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March 3rd, 2008

“And, always, the words. The talking. The verbal raping of a mind as the body is being used and tormented. The incessant stream of insults and confirmation of what she is and why she’s doing this and what that makes her and how fucking much she loves and needs it, the words that soon have her confirming it herself, screaming out what a filthy whore she is and begging for more.”

If you don’t read A View From the Floor, you should. Carrie almost always puts into words perfectly what I feel. It’s as if she’s opened my head and is taking a tour and parroting back the emotions I can’t verbalize. And she doesn’t even know me! Well, beyond what one can know another from reading a blog, I mean.

I am ashamed to admit I don’t read her daily (or as often as she posts) and I should. Her entry from Tuesday reminded me how important the words are.

Master talks to me. Almost every time we have sex and definitely every time He plays with me. At long length. Of the things He’s doing to me. Of the things He’s going to do to me. Of the things He’s going to do with me. Of what I am. Of what He plans to make me. Endless streams of words that would put my mother in tears, and sometimes do the same to me, but set my stomach on fire and flood my cunt.

I don’t think I’m alone in these utterly degrading and debasing desires. I know that some of my interests lie well beyond the realm of consideration for most. And that’s okay with me. I wouldn’t trade the words… the desires… for anything in the world. Except maybe eternal youthful life. But I bet even that would eventually lose its interest.

I am a whore. I’ve sold my body and soul to a man who accepted it willingly. I sold it cheaply. All I asked for in return was that He hold this leash here. And yank it around when He wants me to do something. And refuse to take no for an answer.

I am a slut. Before Master, I’d been with at least thirty men. I really think I’ve lost count. I definitely can’t name them all.

I am a nymphomaniac. I crave sex. The craving often gets out of control. And yet, I withhold the pleas I should be screaming at the top of my lungs because…

I am stuck-up and proud. I pretend I don’t want things that bring me to tears with desire.

But when it comes right down to it, I need to be the lowest of the low. Anything less and the uppity bitch that was my life before Master attempts to rear her ugly head.

And to hear Him tell me all of these things… to have someone know who I truly am deep down and make sure I know it too does so much for me. Sexually and emotionally.

Oh yeah… I’ll be 28 next month. Is it completely pathetic that this freaks me out? The people at my job think so. Of course, most of them are over 40.


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