About

About Me I vividly remember the day I realised why I craved so tremendously to linger in servitude at the feet of a Master or Mistress. I remember it feeling much like when you gulp down an enormous glass of ridiculously cold water when your so thirsty you need that cold bite to cut it. For years it felt as if I was always thirsty, that lump in my throat, and parched lips. I wanted more and more and yet could never fathom as to why. Why did I so badly crave to be abused – abused beyond my limits, my desire to deem “safe-words” unfathomable, my desire to give everything for the pleasure of another. Why did I envy common place objects like a hair brush, coffee table, pencil, lamps etc – to be owned. Whatever the act or use, purposeful or otherwise, I longed to be owned.

I was quite young when I served as a serving girl at my first fetish party. In fact i was too young – but my “employer” I suppose was quite content with my fake ID. I had never been in fetish apparel before, and I had bailed on countless meetings before, I stood up so many people and backed out so many times at the last second – before this time. When I was trussed in my thick leather posture collar, heavily made up, and those ballet boots – I felt as if I was kneeling in front of the gates of heaven. I Met god when they attached the serving tray to my nipples and around my waist! I still remember the 2 drinks that had been ordered, a Corona with a slice of lime, and a rum and coke. That night to me now is a blur – a single brushtroke in a painting that is my submissive life.

I’ve done a lot of things I didn’t enjoy for the various dom(mes) I’ve served under. I never complained, I never rebelled, I’m a passive submissive. I’ve had dom(mes) crack and cry themselves at what they realised what they were doing to me – they broke down and demanded to know why I didn’t warn them – why didn’t I warn them I was passing out from lack of oxygen, or that I honestly thought I’d be paralyzed for life due to a position of bondage I’d been forced into that nearly broke my neck. Do hair brushes complain that your using them too hard?

Truth be told, this “weblog” is on par with some of the worst things I’ve ever been forced to do. I know your thinking I must be insane to compare having to write a weblog with being forced to fornicate with multiple men a night, for the financial gain of the Master you thought you loved. I’ve been with my Master for two long, golden years now. I’ve been through a lot with him, to be sure. Eight months ago he told me I was no longer allowed to speak, no matter what the conditions. I didn’t know why, but it’s really not my place to question. Humans need to communicate – we are a social animal. Being deprived this basic need – everything in the past 8 months has essentially been captive to the organ existing inside my cranium. Earlier this week, he explained to me why I have not been allowed to speak. What would a slave that has been subjected to what I’ve been subjected to write on a weblog after 8 months of not communicating anything. So as much as writing this weblog is a duty – it is also a great relief.

“Why did I so badly crave to be abused – abused beyond my limits, my desire to deem “safe-words” unfathomable, my desire to give everything for the pleasure of another. Why did I envy common place objects like a hair brush, coffee table, pencil, lamps etc – to be owned. Whatev6er the act or use, purposeful or otherwise, I longed to be owned.”

Freedom.

-Slaveduties