Slave musings

In the beginning a lie appears to be the easy choice when faced with a reality so obscure it distorts one’s own image. I have spent a great amount of time running from myself afraid of the slave, the toy, the dolly that resounds deeply within my core.

When I first experienced, what I have long considered my darker self, I tried to convince my mind that all those thoughts and emotions were just for play; that I was merely acting. After each intimate exhibition, I would in turn pull fiercely on my internal reigns, yanking abruptly to ensure I was quickly muzzled once more. At first my omissions were easily dismissed as I was always certain to have had at least one drink prior to my ‘play’ (or at least have my partner believe I had been drinking). Being under the influence of alcohol gave me an ‘out’ so that I could not be held accountable for my actions. Interestingly enough though I found myself unhappy having to use alcohol as a means to express my cravings and quickly eliminated such a vice. Without my liquid courage I removed myself completely from the world of decadence, placing all those thoughts in a pretty painted chest hoping it would be locked forever.

But even the deepest of treasures can be found. And as contradictory as it sounds, the muted silhouette that I have so diligently painted with wholesome masks, truly is a gift. A gift though I have not completely accepted or appreciated. I have re-evaluated, numerously, the why behind my actions and I am not surprised to come to the conclusion that my insecurities appear to be the main instigator for my rejections of who and what I am.

I have created an image as to what I believe is the perfect slave; perfect toy. In my mind this creation is lovely, delicate, overtly feminine and graceful. This entity possess an ability to feast upon her own desires succumbing to the needs of wantonness and willing nay begging to vocally express all lusts that consume her through words, moans, animalistic guttural gasps. She is confident in both her silliness, embracing the bimbo that happily giggles inappropriately as well as embracing the essence of sex in which she is meant solely to be used, violated, exposed, humiliated and degraded all in order to provide pleasure for anyone she is told to. In conjunction there are times when this perfect slave must exhibit high intelligence, good humour and intriguing wit and at all times present herself in a manner which only reflects beauty and wisdom towards the man who owns her.

This criteria may appear extensive; however, this is the image I have pasted together over time. This is the idea that has come to light through years of labeling what I believe I should be versus what I see in the mirror. In the moments where my dolly is clawing at my vocal chords aching to speak I remind myself that perhaps I am not pretty enough or graceful enough. And during those quiet hours when I am standing beside Master and feel the slave in me yanking at my body trying to trip me to my knees I feel compelled to ask myself whether or not I am obedient enough to serve him.

I want so desperately to amalgamate each persona that lives independently of one another inside me. I yearn to allow the growling of my hunger to finally be silenced and to find a quietness deep within. Until that time though I shall place the dark black hood over my flesh, inhale the sweet scent of leather and for a brief period of time be consumed by all I crave, watching curiously at the reflection I am both familiar with and a stranger to.

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