Hello and welcome to part two of our series, “What’s in it for me?” In part one several weeks ago, we discussed how I like the feeling of security I get from being property and in part two we’ll discuss my little problem with making choices and how being a slave fixes that. Near the end I’ll also discuss my feelings about being born with a baby-making factory in my abdomen and how that piece of extraneous woman-hood becomes bloody annoying every 28 days or so (sorry about the pun…)
When I meet people who are interested in the slightly unorthodox relationship I have with Master, I think the one question that everyone wants to know the answer to is, “What the hell would you want to be a slave for?”
People generally get very wide-eyed when I say that I’m not into pain or service and they get even more confused when I say that being a slave is very tough and not something that I enjoy all the time. I guess they expect me to be gushing about everything all the time, because I consensually chose to become a slave. Once they hear me bitch and moan, the choruses of, “Well, what the hell are you a slave for?” can be deafening at times.
Personally, I’m a big fan of choice. I like to be able to choose everything from what I wear and what I do, to whether I buy 70% cocoa chocolate or 85% (and just for the record, 85% wins hands down). My problem is that in a lot of cases, I’m challenged in the choice-making department. Where do you want to go for lunch? is a question that can have me agonizing for several hours. My recent purchase of a flight to Japan for Master and I next year, took several weeks of angsting before I finally brought myself to laying down the credit card.
Even after I’ve finally made a choice that’s not the end of it. I will angst some more just for fun…did I make the right choice?…did I choose the right one?..maybe I should of chosen something different…Often the aftermath of a choice (the disappointment, the regret, the anger at myself) can be worse than if I hadn’t had the power to make the choice in the beginning, so much so that often it’s better just not to have a choice at all.
That’s why I generally find it very comfortable being a slave.
Slave=no choices, no rights.
While not everyone may define a slave in these terms, this is how Master and I define it. Yes, he may ‘allow’ me to ‘choose’ some things sometimes, but ultimately he has the final say. He might ask me what I want for dinner, but that doesn’t mean I can choose what we eat. Yes, I can offer up a suggestion, say what I feel like eating and even make it, but if he then told me to eat something else or eat nothing at all, that’s what would happen (of course, there would be a great deal of muttering to accompany the overturning of my ‘choice’ – Remember the first rule of slavery: just because I have to do it, doesn’t mean I have to like it).
For me, it’s very liberating not to have to take the responsibility for my ‘choices’. I mean, if something sucks I can just blame it on Master! I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s why I bitch and moan so much. If I had the right to choose then I’d have to suck up all the bad results of things I had chosen, but because I don’t strictly make any choices whatsoever, I blame the big guy for everything bad that happens.
The one in control=the one who takes the responsibility.
As I always say, it’s tough being a domly one.
So along with the feeling of security I get from being property, I also enjoy having someone else take the responsibility. That kind of sounds really callous doesn’t it? I guess if I was a slightly different person I wouldn’t need someone to be my ‘punching bag’. If I didn’t get ridiculously OCD about things being perfect, then when something went wrong or wasn’t quite as I expected I’d be able to go, “Meh…” and move on. But instead I angst and get totally wound up about things because I ‘stuffed up’, I did the ‘wrong thing’, I picked the ‘bad one’. I drag myself over the hot coals and spend sleepless nights tossing and turning over the stupidest stuff that I chose, so it’s better and ‘easier’ for me to not have to face making choices to begin with. And even though I might bitch and moan about some of things that Master has chosen on my behalf, I generally get over them a lot quicker than if they had been my decisions and on a day to day basis I can accept things that perhaps I wouldn’t have chosen a lot more readily because I wear the shiny thing.
So that’s my second reason for becoming a slave. Ta-fucking-dah.
(Sorry if it wasn’t too lucid – I’m a woman with plague and a head cold. One choice I wish we had was whether we wanted our body to be a baby factory or not. Seriously, why should non-baby people have to come complete with factories? It really should be an optional extra for those that want them- just like a sun-roof…*mutters to self like an old crazy woman with lots of cats*)