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Memories and Recent Past

July 28th, 2006

Okay so I lied. I am going to make first person a habit. For some it helps them to speak in third person… helps them get out of their own head. Makes them feel like they're talking about someone else. I need to be inside my head and I need to know that I'm talking about myself. And talking in third hinders this. And this one's a long one. So here we go.

Have you ever read something completely horrific by society"s
standards – utterly vile and unacceptable – and found your pussy wet?
Suddenly wishing against wish that it was you that it happened to? I
won't go into details. It's pretty obvious how completely twisted I am.
But I honestly find myself wondering how it is that I've been
overlooked. Am I really that disgustingly worthless?

And
completely unrelated, I've found myself thinking about my childhood
lately and wondering what made me so unloved. I'm also wondering what
happened to the "sixth sense" I had all the way into early adulthood,
but that might just be a matter of aiming my focus there again and
spending time in that frame of mind. That'll have to wait a while,
though. Right now my focus is on becoming a better slave, which is why
I've been delving into the past… trying to find some connection
between that time and my rebellious nature (that I didn't always have)
so maybe I can figure out why I feel the need to act out against any
authority figures in my life. Or maybe even figure out why I'm so damn
mean.

I didn't used to be, you know. The more I try to
actually look into my past, the more I realize that once upon a time I
was a sweet little girl who was nice to everyone, believed the world
was good and that the bad parts would change, and I tried to be good.
But it's almost like my father trained me to, at least mentally, be
someone's slave. The more I think about it, the more I see the
inconsistencies between the way I was raised and the way my spoiled
sister was raised (even when she was four – the age I was when the
beatings started – and I was still getting beat on a regular basis… I
never saw or heard my dad spank her the entire time I lived at home)
and how a lot of the anger and hatred and resentments were built.
Cultivated by someone who picked me. Someone who chose to take me in
because he thought his wife couldn't have children.

And
I told them it was going to happen. That "sixth sense" thing I was
talking about? I used to have visions in dreams, unless it was
absolutely imperative that whatever was giving me these dreams (I
always believed it was my real mother, but who knows?) get through to
me when I was awake, and then I'd see flashes of scenes of what was to
come. They weren't always coherent but I could usually figure out what
they meant. My mother always thought it was just because I paid so much
attention to everything around me (once upon a time, I did).

As
far as I know, it started when I was 18 months old (when my birth
mother died). I don't remember the first vision, but the tale told to
me by my relatives is chilling. They couldn't get me to go to sleep
(which hadn't been an issue since the day I was born) and then I
freaked out at the exact minute of her death clutching her bathrobe and
screaming, "I want Mommy back!" "She's just running late. She'll be
home soon." "No. Mommy's dead." A few minutes later they got the call.

Up
until I was five, I prayed and begged God at breakfast, lunch, dinner
and bedtime for a sister. My parents didn't have the heart to tell me
it was impossible and when God didn't come through, I asked Santa
Claus in Disney World. Low and behold, during our Thanksgiving trip to
the Magic Kingdom, my mother found out she was, in fact, pregnant.
Santa was my new God. On Christmas Eve, I had a terrifying nightmare. I
started acting weird, and finally shortly after New Year's Day, Mom
asked me what was going on. I told her that when my sister was born,
she was going to throw me away. No one would care about me anymore. And
she and my father would hate my grandmother (Dad's side) because I
would remain her favorite grandchild. "Hogwash!" she said. All it took
was six months. When my grandmother got too sick to make them pay
attention and check up on me after I moved out and she moved in, they
stopped.

Don't take this the wrong way. I'm not feeling
sorry for myself. I'm not asking anyone else to feel sorry for me. I'm
not whining or looking for pity. I don't even want you to empathize.
And I know plenty of other kids had it way worse than me. I'm just
thinking aloud, so to speak. Trying to figure out where these things
came from so that maybe I can put them to rest. At least the being
rebellious and mean to Master part, since that's really the only part
that matters.

My father used to beat me. Incessantly.
Whenever I was disobedient, disrespectful, or made him look bad.
Embarrassing my parents, whether with my behavior or picking on them in
public, was absolutely out of the question. Once when I was four, and
shortly after the beatings started, we were at one of Daddy's friends'
houses – one without children – and I had to go to the bathroom. So
being four, I started to pull my pants down before I got there. Dad
whipped me off the floor so fast I was dizzy, threw me over the arm of
the couch, ripped his belt off of his pants (that thwup-thwup-thwup
sound of a belt flying through belt loops still makes me flinch to this
day) and beat my ass with as much force as his muscle-bound arms could
muster. I thought I was going to die. After, I was told to sit down on
the floor and hold it until he said I could go.

By the
time I was six, my Tropical Paradise Teen Skipper (or was it Hawaiian
Teen Skipper?) and my friend's Tropical Paradise Barbie were being
raped regularly by Jordan Knight (I wanted Joey Joe McIntyre or Donnie
Wahlberg, damn it, but Mom only ever felt compelled to search around
for things for my spoiled sister), my baby dolls all had bandages on
their asses (when people asked, I always said "Her daddy spanked her."
and they laughed thinking it was cute) and drawn on tits and pussys if
they were girls (I think I only had one boy doll. He was from a set of
fraternal twin Cabbage Patch Kids and when no one was around he raped
his sister repeatedly.) and then I learned to love the hot coal feeling
in the pit of my stomach that said I was doing something "bad" but made
my pussy so wet.

That same friend and I used to lick each
other's pussies (always calling it "down there") and asses and take
turns sticking things in each other's holes. I can't decide if this was
after I was taught to kiss and eat pussy by a much older female cousin
(another recent memory) or if this was my friend's idea. I never even
remembered how it started five minutes after it was finished. And I'm
completely shocked that we never got caught.

Apparently
I was caught attempting to fuck one of Dad's friends' little boys (who
was two years older than me) and beaten severely for it, but I don"t
remember that. I do, however, remember peeing with him (me sitting on
the toilet with my legs spread so he could pee between them and I could
pee too) regularly and never getting caught.

I don't
remember much of my childhood and the things I do remember are mostly
centered around either sex, pain, or extreme fear. I've always been a
whore. I don't remember how old I was when I realized that if I moved a
certain way something between my legs felt really good, but I do
remember that I started sticking whatever I could find in my pussy when
I was around four. I knew Mom thought it was "bad", though, so I always
did it when no one was around to catch me.

One
Christmas, Dad bought Mom a massager (the ones that were supposedly
intended for back massages but everyone knew everyone else used them
for other things). I'm not sure what triggered it, but I was eventually
testing how it felt on various parts of my body. And then, it fell in
my lap while it was on. And gods did it feel good. And somewhere
between 9 and 12 (I know it was after my period started but don't
remember how long after) I had my first orgasm sitting on my bed with
the stereo blasting, the door locked and my still bare pussy pressed
firmly to my mother's massager.

I remember, two, maybe
three years after I found this toy, my father kicking the door in,
finding me sitting on the bed stripped from the waist down and the
dying massager in my hands (I had made sure to plug it in the night
before and was already killing the battery for the day) and tucked
against my clit. There was murder in his eyes but he was too
embarrassed to do much more than yank it from between my legs and snarl
"This does not belong to you." then slam the door behind him.

When
we moved, the massager got thrown away. It was mostly broken. It took
me the better part of a month to train myself to rub off on various
objects, and almost six months to teach myself to cum with one hand.
And even then, at 15, I was sticking whatever I could find that would
fit up my pussy… till a week before my 16th birthday when I got the
real thing. Then nothing else would suffice.

And I've
been cock hungry ever since. No. That's not true. I've been cock hungry
since the day I accidentally walked in on my father when he was
changing and I saw the bulge in his underwear. No one told me what you
were supposed to do with it. I just knew. But when I tried to touch it
and show him that I knew and wanted to, he slapped my hand away, yelled
for me to get away from him, and slammed the door in my face (another
recent memory – as in, I just now remembered it). I won't say how old I
was. Only that I was obscenely young. And I still wonder why I've
always just known what sex is and why I've always craved it for as long
as I can remember. Was I predestined to be a whore?

And
oddly enough, unlike the rest of society, I don't see any of these
things as "bad". I don't say "whore" with the disdain and disgust that
others do. I don't consider being what I am a bad thing. I just don't
understand it. I know for a fact not everyone's as cock hungry as I am.
I know for a fact that not many women can go from zero to begging to be
fucked in 0.1 seconds without even being touched. And so I wonder why
me? But the why isn't important. What's important is that I continue to
work at forgetting about society's flawed thinking and stop viewing the
things that are good about me as flaws. It's not bad to be a whore.
Especially when the one you love enjoys it.

Last night I
got my ten whacks and then Master told me to get on my knees on the
bed. At first, He climbed up behind me, but then got off again and went
to get the cane. I was already sobbing from the ten I'd just received
and didn't want anymore. Resigned to my fate, I felt fear.

It's
unusual for me to be afraid of Master. It's unusual for me to be afraid
of pain. And thinking about it now, my real fear was fear of what I
might do. I was afraid I'd beg Him to stop. Or that when He asked (as
He almost always does) if I wanted more I would say no. I've never said
no to that question. I don't know what the consequences would be. Would
it disappoint Him? Would it piss Him off? Would He be hurt? Would it
result in more beating only now truly for His pleasure and specifically
because I didn't like it?

And then it started. He pushed
His cock into my pussy and I gasped. It hurt. It hasn't hurt in quite
some time. And then the cane fell. And I tried to remember to press my
face into the mattress between the pillows so my sobs wouldn"t be heard
by any nosey neighbors. I curled inward when He hit certain spots and
was rewarded with a hard whack to my ass and a growled "Don't move your
ass, cunt." I tried to stay still but sometimes it was impossible.

And
as His cock grew harder with each thrust, He began to fuck harder. And
soon my tears and sobs, between bouts of thrashing with the cane,
became ragged breaths and sniffles. But when the sobbing stopped, the
caning started again, and soon all I could feel was this odd mixture of
pleasure and pain and my chest wracked with sobs. But when he asked if
I wanted more, I answered with "Yes, Master." and pushed myself back up
onto my elbows steeling myself for the next blows.

Afterwards,
with my back on fire and my bruised ass, I felt grateful. I hate the
cane. I hate it because I'm scared of what I know it can do and because
of the type of pain it causes. I hate that it sends me into a place
where all I can do is stare and sob. A place that sometimes takes me
hours to get out of. I hate that when I'm being caned, I can't even
fist my hands because it hurts too much and I'm trying to find
something to grab on to. I hate that even when Master's using it for
one or both of our pleasure I feel punished. And I hate that it makes
me tremble.

And with all this… with all my hatred for
Master's favorite toy… I hate most that it makes my pussy wet to be
hurt by something I so thoroughly hate. When caned I'll beg, but it
will almost never be for reprieve. I'll beg to be fucked harder. To be
tormented more. To be made into a dirty, sex-crazed cumslut. And when
it's over, I'll be grateful that Master chose to concentrate His
aggressions and His enjoyment on me, a lowly, worthless pleasure slave.

Because whether I was willing to admit it before now or
not, that is what I am. I am a pleasure slave. Everything I do, I do
for His pleasure. Or for whomever's pleasure He tells me to please. And
society's standards be damned if following them means I can't be who I
am. Because I love my role in life. And I'm grateful that it is being
shown to me.

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