Processing

Last Saturday night I think I was broken again. It’s actually taken me a week of mulling and pondering and dragging over the details in my head before I could even put fingers to keyboard to write about it. I started writing last night,  but ended up deleting what I’d written, closed the top of my laptop and went to bed. Sleep seemed a lot easier than visiting the ghosts again.

In retrospect it wasn’t something that was particularly difficult. It didn’t hurt physically and was very tame compared to some other things I’ve done in my time. But as I’ve said before, my buttons for breaking are turning out to be surprising simple – being butt naked in front of a crowd of people and the latest: inserting toys in my holes as people watched.

In order to do it, I had to not give a fuck. In order to do it, I had to throw my pride out the window. In order to do it, I had to be slave and not be me. All in all, it ranks way up there with some of the hardest things I’ve had to do. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but to kneel there under the spotlight as I lubed up each toy, spread my cheeks and lips and inserted them was such a hard thing for me to do.

I started out kneeling on the spanking bench and reaching behind to insert, but my incredible level of mortification was making my muscles contract and nothing was getting inserted anywhere.

“Is it in yet?” I heard someone behind me say.

I was laughing from the shame, attempting to stop myself from crying and it was making things worse.

“I can’t do it in this position!” I was quickly moving from thoroughly mortified, to panic verging on wanting to die.

“Well, get into a position that you can do it in!” Master didn’t even pause in his video shooting. He was making sure that every millisecond of my shame was being recorded.

I ended up kneeling on the floor, which actually gave the people watching abetter view.

“You should see what we can see from here, kitten!” The ever-helpful Mistress Blair chimed in.

I think what made things worse was that Master had had me bring the smallest of the small butt plugs and I couldn’t even get it in. The small, white butt plug is about as thick as your finger and embarrassingly tiny. Even though something bigger would have hurt, at least it would of kept intact my slave pride. If I’d had, say, Mr Purple, people would have understood my issues with inserting and I would have received some sort of praise, but the white training plug just made me want to hang my head in slave shame.

I don’t know whether Master made me bring that one on purpose  or not, but I’m more inclined to think that he brought that one in consideration of the fact that I haven’t had anything up my ass for several months. I think he was taking pity on me and trying to take things easy on me. While I appreciate the thought, I really would have preferred to have struggled with something more challenging.

After much  pushing and coaxing they were finally in and I put back on my leather bikini. The people watching wandered off in search of further entertainment and Master re-leashed me and went back to sit on the lounge and watch the next subbie boy being tormented, dragging me with him. 

I still wanted to dissolve and was fighting back tears. Emotionally I was heading for a black hole that was sucking me in fast.

We left the party soon after that and I was irrationally angry and upset. I hated that he made me do something that had me feeling like I could never show my face in public again. I’d worked hard to form a certain reputation for myself as a non-noob slave. I could take a reasonable beating without a sound and had conquered the whole naked-in-public-fear thing. I had a feeling that I’d just fallen right back to square one and I was hurt. I felt violated and dirty.

Master came home and immediately downloaded what photos and video he had taken to his iMac. Seeing the images of myself across his screen was making me physically sick. I just wanted to curl up in bed way from the world. But of course, the evening had excited him and seeing the photos had put him in the ravishing frame of mind so off to his bed I was ordered.

I had another good sob and did a bit of screaming at him about exactly how wrong the whole thing had made me feel. The fact that he didn’t give a shit also pissed me off. He didn’t think it was such a big deal, but I had gone completely over the edge and wasn’t coming back for anyone.

The next day I felt worse. The crying had made my eyes swell up and I had a splitting headache. I asked if we could postpone the bondage afternoon with a friend that had been planned. Master still seemed highly amused about how easily my buttons had been pushed but agreed to postpone it and rang our friend to explain the situation. 

It took me several more days to fully forgive Master, and a few more days before I could look at the photos and the video of the night. Emotionally I’m still a bit raw, but also feeling rather silly at my over-reaction. I don’t know exactly why the night had such a profound effect on me, but I’m beginning to think that it was the injury to my slave pride that hurt me the most. 

As a slave, without choices, rights or anything to my name, the only thing I thought I have is my pride. Without it, I’m nothing. But is it his plan to take that away from me as well? 

Is a slave nothing without pride or should a slave have nothing including pride?