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Wardrobe, Please.

June 8th, 2008 Comments off

There’s been a new development in my state of dress here in the Master and Rayne house. For almost as long as we’ve been together I’ve been required to be naked in the house unless we had company or the shades were open. When we have company, so far, I’m required to be fully dressed. We don’t have much company, of the [[BDSM]] variety or otherwise. I’m a little frightened to think what my state of dress will be if/when we do have company of the [[BDSM]] variety. My body image sucks.

The other night, Master wanted to keep the shades open but He did not want me dressed. Unfortunately, the small town we live in, being mostly made up of old people and rich Catholics, would have a collective heart attack should someone drive by and see a naked fat woman wandering passed a window or two. They’d probably also have a heart attack if they drove by and saw a naked child, naked thin and beautiful woman, naked man of any shape or size, naked dog… you get the picture.

Out of, what I felt was, nowhere He barks, “Go find an extremely revealing shirt and something to cover your cunt that makes you accessible to me if I want to touch you. I’m tired of you walking around here fully dressed. No bra or underwear.”

At first I was extremely embarrassed. It was almost physically painful to go looking for these clothes and I came close to crying. I was angry that He’d make me parade around this way. And then my hand closed on a shirt that I love but can ‘t wear in public because it’s see-through and I’m fat. I thought, “Hey! This won’t be so bad after all.” I knew exactly the shorts to wear. They’re about mid-thigh and the legs are flowy and open. If takes almost no effort to brush them aside and if I’m sitting or bending right one doesn’t have to.

As I repeated, “He is Master, I am slave.” over and over in my head, I tore off the clothes I was wearing and slipped into the ones I’d chosen. I walked to the kitchen and paraded before Him with almost no to-do and watched His eyes nearly bug out of His head.

“Yes, that’ll do nicely.” and I grinned as His hand reached down the low collar and pulled out first one tit to fondle, bite and slap, then the other.

My cheeks burned bright red with shame at the thoughts I’d managed not to express to Him. I tucked them away and thought, with contentment and happiness, “He is Master, I am slave.”

I feel feminine in this shirt. I feel sexy and appealing. I feel desirable and sensuous.

Master says I need a skirt. Nothing fancy. Just short and easy to shove up over my ass. To wear around the house.

I agree.

He is Master. I am slave.

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Yesterday

June 8th, 2008 Comments off

There are so many experiences Master and I have together that I want to write about. So many things I want to describe here… but I can’t. The only thing I can say about yesterday is that it brought us so much closer, if that’s even possible.

Taboo subjects really suck. And there’s so much we do outside of [[BDSM]] that I’m not allowed to talk about for one reason or another. It’s disheartening.

It’s disheartening because I want the right and ability to just be myself without any repercussions. Not as far as Master’s concerned. He gives me that every day, so long as being who I am doesn’t step outside the realm of His iron fist. It does sometimes. But He allows me that also, with the understanding that I will be punished for it. But society shouldn’t have that right. Society shouldn’t be able to punish me for enjoying myself. Within reason, obviously. If I go out and murder or maim someone there should be consequences. But with regard to other things… America controls entirely too much of our lives.

Something that I realized yesterday is that I give in to societal pressures entirely too much. There are certain things I will have to allow myself because, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, [[BDSM]] is illegal. Our way of life is illegal. It shouldn’t be. But it is. But those things aren’t really what I’m talking about anyway.

What I wear, who I talk to, how I act, where I go… so often all of these things about me are a front. A mask I wear so people won’t think I’m weird. Insane. Any of the many words to describe not “normal”.  Read more…

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