In a blinding moment of clarity, I think I’ve finally put my finger on what it is that I enjoy about being a slave.
I guess a lot of people reading my musings wonder whether I enjoy being a slave at all and to be frankly honest, I often wonder myself. I wonder if I did the right thing in leaving my husband. I wonder if this is really what I want to do. And in those quiet moments at the end of the day when I listen to the silence of the house, I wonder what will happen down the track when I’m old and alone.
But let’s not get all side-tracked and melancholy. I’m supposed to be writing about the moment when the square pegs fit in the square holes without the need for a bloody big mallet and everything is right with the universe – those moments when I finally *understand*.
Earlier on I was reading yet another blog about a slave/submissive/*insert your own title here* who was doing nasty things to herself to please their owner when the thought came to me…..The essence of slavery is pain, and feeling pain allows me to experience the essence of slavery.
I have questioned in the past whether there is slavery without ouchieness. Being a person who doesn’t like the ouchieness, I was wondering whether there was some way for me to be a slave without all the implements and associated pain. I believe that Master’s answer to my query at the time was, "But you’re the one wearing the shiny thing". Of course, how stupid of me.
There are times when I really shy away from all things ouchie. When my ass is as fragile as glass and I just can’t cope with anything on any level. Those times are when I wish that there was some other way for me to feel my slavery, some other way for Master to demonstrate his Mastery over me. Ironically, in some cruel twist of fate, it’s also those times, the times when Master takes pity on me and leaves me alone, that the resultant ‘void’ causes me more stress than the ouchieness ever did.
If too long a period elapses without me feeling theessence of my slavery, I get antsy. That’s generally when I start pro-offering my ass to Master and suggesting that any infringement on my part should incur a beating. You didn’t get enough froth on your cappuccino? Oh, here’s my ass to beat. Five minutes has elasped since the washing machine finished and I haven’t hung the clothes out yet? Oh, I’ll strip and drape myself over the lounge chair, shall I?
When I’m too far gone and slipping into the edges of meltdown, drastic times like this require a hand spanking. A simple one-on-one connection of ass and hand. It’s direct, it’s immediate. It’s pure. There’s nothing between me and Master. And if I can get into the zone, it’s like an injection of joy.
Of course, I don’t want a beating per se. I don’t really want to feel the ouchieness, I just want to feel the zen. I want to be one with my slavery. And the only way I seem to get there is through pain, through suffering and by enduring it all. I guess it’s like people who go ‘for the burn’ or climb the mountain because it’s there – when there’s nothing else but you and your cause, it’s magical.
All the other bullshit of life just fades away.