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To Be a Slave

March 25th, 2006

From John Norman’s Beasts of Gor:

Freedom permits a woman to live without men. Slavery makes a woman need a man’s touch. The sexuality of a free woman is largely inert; the sexuality of a slave girl, on the other hand, has been deliberately and seriously activated. Men, as it has pleased them, have done this to her. They have, as masters, careless of the consequences of their actions, awakened the poor girl’s sexuality; it can never then, regardless of the torment and misery it may inflict upon her, return to sleep. It has been made hot and alive. She is no longer free; her freedom is gone; she is now only an ignited slave. Sexuality is a glory in a slave girl which sets her apart from free women, but it is also a force within her which she must fear, for it puts her so helplessly at the mercy of masters. The aroused sexuality of the slave girl is surely the strongest of the chains with which she is bound. Some slave girls, lovely fugitives, have been recaptured simply because they have thrown themselves whimpering at the feet of a man on a road, begging his touch, One of the most humiliating things that can occur to a slave girl is to find herself on her belly, unbidden, moaning, crawling to the feet of a hated master. She puts her lips to his feet. “I beg your touch, Master.” she says.

The sexuality of the aroused slave girl is incomprehensible to the free woman. It is nothing she will ever understand. It is a color she cannot see, a sound she cannot hear.

I see this happening in myself and it frightens me.  I saw it happening in myself after my first realization that I am, at the very least, submissive.  Hell, while I think about it, I can remember being as young as four and wondering about a man’s touch.  What sex was like and when I would be old enough to experience it.  But this isn’t accepted as “normal” so I tried to ignore it.

And I still try to ignore it. To hide it. To pretend that this strange fire isn’t lit and burning away at my insides.  When I want to crawl on my belly to Master Melen and press my lips to His feet and beg Him to use me…  I clench my fists instead and bite my lip and pretend that I’m not that girl.  Utter slave I am not!  I have pride, and dignity and…. And none of these are acceptable.  And none of this is true.

A slave should have no pride.  Especially when it comes to her master.  Her dignity is stripped from her the first time he breaks
through her defenses and gives her no choice but to beg on her knees to be taken.  She knows what she is the moment she crawls to him asking merely for his touch. Or lays in his lap begging just to get a single kiss.

So why, when these thoughts of just throwing caution to the wind and doing what I feel (crave… hunger for…) gnaw at me, do I suddenly balk? Why do I get scared? Is the fear of rejection so great that I can’t simply be who and what I am? Do these simple actions of showing my needs and emotions make me so vulnerable that I cannot plunge head first into them? Am I that afraid of embracing my true self?

For it is my true self, you know.  I dream of it, and think of it, and dwell on it day in and day out.  Gods I want Master to touch me.  I  should just go over there and beg it. And always swift on the heels of that thought is What if He says no? Or worse, what if He’s not pleased? And I chide myself.  A slave is not permitted dignity.  She’s not permitted to save herself the humiliation of rejection.  She’s not permitted to shield herself from the vulnerability of showing her emotions. And yet, here I sit, biting my cheeks and clenching my fists and pretending this constant yearning just to have Him touch me, use me, treat me completely as a slave isn’t consuming me, searing me from my belly to my heart.

Then I think, One day I’ll give in to this wanton need.  One day I’ll finally have the courage to crawl to Him with the tears of a thousand needful yesterdays streaming down my cheeks and beg to be what I am. And then my back becomes rigid and my hands begin to shake, and the mere image, while filling me with utter ecstasy and stoking the fire of lustful yearning, chokes me with panic. What will He think of His wife if she does this?

He will think her slave. And isn’t that what I want Him to think?

We’ve spoken of this recently.  I told Master how scared I have become of begging. For anything, but most of all for His use of me.  And I told Him I didn’t know why or where this fear comes from.  But I do know.  At least now I do.  I’m afraid to continue in my journey in slavery, taking a step I should have taken long ago, because I’m afraid of rejection.  I’m afraid of disappointment – my own, not His, though His frightens me too. The disappointment of not being wanted. The disappointment of not being pleasing. The disappointment in His lack of interest.

I have a rule that I’m to wear slave bells (an anklet with bells on it) at all times. Originally, I wore a ribbon with small jingle bells threaded onto it.  But it looked sad and the ribbon constantly broke so I was always having to rethread them. Finally, Master and I found a small belled anklet at Walmart by Panama Jack.  They were perfect.  But, you get what you pay for.  The bells were constantly falling off, the links, getting caught in the carpet and sheets and blankets, and finally the chain broke.  Master and I must have gone through twenty sets of these.  Sadly, a few months ago, Walmart didn”t have the bells anymore and my last pair was ruined.

A while ago, we found a set of slave bells on stockroom.com.  Master bought them for me and they came in yesterday. It”s strange to have bells on my ankle again.  They’re heavier than the set we bought from Walmart and much better made. The bells are larger and much louder, as well as having a much different ring to them, and I catch myself walking differently.  Whether in attempt to silence them or make them ring more beautifully I’m not sure.  Another thing Mr. Norman got right was a girl knows herself slave when her master places bells on her.

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