It happened again. Just when I thought that I couldn’t be broken in any more ways, another part of my resistance, another part of ‘me’ has been broken off and tossed aside. All in all it’s a very good thing.
Ever since that night of the party when something as simple as being paraded naked and bound through a room full of chatting people ‘broke’ something inside of me, I’ve learned that I can be de-based and objectified and that things that I really don’t want to happen are going to happen anyway- simply because I’m the slave and he’s the Master and what he says goes. Everything that I had done up until that point had had, in some way, my seal of acquiescence on it- cunt piercings, tattoo, permanent collar, use by mystery shoppers and reaching a little further back even piss-drinking and a daily 3 litre enema were things that I, in some way or another, accepted and agreed to do. In comparison the paraded nakedness in a room full of people, was something that shamed me utterly and totally to the core and was something that I would never, ever agree to doing. It was an internal hard limit.
But it happened anyway because I had no choice. That was the moment that my slavery was irrevocably pounded into me and I knew that things really were ‘out of my hands.’ It was a sobering moment and one that I refer to as being broken. At the time I thought that was the end of the ‘breaking’ and life would go on, albeit with me in a slightly different mindset, but it would go on relatively quietly nevertheless.
So then right out of nowhere I was broken again. I don’t think that I had healed and was broken all over again, just that I was broken in another way- another barrier was broken down, yet another piece of ‘me’ was lost. This time it wasn’t a room full of naked people, it was my decision to really be a slave.
Since finishing my post-grad diploma recently and with the prospect of me actually teaching kiddies being a ‘No way, Jose!’ situation, I’d been floundering about what to do and every man and his dog had been asking me what I was going to do. Now, I realise that it’s a perfectly acceptable, socially appropriate question to ask, but it was driving me insane. Not only did I have absolutely no idea what job I was going to do, but a little part of me inside already knew the answer to that question and it annoyed me that people didn’t recognise what I did as a ‘job’.
“Hi, I’m kitten and I’m a slave.”
was what I wanted to say and have the conversation end there. But you can’t. Even Master was getting on the bandwagon, sending me job ads and discussing options. There was even one particular phone conversation when he informed me that I was to call up and inquire about two particular jobs as soon as he had hung up, ‘or else’. I had a good cry after he’d hung upand actually got quite pissy with him. Why was he of all people, not allowing me to do ‘my job’? It hurt and I just didn’t understand what he wanted from me. Did he want me to be his slave or not? Was he more interested in the financial contribution I could make than the mindset of a slave I was in? I just didn’t get it.
We’d had a few discussions before about work vs. full-time slave. He said that he liked me to be home, ready for him when he returned. He said liked me to keep the house in order and look after the poodle pup. He even said he liked the idea of me being here and his and his only. But there was also the flipside of him wanting me to feel ‘productive’ and that I was ‘contributing’. He said he wanted me to be satisfied and to have mental stimulation and social interaction. He also said that he wanted me to have some finances available for things I wanted and for my trips home etc. I really didn’t know what he wanted:
“I want you to be happy.”
was his reply.
I’d had conflicting feelings about working. While the financial independence and social interaction is nice, I know from experience that working is the quickest path to making me feel less like a slave and less inclined to want to serve and please. When your feet are aching and you’ve had a shitty day, the last thing you want to do is put on a pair of 5 inch-heeled boots and be at your Master’s beck and call. I also tend to get caught up in the ‘world of work’ where that’s all you talk about and mostly what you think about. Work for me has always equalled toys gathering dust. I don’t seem to be able to juggle both slavery and career. Life and slavery is hard enough. I can’t for the life of me understand how kids, a job, life and slavery works for some people. Maybe I’m just one of those rare women who can’t multitask (*makes a doctor’s appointment to check her testosterone levels). I don’t know, but for me it just doesn’t seem to work. Something has to give.
The bottom line for me is that I am a slave and want to live the life of one. That’s why I left the sunny shores of Japan 2 1/2 years ago and my oh-so-devoted and still very much in love with me ex-husband. I don’t want to be a pseudo slave, a slave on weekends or a slave who is so tired from other things that she can’t be a slave. I wanted 24/7. I wanted it all. Is that bad?
So I explained all this to Master and his question was:
“Do you want to be my slave completely? Is that what you want to do, be my slave and nothing more?”
I’d always thought that that’s exactly what I was, but apparently not. Apparently I was in slave limbo, neither a complete slave nor a submissive. I needed to make that final decision in order to be a complete slave and here it was staring me in the face:
“Yes,” I replied. “I’m a slave. I’m your slave and nothing more.”
And that was the moment that I was broken for the second time. I felt something else give at that moment and became something a little less, but much more than I was. I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders and things were looking much brighter and I was feeling much more content.
It was then that Master explained the rules for ‘complete slavery’. Strict adherence to nakedness or fetish wear with boots when home, slutwear when out, permission needed for everything and anything- including access to my bank funds. As I’m a slave, I have nothing. No rights, no choices, no possessions. (Interestingly enough Master told me later that he’d wished he’d had a camera at the moment when he told me I no longer had any money – that my money was his money. He said the look on my face was utterly priceless.) I can of course, always ask for permission to spend money and beg for dispensation of the rules. Whether he gives it or not, is entirely up to his levels of sadism at any given time.
So for the foreseeable future I’m a career slave, a house bitch. Master and I both believe that things change and people grown, so there may be an option for employment in the future, with his permission of course.