….step outside for a moment and check the sign above the door.
It doesn’t say, “kitten and her Master witch hunt”.
It also doesn’t say, “Enter here to drive a needle through the kitten and her Master voodoo dolls!”
That is very peculiar.
Dodging through the mass of landmine-infested comments tumbling into my inbox these past couple of days, I’ve thought that someone must have changed the sign while I wasn’t looking.
Well, where do I start? Firstly, a big thankyou to the members of “my club” who have left a comment supporting me, thoughtfully analyzing the situation or intelligently asking questionsI I’m always happy to respond! To those who have done nothing but engage in name-calling and insulting, I’ve asked you nicely to desist…twice…and you’ve annoying continued, so now I have to be not so nice:
Ok. Now with that done, I can get around to responding to the intelligent questions and thoughtful analyses.
In your head, when you think of your partner as your owner, I know you do mean owner, and you are property. I get that. But then, how do you break up? How do you initiate it? I know that just because you’re property in the relationship doesn’t mean that you don’t have a voice (hello, blogging), but I can’t quite get how property suddenly regains autonomy. Or is it, after all, a role? Your closing paragraphs sound just like my own life…except that I don’t think you could leave even if you hated it. Or could you?
In my last entry I was talking about my former owner and leaving. I call him my ‘former owner’ or ‘the one who shall not be named’ for the sake of calling him something. At the time, when I left, he was really nothing more than a guy I shared a house with – that was all our relationship was at the end. If he had been my owner or master still, I wouldnt have been able to leave. To earn the title of owner or Master, you’ve got to fulfill that role. He didn’t, therefore there was no point in me being there as his ‘slave’.
It didn’t happen overnight though. To get back my autonomy was a gradual process that took about four months from when my collar came off, to the time I gave him a hug and walked out the door. If my nanna hadn’t had a heart attack and needed someone to care for her, it probably would of taken me longer. The door was never locked, I had access to money, but the emotional bonds holding me there were very tough to break.
I wonder if your master might ever attempt to give you an orgasm (for instance) instead of leaving you to find your own release. There are two issues I have with him giving me orgasms: firstly, I would feel like he was ‘servicing’ me instead of the other way around; and secondly, orgasms for me are exceptionally tricky (I can only have them with the hitachi and with muscle contractions) and I don’t really want someone not directly connected to my pain receptors messing around down there. The whole pussy rings situation (see below) requires exact placement and a lot of minute readjustment. I’ve hurt myself enough times to know that I don’t want anyone else with a hitachi down there.
I’m thinking (for one thing) of your pussy rings, whose wounds have not fully healed after two years. To me that’s comparable to driving a car for two years without an oil change… sure you can own something but you need to take good care of it, and in this one regard, at least, it seems to me he’s neglecting his responsibility as your master.
This one is a toughie. It is blatantly clear that they will never heal due to scar tissue and other factors. I’ve spent two years in some sort of pain whether it be a soft sting or a ripping, throbbing pain that has me sobbing. I have to sit, sleep, walk and move differently. There are days when I’ve thought about getting a pair of pliers and just pulling them out. But there is also the other part of me that is insanely proud of how they look and what I’ve gone through.
I suppose in a sense, what I’m going through is really not that different to the pain that women have gone through to different degrees for the sake of fashion and looks for years: corsets, high heels, plastic surgery etc. Even the foot binding of Chinese women was excruciatingly painful and crippling, but was done to make them look more attractive.
I remember when we went back to the piercer to have them checked and when I was told that the only thing to do for them was to take them out, I started bawling. Master was more than willing to do it at the time, but I was the one who made the decision to keep them in.
And even if you love him and are proud of him in some ways, I’ve not read in your posts where you worship the ground he walks on, or where obedience is your nourishment. If it’s all about enduring, it’s all about you. But it seems that if it’s all about you, then your ego might (understandably and justifiably) be getting in the way of a fuller experience of slavery in which joy and fulfillment might potentially be found through service and obedience and absolute devotion to a man worthy of the title, Master. God…can you actually imagine me losing myself in service, obedience and absolute devotion to a man??? While that may be my ideal of what slavery should be, the harsh reality is that I’m never going to be that sort of person. Several years ago, I also thought that if I put on a big white dress and wore a rock on my finger, I would be able to be a good wife and possibly even a mother. But that wasn’t me. Nothing I did changed who I was.
A long time ago, I thought that with the right man I could be a ‘perfect slave’, but then I realised that it’s not him that has the issues, it’s me. My kink is endurance. That’s all I have ever enjoyed and probably all I ever will (although I won’t set that down in stone, because people really do change!) My existence as a slave is maintained by my suspension of disbelief. Nothing Master says or does will change that fact. Put simply, if I don’t ‘make’ myself a slave, I won’t be one. Of course, having an environment in which I feel secure and comfortable enough to ‘be’ that slave is vital. That is what Master provides.
The trappings (collars, tattoos, cunt rings etc.) don’t make me a slave and having a Master doesn’t make me a slave either. He can’t ‘force’ me to be a slave. The door is not locked, I am here because I want to be here. By the same token, I could be a slave without a Master. I think I coined the phrase “slave sans owner” not long ago and that was exactly what I meant. Master’s constant repetition of, ‘You are my slave’ is designed to give me the confidence to believe in myself. His unwavering belief in me gives me the foundation I need to be me.
Support, compassion and understanding were things that were lacking with my former owner. I was starving for interaction and communication. Even if all the bondage, beatings and booby torture had been there, the key basis for the relationship wasn’t. That’s why it failed and why I could leave.
So, I guess, I’m still searching for that elusive inner peace, where I can accept myself as a slave and I’ll keep on blogging until I find it.