Chained naked to the bed by my collar, I waited for him to position himself on me, his legs wrapped tightly around my boots, his face about 10cms from mine. One hand on my neck with the other hand pinning down my right arm and with nowhere for me to go, the nightly interrogation starts. After ten or so minutes of the obligatory questions of ‘What are you?’ and ‘What are you required to dress as?’ and between the kisses and nipple-wrenching (this is, btw, what he calls a ravishing and what I call an interrogation session) he asked me this:
“What’s your cunt for?”
“Your use and pleasure”
Usually at this point, I will respond “Because I’m a slave” or “Because I’ve got no choice” or something else along those lines which, through trial and error, I have discovered are the ‘correct answers’. But this night I had a good long think about the answer and realised something for the first time:
“Because I don’t get any pleasure from it and I wish somebody did.”
It was quite a startling revelation for me but on reflection, something that I’ve probably been aware of for quite sometime. While I do find penetration to be pleasurable in a sense, it’s more the fact that I’m enjoying being used and serving a purpose than getting any actual pleasure out of the physical sensations of being fucked.
I suppose for that reason more than any other, I became a slave- because I needed someone to give me the opportunities to serve a purpose and I wanted someone to get enjoyment out of me. I find the pleasure I get from being ‘useful’ better than anything I can give myself.
When I was married I spent a great deal of time frustrated. As a typical ‘sensitive new age guy’, he was as concerned about my pleasure as he was his own. He wanted to see my face and hated any position where it wasn’t possible including from behind or spooning. I, on the other hand, wanted to be an object and loved anything that made me feel less of a person and more of a hole. He also fiercely fought cumming ‘quickly’ so that I could have more ‘enjoyment’. Often I’d tell him “Don’t worry about me, enjoy yourself” because that’s what I really wanted him to do, but he was always on a mission to pleasure me. I lost count of the number of times I faked orgasm just so he’d be able to cum. Sexually we were so very incompatible and I probably made the situation worse by not being able to identify at the time what it was that I wanted and needed.
But now I know my purpose.