting myself go and be carried by the currents of pain he sent through me.

When I came, tensing and writhing against him, he held me until I settled enough to push his fingers inside and claw me there too, talons this time digging forward as though to lift my entire lower body from the cunt.  He brought me to another convulsive orgasm and cradled my body in his arms until I’d come down and started breathing normally again.

"I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet a painslut like you," Eli said, seeming to know where he’d sent me and happy I was willing to follow his lead.  Speechless from pleasure, I half-giggled, half-moaned and tried to let my gratitude show through my face.  "It’s time for you to return the favor."

I suddenly grew nervous.  “I can’t… let you into my room.  It’s messy and I’m very sensitive about people being in my room.”  It seemed ridiculous not to invite this gorgeous beast straight into my bed, but I have a hangup about people seeing my room.  Seeing someone’s bedroom is like looking into their mind.  At the time, my mind was a wreck and my room reflected it.  While I was thrilled to have him this near-stranger shred the inside of my cunt with his fingernails, him seeing the inside of my room was an intolerably invasive prospect.

"Then get on your knees," he proposed.

Still under the blankets, I slid down to the wet, ash-smeared boards of the balcony floor.  He unfastened his pants and revealed his erection.  He pulled the blanket up to obscure me, but held it open enough to see.  A small amount of light made it down to me from around his dimly-silhouetted face.

I went to work in my usual fashion.  He was larger than average, but mostly in length, so my standard techniques applied.  I took a fair amount of pride in cock sucking skill, but Eli would push that to an entirely new level.  Putting a hand on the back of my head, he pulled me onto him hard.  Stunned, I somewhat froze as he pushed himself painfully against the back of my mouth.  I grimaced, but he kept pushing, and somehow pushed through a physical barrier I didn’t know was there.  Suddenly, all of him was deep inside my throat.  All airways blocked, I tried to stay calm and talk myself out of wanting oxygen.  I stayed on him, keeping him inside, until the need to breathe grew and I began to tremble, then spasm, but exerted the strength of my will over my bodily needs and stayed.  Stayed until I began to choke around him, throat clenching painfully.  Involuntary tears fell in silent streams as I tightly shut my eyes with the strain.  The panic that germinated when I felt that I couldn’t breathe suddenly peaked in intensity and my basic instincts broke free of my will, inciting me to pull away.  He let me off and I loudly gasped and coughed, mind spinning in a state of minor shock.

He shushed me.  “You have to stay quiet,” Eli admonished.  I nodded meekly, and an instant later he’d forced himself back into my mouth, pulling me just as hard again.  I used to think of blowjobs as a performance, a showcase of technical skill, attention to detail, and adaptability to individual preferences.  Going down on Eli Reflection was an ordeal.  Gripping his knees for dear life as he penetrated my throat, I put all my focus into relaxing to avoid the pain of having my esophagus forced open and fighting the urge to breathe.  I had no room in my mind to think of anything else.

Through my battle against myself, I occasionally heard quiet moans of pleasure from above me, as though ramming himself down my throat was just enough for him to feel good.  Pleasing this one suddenly seemed like an unbelievably daunting task, and it was everything I could do to hang on for the ride.

Suddenly, he pulled out.  I began gasping and he shushed me in a hurry.  Listening, I heard murmuring voices from the sidewalk that passed under the balcony.  We stayed quiet, me hidden underneath the blankets, until they lost interest and moved on.  Once passed, Eli pulled up the blanket.  “Sorry, but I’m pretty sure there’s no way that the sounds of this wouldn’t be mistaken for rape.”

I vaguely smirked and tried to chuckle, resting my exhausted head on his thigh.  “Do you want to make yourself useful and drink my cum?” he asked, all charm again.  I nodded hesitantly.  I enjoy having my mouth used that way, but this one had started to scare me a little and I wasn’t sure how much more struggle getting him off would entail and how much I had left in me.  “Then finish me off,” he instructed, pulling my head back down onto him.  I did my best, trying somewhat to be active, but mostly focusing on survival.  I stopped trying to anticipate his climax.  Framing the situation as though I could be having my face used like this relentlessly and indefinitely, I calmed myself as best I could.  Accept your place, I told myself.  Don’t think outside of what you’re good for in this moment.

He did finish with some aid from his hand.  I felt his cock pulse between my lips as it spilled his orgasm down my throat.  Unable to breathe, I closed my eyes and swallowed with him, lest I drown.

He pulled me back up onto his lap and reordered my tangled disaster of long red hair as I trembled weakly and gradually returned my breath to normal.

Not long after, we went back into the building.  I took my blankets back to my room, and when I went to the bathroom, found him there washing his hands.  He walked up to me wordlessly, took my shoulders and kissed me gently for a moment.  His lips were notably soft.

"Have a safe trip back tomorrow," I mumbled when he pulled away, looking at me with sweetness in his eyes.

"Goodnight, Zil.  I’m glad I met you."

"Goodnight," I whispered, nodding in agreement.

*****

"I’m not ignoring you," Johnny Revelation said, leaning close to my ear to overcome the noise of the Spring Festival’s opening parade.  We’d been lovers for a year or so at that point, meeting occasionally for clandestine trysts of sex and violence, away from Origin’s campus and our mutual friends.  Our involvement wasn’t public knowledge, as I was certainly not his only partner, and while we weren’t violating the terms of any relationships, some degree of drama was possible anyway.  There was no advantage in being open about it, so we didn’t bother.  What we were doing wasn’t serious.  We both just happened to appreciate each others’ talents.

I’d sent him a couple of e-mails over the previous few weeks, looking to set up a time to destress, then when I’d decided to go on leave, a time for one final fling.  My missives had been met with silence, so I let it drop.  Fun as our times together were, they were casual.  I didn’t know him well, and you can’t mourn the loss of something you never got attached to in the first place.

I nodded into his hug to indicate that I felt no resentment.  “I’d like to see you again before I leave if you have the time,” I said.  “I won’t be coming back for a while.”

"I’d like that as well," he replied before breaking away.  With professional smiles, we drifted apart into the crowd and did not see each other again before I left for Exile.

*****

Feeling a decent bit better after Spring Festival, meeting Eli, and gaining a deeper understanding of what it means to let go, I decided to have my last trip before returning to Exile, Ohio where drugs are scarce and low quality at best, dangerous fakes at worst, and overpriced regardless.  Every kid who was any kid had done their shit at Spring Festival, so this was to be a solitary endeavor.

Tripping alone has never bothered me, and I find it preferable much of the time.  Getting away from the self-defeating pull of many individuals attempting to move through their drug worlds together, but with different directions in mind, I learned that tripping by myself helped me engage my own experiences more directly and removed the temptation to report my discoveries as they happened, rather than focus on the ideas themselves.

I’d planned to take my drugs at night, three hits of good Lucy and a touch of Molly to keep her company.  It was my first time trying MDMA, as I’d been on psychiatric medications for many years prior that made taking Molly an incredibly dangerous choice.  Upon deciding to take my leave, I’d weaned myself off of all my meds.  My head had been turned so upside-down that I could no longer tell what of my misery was illness and what was the sledgehammer of a medication cocktail I’d been prescribed.  With the Gordian knot of finishing the semester cut by my decision to leave, I’d decided to clear my system.  I knew it might make me worse, but I had no responsibilities left to ruin anyway.  It hadn’t made me worse, and I was feeling, if anything, a bit more clear-headed than before.

That evening, I gave Johnny a try, sent him a text to let him know of my plans.

"Farewell candy flip.  Probably up all night tonight if you’ve got a couple of loose hours."

I received only silence in return.  No matter, I thought, tryptamine-chipper as I came up on the acid.  That’s that.  I’ve hit rock bottom and I’m a free woman now.  It’s probably better not to cloud that abandon with goodbyes.

So I tripped my night away, drew the faces in the shadows on my dorm room wall as I came up on the Lucy, and masturbated for a solid hour as I peaked on her and came up on the Molly.  In the dark, with just a touch of orange light coming in through my rain-spattered window, I laid on my bed listening to music, and felt my body dissolve into sound.  I lost track of what was and wasn’t orgasm, and where my body, built of vibrations, ended and the rest of the world began.  I lost a sense of my identity and consciousness as complete notions, distinct from other pieces of reality, and died joyously in physical, auditory, and abstract pleasure.

I recalled Eli’s hands, their acuity and their mercilessness, as they’d dug in and in, shredding me internally.  I recalled how deep his cock had been in my throat and how he’d forced it past where I thought it’d have to stop.  I recalled breathing nothing but him, suffocating to serve his pleasure.

Creepy as this may be, my experience dancing at Spring Festival and the things he’d said about music inspired me to hunt him down on the internet.  I found a psytrance set he’d mixed, downloaded it, and listened to it a couple of times during that night, alone in my dark with my shadows and the impression’s he’d left on me.

When I trip, I always try to find something that I can take back with me after I come back down to so-called reality.  This time I focused on how the music helped me remain present and engaged in each moment and the soothing thoughtlessness of experience without analysis.  It was very much what I’d felt dancing the previous weekend, and struck me as an important phenomenon to remember and learn to recreate so I could access its healing properties again.

Towards the end of my trip, in the last of the morning’s full darkness, I went to put on more music and happened to find Eli online.  I told him of my night and my lessons and of the slight sorrow that it’s hard not to feel coming down from such powerful positive experiences.  I asked that he recommend music for me.  He hesitated, pointing out that he didn’t know my tastes, but I asked him to think of music that would serve the function that music had during my trip, and he pointed me towards several things, sampling the broad and varied psytrance genre, many of which I would go on to replay nigh ad nauseum during my summer in Exile.

I didn’t tell him that I’d found his mix or paid homage to his hands with my own between my legs.  It seemed like a bit much to lay on someone who was still nearly a stranger, far away, who I likely wouldn’t see again.  Still, something in his touch and in his eyes and in his viewpoint motivated me to hang onto him.  I planned to try my damnedest to make him my friend and, should the fates conspire in my favor, perhaps feel that bottomless hunger feed on my body again someday.

*****

And so I boxed up all my possessions, rented a storage container to keep what I couldn’t carry back, and left with as few face-to-face farewells as I could get away with.  I hoped to return the following spring, but I had no idea how likely that was given how sick I’d made myself and how thoroughly my self-confidence had been obliterated.  I’d end up returning for those boxes much sooner than I’d predicted, but only to move them to Exile after I realized that my time at Origin was over and I’d have to go elsewhere for my certificate of academic prostration.  With neither bang nor whimper, I left my home to return to my birthplace, a town where I no longer belonged.

This was the end.  This was also the beginning.


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