Master is a very sexual being. He needs at least a daily ravishing and has absolutely no problems talking about how I make him feel. He indulges, pretty much without fail, in his word porn during every interrogation session and basically, is just very comfortable with the reality of sex between two people.
Me? I like to refer to my pink bits with the non-embarassment-inducing euphemism of C U Next Tuesday and I blush to the roots of my hair when I have to do dirty talk. For all of my naked photos on the internet and a few sessions of public play, I’m just not that comfortable with myself in a sexual role.
I always think it’s great when people can put their sexuality out there. I’m soooooo not like that. Anyone would think I spent 12 years of my school education in a catholic girl’s school for all of my inability to put it out there. Japan was good for me in that the nether region is referred to as ‘that place over there’ and speaking in another language always makes things less real for some reason. Back in Australia with the harsh reality of being a slave for (sexual) use and pleasure, I’m walking around in skin that just doesn’t quite fit.
I desperately want to be that sexual vixen that in my mind’s eye, all slaves are, but I just feel so childish and inept like I’m playing dress-up in my mum’s high heels and pearls. My bashful years of teenage puberty where the thought of a kiss grossed me out have somehow seemed to have carried on into my thirties and I still like to snigger at natural phenomena shaped liked genitals. Will I ever grow up?
Master has been on a mission for the last three years to get me out of henny penny mode. He demands that I wear ‘slut wear’, boots, put on bright lipstick in the pinkest trailer-park-trash-pink I can find. While he gets a certain amount of pleasure from the eyecandy effect, I think he is also hoping that one day it will snap me out of my dressing-for-comfort style. So far, if given the choice, I will generally dress for comfort, but there are times I will also dress in slut just because I know he likes me making the effort.
Slavery, is in some ways, an easy way for me to be something I’m naturally not – a slut. As Master’s slave I’m expected to be a slut for his use and pleasure. So even if the original me is not a slut, the new-improved, now-with-granola slut me that is created as a result of wearing the shiny thingie, can service random men, be dragged through the bilge of sexual humiliation and degradation and have the most basic of personal needs, her own orgasms, taken away. The now-with-granola slut also has a permanent collar pierced through her clithood that, for other women is added to give pleasure, but for her, it’s there simply to remind her that she’s owned property.
While my skin might be a bit loose here or a bit tight there, the shiny thingie makes it all okay.
Except the kissing thing – nothing takes kissing off my uberly high ewwww factor list. It’s just wrong.