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A different sort of emotion

December 6th, 2006

I don't think people realize how incredibly unslavelike I
am. Or maybe they do. Maybe that's why I'm treated like I'm worse than
worthless when in the company of others of a Gorean bent. And maybe they're
right. Maybe I am worse than worthless. Maybe I am a shitty slave. Maybe all of
you who read me should be reading someone else.

Here. Let me prove how bad. I'll leave out the names of the
innocent.

Today there was a Jarl in #Tamber_Haven. I've seen him before
once or twice and his whois says "of Torvaldsland" so I should have
remembered he's a Jarl. The fact that I'm usually the only one who catches this
is irrelevant. I should have remembered. Because I'm a dumb bitch, I did not.

I must've called him "Master" five times. The
first time was an honest mistake. After that it was because I was going back
and forth between apologizing to him for my first mistake and attempting to
apologize to Master for my private outburst. What outburst? This outburst:

(10:15:10) [rayne{LL}] fuck
(10:15:21) [rayne{LL}] is it really that fucking big of a deal
(10:15:26) [rayne{LL}] and don't fucking call me hun damn

I wanted to crawl into the floor. I wanted to just die. On
top of all this, I still kept calling this guy "Master". Then Master
made me tell him what I said. And if I didn't already want to die, I did once I
was finished spitting it out.

My hands shook, tears streamed down my face… it took every
bit of restraint I had not to run from the room and just be suddenly MIA. A good slave doesn't run from her mistakes. She
faces them and fixes them. I think. But then, I don't know what the fuck a good
slave is anymore.

I stopped feeling like a wounded puppy when Master made it
clear that I was extremely out of line and that my way of thinking lately is
extraordinarily skewed. I still shook and tears still ran down my face, but I
knew that I wasn't being wronged. I was being righted. I am a dumb bitch and
I'm still being righted.

 

I've deleted the rest of that post. I kept this part because
I felt I needed to keep this part in the open. And truth be told, if one were
to exclude the anger I felt, I was remorseful. I still am but Master would
probably say that I am because of the repercussions. While that's slightly
true, it's not entirely. I was remorseful before the repercussions.

 

When I got out of work yesterday, Master had read my blog
and He was furious. I've not seen Him so mad in a long time. He yelled the
whole way to the store, gave me very short, very curt answers in the store when
I had questions about what to buy, then spoke heatedly in mostly controlled
tones on the way home. He reminded me that I'm not punished nearly as often as
I should be. I spat back "You just don't get it, do you? I want you to punish
me when I deserve it."

When we got home, I put the groceries away and immediately
went into the bathroom to clean the tub and wash clothes. This has always been
my way. Go clean something; find something to do, give His anger a moment to
cool. It didn't work.

When I finished what I was doing, I washed my hands and
slipped into the computer room. I knelt beside Him and told Him the tub was
clean. I put my face against His arm and watched Him for some sort of sign as
to how His mood was. His expression got darker and darker the longer I knelt
there. And after a few minutes, He grabbed my hair, lifted me from my knees to
give Himself better access, and slapped my face. A lot.

My natural reaction is to back away. To curl up. I don't
bring my hands up anymore, but I try to curl inward so He can't get to my face.
I didn't used to. But then, He didn't used to slap that hard either. He got a
better grip on my hair and jerked my face into a more accessible position,
slapped me a few more times, then dropped me to the floor.

For some reason, I almost never start crying until after He's
finished slapping me. Maybe it's because I'm trying so hard to hold my head
steady. In any case, as soon as I fell to the floor I started crying. Sobbing,
really. And He told me to shut up. I stopped mid-sob and sat where He'd dropped
me for a second, then realized I was within swinging reach and scooted away.

I usually run. I usually leave the room completely and flee
to a safer part of the house to hide in until I'm finished crying. Master was
having none of that. He told me to get back to where I was, grabbed my hair,
and dragged me back to where He'd dropped me. "It would be in your best
interest not to move." And so I sat there. And I cried. And I tried not to
flinch every time He moved.

I slowly started to sniffle more than sob silently and He
grabbed my head again. For the life of me, I can't remember what He said. A lot
of the night is a blur now. But I sure didn't miss the lesson. When He let go,
I was sobbing again. And before too long, He had His pants off and was making
me lick Him. Being mad always makes Him horny. Being horny usually cools His
anger (especially if I do something to alleviate His arousal). And last night,
while His cock kept swelling and deflating, it definitely wasn't changing His
mood.

After a while, He sent me to retrieve the cane and lay on
the bed. I don't know how long it was before He was in the room. I know I was
crying again before I had made it out of the office. And I was in hysterics,
listening between hitches and sobs for His footsteps, within seconds of laying
on the bed.

I tried to calm myself. I tried to tell myself it wouldn't
be so bad. I tried to convince myself that this time I would take it like a
pain slut and He'd never want to beat me again because all that would amount is
a writhing mass of slave goo. And all the while, I kept crying harder and
listening for Him to make His way to the bed.

When He asked where the cane was I could barely speak. I
held my breath through His instructions in an attempt to hear what He said. And
I told myself I'd count this time so I knew how many I'd taken. I never got
passed one. I never do.

He always does it hard and fast and I'm always left unable
to catch my breath. I think that's partly the point. Slow, with lots of space
between blows probably wouldn't have the same effect. And He knows this. Man.
It's enough to drive a girl crazy knowing she's so transparent.

At some point, I either sobbed a little too loudly without
my face in the pillow or I wriggled out of the middle of the bed because He
asked if it only took thirty seconds for me to forget my orders. At some point,
He put His hand on the middle of my back, I assume in an attempt to hold me still,
and it comforted me a bit even though I knew it wasn't meant to. And when He
stopped, it was in the way He stood and in His silence that He didn't want to
and was trying to decide if He should.

I don't know why He did. I don't know if it was my hysterics
or my pleading or if He could even hear my pillow-muffled begging. All I know
is I laid there sobbing, trying to quiet myself, listening to Him take His
clothes off.

He didn't even tell me to move before He flopped on the bed
and collided with me. He did, however, tell me to get my tongue on Him. And half
way through it He told me He'd find something else to do with me if I didn't
make Him believe I wanted to be licking Him. That always sends my head toward
the worst. He's thinking about getting rid of me. He doesn't want me anymore.
He's going to send me to someone who hates me.
And round
and round and round it goes until the punishment is over and He's my loving
Master again.

At some point He grabbed my hair and shoved my face as deep
into His ass as it would go. Every time He let go, I'd back out a bit and every
time I'd back out, He'd grab my hair and shove my face in again. And then He
held my head while He flipped on His back and shoved my mouth around His cock,
fucking my throat hard and deep until I started to choke from lack of air. He
made me lick the front of His legs and then wouldn't allow me to suck His cock
again. I could lick it and I could massage it and I could lick around it, but
he said I didn't deserve to suck it.

Twice He reprimanded me for bringing Him close to orgasm
without permission. The second time, He told me to put my mouth on His cock and
that was all it took to push Him over. I thought I would be punished for that,
but it seems that was His intention.

I'm not allowed to do anything without permission anymore. I
even have to ask to go to the bathroom. We've been here before. I loved it. I
hated it. I've needed to be back here for a long time.

I loved it because I crave that constant strangle hold He
has on my day to day activities. I love being told what to do, when to do it. I
love having everything dangled just beyond my reach until I've begged enough
for Him to let it fall into my waiting hands. I love being fully and completely
at His mercy. I love being utterly slave.

I hated it because there were days that He'd go to lunch and
I'd forget to ask permission to make myself a meal or to go to the bathroom
before He left and I'd be stuck waiting for an hour or more with a grumbling
belly and a full bladder almost in tears by the time He got back. But that's my
fault. Not His. I'll have to remember to pay attention to my body's needs or
suffer without complaint.

A new ritual has been added to our daily routine, as well. Unless
I'm told otherwise, my place is sitting on the floor beside Him, licking and
touching Him in an attempt to be as pleasing as possible. If I want to do
anything else, I'm to ask. And if I'm told no, I'm told no.

Last night, while making me sit in my place, He said "You
don't want to be treated this way, do you?" And though I could think of a
hundred things I could be doing that would be more attention grabbing, I could
think of no where I'd rather be. And I nodded quietly while rubbing His frozen
feet to warm them. And after a while, He asked what I wanted to be doing and I
answered quietly, "This." without thinking. After saying it, I thought about
it, and I realized, What do you know? I do want to be doing this.

I've come to the conclusion that being a slave won't always
be everything I've ever dreamed. There are days when it's down right hard to
bite back my nasty retorts or put aside what I want to be doing to do what He
wants me to do or swallow my pride and tell someone something that I said
behind their back extending to them an offer from Master to punish me
themselves. I've accepted that, while slave is what I am and slave is what I
want to be, there will be times that being slave won't always be enjoyable.
Times that it won't be fair. And times that I'll want to stomp my feet and
glare and brat up when He wants me to do something that I just don't want to
do. And I've accepted that in these times, I'll have to "man up" and take what's
coming to me. Because slave is what I am, and slave is what I chose to be, and
slave is what I'll be for the rest of my life. And I'm just thankful that when
these times come I am owned by a man who is strong enough to tighten His viselike
grip on my collar and throw me to His feet and remind me that there is no way
out. That I chose for there to be no way out. That this is what I am. What I
was meant to be. And that He's not going to let me get away with denying it.

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