This is a two-parter. The first part is a film review, of sorts. But it transitioned naturally into some areas that submissive women, particularly those desiring slavery in their futures, may find of interest.

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I watched Alphaville for the first time over Thanksgiving.  What is Alphaville? A few words:

Goddard
Brilliantly creative experimentalist, and cutting edge in creative technique for his time. By technique I don't mean million-dollar special effects. We're far smoother these days and our special effects much sleeker, but seldom in film, not matter what era it was produced in, do you see such creativity, such playing with the medium to convey ideas, emotions, meaning, archetypes, as you do in this film. It was my first Goddard film but it won't be my last. I was very impressed. It's a many-layered film and I will be watching it again. Only a little of what it offered was revealed to me in the first viewing. Some of that I'm going to talk about here becuase it relates to the themes I love: sadomasochism, dominance, control, submission.

60s
Unless you lived through this decade you may have no clue of how close to the surface of the public consciousness  sadomaschism, dominance, and submission were, particularly when expressed through the media, particularly film and television, but also photography (the incomparable Newton comes to mind) and print advertisements. It was a time when the sexual revolution was in full swing but at that time feminism was known only in a few very tiny leftist circles whose  intensive work in human rights (civil rights for blacks, ending the war in Vietnam) led the women involved in these enterprises to ask the natural question, "Well, what about us? What about our rights?" That is to say, feminism was virtually unknown.   As a television-watching child, concepts like the following were regularly presented to my mind:  A man owning a gorgeous, subservient (albeit mischevious) female slave who wanted nothing more but to please him but whom he could banish to a tiny bottle whenever he tired of her (I Dream of Jeanie). A gorgeous charming woman who loved urban life but submitted to her husband's will to live among country bumpkins on a farm (Green Acres). A secret agent who, when forced to brand his female companion on the arm so that could blend in with the "bad guys" long enough to escape, performs the act, not with a look of horror or concern or even non-emotion on his face but with a "shit-eating grin" brimming with sadistic delight (Jame Coburn, one of the Flint Movies).  Psychologically subtle powerplays, such as those enacted between Steed and Mrs. Peel in virtually every original Avengers episode. The common theme of women as slaves that crept into many episodes of even the tamest TV shows (original Star Trek) and were blantently celebrated in movies (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum).  The frequent over-the-knee spankings women were humiliated with in fims and tv.  The quite common arms-above-head back-whipping scenes.  The even more common treatment of women as almost machine-like objects and their happy acceptance of that status. All that was the 60s. It was a wonderful time to be immersed in media if one was a nacent slave, but I expect it rather messed with the minds of women and girls who did not have my paticular inclinations. One of my sisters greatly preferred soap operas as well as the dramatic films from the 40s and 50s. These latter were vehicles in which the women, who wore gorgeous sweeping gowns and often behaved quite badly, were always the emotional center of attention and created great flurries of unnecessary drama and angst in the people (mostly pining men) who surrounded them. Me, I was quite happy dreaming of being a future object one day, after I grew some breasts. :) Perhaps non-submissive girls, growing up at that time absorbed the lesson that if they objectified themelves physically, looked cute and sexy, they could "trick" men and get what they wanted from them.  That thought never occurred to me, however, as it didn't accord with my deepest sexual drives, I just loved the objectifaction and use (often accompanied by suffering).

The fact that Alphaville contained similar themes probably didn't cause many from that era to blink an eye. That was what was interesting about the 60s: nobody considered this deeply kinky stuff the least bit abnormal, strange, deviant, or wrong.  It was certainly a minority practice, but just another aspect of sexuality.  The fact that the female Avenger was a Mrs. Peel not a Miss Peel was probably seen as much more titillating and "out there on the edge" in those times, particularly given the way she and Steed interacted. I wonder how much of the "this is unnatural and bad" attitude toward sadomasochism and related subjects came after feminism became a popular movement and even the lightest expresssions of inequality between the sexes were pounced upon as demonic.  But when watching this film long decades after it was produced, the blatent treatment of women is quite apparent. I'm now going to talk about plot just a little bit  in order to describe the themes I liked in this film. Consider this your spoiler alert.

The film is black-and-white. People, this was the 60s. Believe it or not, we were decades beyond daguerreotypes at that point. ;) The point is, it could have been in color. It could have had much better "special effects." The quality and effects were extremely primitive for the times, techniques that were decades old at the time the film was produced:  they suggest a noir film from the 30s and I think their use, given the other signs of brilliance in this film, was quite intentional. The use of these very basic, very primitive film techniques struck me as unexpectedly creative and unusual, and vastly unlike the boring and utterly predicatable "formula-that-makes-money" films that have been regularly produced since 80s. Watching someone at play in a fashion that would be rigidly budgeted out of a major film made today, because it doesn't follow the pure path to money, was delightful.

This is a movie whose central theme is not quickly exposed. It's slowly uncovered minute by minute.  There's a spy... he's from a place called the "Outlands" and he enters a metropolis called "Alphaville" to perform his mission. In his exploration of the city and the searching out of contacts and leads, the nature of the metropolis is slowly revealed to him and to us. From the very start of the film there is this awful, gravelly, smoked-1,000,000-cigarettes voice making pronouncements in our ears.  These pronouncements are musings that fall just slightly short of profound and are quite disturbing to listen to, not just because of their ultimate lack of meaning but becuase of the perfectly horrific quality of the voice that calmly makes them (a brilliant choice of casting). This voice is always talking, always speaking in our ears, and the speaker sounds ill, and almost like he's missing a part of his mind. (Those intimate with Kubrik's works of genius  will find it hard not to see a common thread--perhaps even his inspiration?) What's very interesting and also frightening is that this terrible dead but also thoughtful voice, like most background noises, soon starts to feel "normal" to the viewer, accepted, just part of the film's scenery, and its words just slip into our brains. (Over a period of two hours, such slippage has no permanent effect, obviously, but when I saw this film I tried to imagine myself a resident of the city, subject to it 24/7. Is the voice constantly heard by the regular residents? That's a mystery that is not made entirely clear but I think the intent was there that you should assume this.

So basically, this city, Alphaville, is controlled. And one of the ways in which control is exerted (besides the voice, that is)  is by limiting human expression, particularly the expression of emotion.  The controlling forces realize, correctly, that the most subversie emotions are love and those related feelings that closely orbit it, so these are the focus of special attention. One way this control acomplished its purpose was through re-direction. Like farmers who divert a stream or river's path to irrigate their fields, love, caring, devotion, even romance are diverted into simple physical experiences, pure sex, with lust being the predominant emotion. In doing this, acknowledgement is made of the male's stronger hormonal drives (it was not politically incorrect to do so back then), and women are cast into the role of objects. Both men and women work in this city, both go to school and attend classes, but the only jobs the women, always young and beautiful, perform are providers of male "comfort." They are found everywhere where there is temporary housing: hotels, aparments. They dress in knee-length robes, loosely belted with the suggestion that there is little or nothing under them, and simple heels. No hose, no jewelry, no signs of status.

The spy, upon registering at a hotel, is conducted by such a female servitor to his room. She does the usual things: turns on lights, shows the ammenities of the room, but she doesn't leave. She frequently asks him in a polite, obsequeious voice, "Are you sleepy? Do you wish to rest?" When he tells her he intends to take a bath, she immediately asks, "would you like me to bathe with you?" and without waiting for an answer goes and draws the bath.  In another scene, much later in the movie, the spy is exploring a building and comes across two scientists talking shop at a table. Standing on the table (you only see her lower legs up to the hem of the robe) is a woman. When the spy walks in, one of the men pats her affectionately on the calf, and she jumps nimbly down and out of the scene. You never see her face.  The spy notices that all of the women have numbered tattoos (similar to the ones given to prisoners by the Germans in WWII) somewhere on their necks, and whenever a man tells them to do something, they obey. The spy asks such a woman, "what do you do?" and she replies, "I'm a seductress, Class 3."

These seductresses are quite different from today's concept of a seductress as a scheming, plotting, active woman. They are extremely passive and wait for the man to make his desires known. And they are everywhere. At one point the spy is led down a spiral staircase. (The frequent use of spiral staircases in such a cold, logical place was striking and surprising to me. But the movie was made at the dawn of the computer age, and things weren't nearly as cold and mechanical back then as they have come to be--most of what you see is the film's imaginings of what such a time might be like--so unexpected elements of grace and life constantly break through the attempt to present a rigid and logical socieity. The film also didn't anticipate the full extent to which technology would enable the close observation of a realm's "citizens"--we now swim in a world in which we always know, in the back of our minds, that we could be watched without our knowing it: the contents of our computers observed and catalogued, our images recorded by a hundred hidden cameras our every spoken word heard, our identities known. The awareness of this observation swims in background of the modern collective unconscious, but at the time this film was made, people were blissfully unaware of this possibility, and so the spy is able to act in the most absurdly free ways, ways that would never be possible with today's technology.) Halfway down the spiral staircase is a large glass cylinder, set off to the side. In it is a nude woman, her back turned toward us. Either the cylinder is lower than the stairs or she is kneeling because we only see her from the back of her head to mid-thigh. On a low bench in the foreground of the glass tube is a single high heel. She doesn't turn around or acknolwedge the men passing by on the stair, she's clearly there as an amusing decoration, nothing more.

The spy does meet a woman who appears to be of a different social class then the seductresses. She dresses charmingly and conservatively. She denies any knowledge of carnal experiences. She engages him in intelligent conversation. But she shares many of the strange automatic reactions that the other people in this city have, and when told to bow her head, she does so immediately. The spy brushes aside her hair and discovers her tattoo. It seems that only the women bear these tattoos.  Maybe the men did and I just didn't notice?  I don't think so. She turns out to be one of the "objects"of his mission, and as he plots to get her out of the city, he falls in love with her. But her presense in the film suggests that the re-directors of love into lust recognize that different men appreciate different things, and her type, while not common, probably appealed to a minority group of men and so was made available to slack their desires with.

The spy notices that every woman who accompanies him to a room is careful to point out that the room contains a Bible. They seem to get quite concerned, in fact, if they cannot find the bible immediately upon entering a room.  Later, with the woman he's fallen in love, with the "bible" issue comes up again. He's asking her about words and their meanings and noticing that she says she's never heard of certain words, like "conscience," and have no idea what they mean. She does know a few emotional terms and indicates that some have recently been removed from the bible, which contains all answers. The spy is rather confused by this, so she procures a bible for him and when he opens it, he declares in surprise, "This is a dictionary, not a bible!" As they discuss this, she explains that words frequently disappear from the bible or are replaced with different words...

Up until this point in the film, the objectification of women, while an enjoyable theme for someone like myself, suggested nothing particularly profound--as kinky as it seems today, this was just an expression of sexuality in the 60s, just how things were, and a minor theme in the film as well, useful to explain one way in which the overall control of the citizens' minds was assumed.  The introduction of the "bible" concept, or rather the revelation of what it actually was, was much more interesting.  The removal of "words" (aka concepts) and their replacement with other "words" is a process that seems to occur, whether conscious or unconscious, in every genuine situation of "consensual" sexual slavery that I have observed. This is acomplished in a myriad of ways. Sometimes, for example, the replacement of one's world view with that of another is performed with with extensive talks, interaction, in which the master or mistress speaks a great deal but allows the slave a chance to respond with agreement or disagreement or ask questions, which are then answered or responded to by the dominant. (Initially, such talks are preceeded by interrogations, designed to understand the core conceptual map the slave brought to the relationships.)  Sometimes these changes are acomplished through conditioning techniques which can be subjectively pleasant, easy to experience, like hypnosis or quite the opposite, as with some operant conditioning. Accompanying all of this, sometimes, is the control of a slave's experiences: personal contacts are controlled at times, and ever-more-importantly in this age, access to media ranging from books to films to internet discussion boards , social networks, virtual worlds and games, and the like can  be  carefully controlled and sometimes even censored.

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Most of these methodologies are a sensitive subject with many as their effect is to change and control a mind, somthing that doesn't sit well with those who do not seek out extreme control situations. I don't intend to go into much more detail. I will, however, give a benign and relatively mild example from my own experience. When I met my former master I was barely 30. I'd been subject to to the intense media barrage, mostly print, but also some television and films, targeted at women about their appearance. I'd bought the whole line of propoganda: that I was ugly and unattractive and that I needed these external products (makeup, expensive hair and nail care, ever more extensive clothing and accessories) in order to be acceptable.  Noticing this and having a personal aesthetic that natural is better,  my former master decided the best way to reverse such propoganda in my head was to (a) discuss with me the positive aspects of the physical aesthetic he enjoyed (its honesty, its unmasked exposure, the message  of security it conveys--I'm fine with the way I look, I don't need crap smeared on my face to feel better about myself, its simplicity and appropriateness for someone not trying to be the center of attention) and (b) to strictly regulate my access to the primary conveyers of the opposite message. Since I didn't watch television unless he insisted and since the internet was in a very basic (text only) stage at that point, the media he surpressed were women's fashion magazines. I was rather addicted to them. But at his insistence, I was forbidden from buying or reading them for a long period of time (years). Eventually, once the conditioning was fully in place, that restriction was removed, as it was not needed. I no longer enjoyed looking at them and would not buy them on my own. If I caught a glimpse of their contents in a doctor's office, I'd often be horrified and offended by their messages. 

This is a mild example of the changes that can be wrought in a slaves mental outlook and personality. It is often taken much deeper, depending upon the goals of the master or the mistress. But these changes always involve two basic processes which were neatly eptiomized in Alphaville's "bible:" the removal of certain concepts or even emotional framesets and the addition of different concepts or frames of thinking and feeling. If you are enamoured by the idea of of being a slave, but have never experienced this, it might help you to consider whether you'd want to undergo such a process, whether you'd mind if perhaps your most cherished ideals were slowly eroded or torn from you and replaced with new ideals, new concepts, and motivations. This won't necessarily happen with those things you care about them most, but that is a decison your owner will make, not you. If you are sincere about becoming a slave and don't secretly view all of this as phony or "just a game" or a role you play and nothing more, then it helps to ask yourself, before giving yourself away to somebody, if you could live with everything you love the most, even your ideas, being totally stripped from you. If the answer is yes, or that you need slavery more, then perhaps this would be a good goal to pursue. 

Of course there are lots of relationships which fall under the bdsm umbrella which are not nearly as extreme as a master-slave arrangement. This is very good for most people, as it lets them find a domiannt and a level of submission that is good or right for them. For someone who really does desire above all else to be enslaved, however, it poses an enormous problem. The people capable of, let alone desirous of, owning you to this degree are few and far betwen. You will, however, meet many along the path who will _claim_ to want the same goal that you do, to enslave somebody to the most extreme extent possible. 999 times out of a 1000 they're talking out of their hats, typically because they are unrealistic and inexpereinced fantasizers, but sometimes due to more nefarious desires to decieve. Part of the learning curve (and test of the dedication/determination) of a potential slave involves (1) learning to recgonize true gold from flashy false gold in human beings and (2) not becoming defeated, willing to settle for someone soft and warm and comfy, because you are convinced that actual masters who actually own others do not exist. Believe me, they exist. They are just exceedingly rare and you may have to wait--years--before you find one who is available. That doesn't mean you should be as passive as the girls in Alphaville as you wait. I think that such a level of extreme passivity should properly come after you are enslaved and in response to your master's desires, not prior to enslavement. It's been my experience than active approach, seeking out and going toward that which draws you, seems to be an approach that works well in many other walks of life besides slavery.

Life can trick you, though. It's possible on personal ad sites to become addicted to the vainty of being the one sought after (look at how many emails I get! look at how popular I am!).  If you want a better assessment of your real worth, try taking down that attractive photo--then see how many emails you still get based on your words alone. This vanity, however pleasantly it strokes your ego, is antithecal to slavery, it gets in the way of genuine, complete submission to someone else's will. Why?  Because it builds up your sense of self-importance and sense of being the center of the world.   If that is the sort of thing you want and crave, being the center of somebody's world, then hear me clearly: you do not want slavery. You can achieve this in other styles of bdsm relationships, but  in slavery, the master is the center of the world. He or she is the shining sun that is orbited and worshiped and that receieves the bulk of the attention, not you. You will receive some, as much as he wishes to give you, but it won't be at the intense level that your superficial popularlity on a personal-ad site would have you believe. Don't become caught in the vanity trap or addicted to attention if you want to be a slave.  The vanity trap also encourages passivity of a particularly ugly sort in a potential slave: the passivity of entitlement.  "I sit and wait for HIM or  HER to come to ME becuase I am far too good to go begging at their door." Think about that. Is this how a real slave thinks or feels? Not the ones I have known! This is how a spoiled little brat thinks or feels, more often.

So let's say you realize the above. Another trick will likely come your way: those impossibly idiotic (although initially they may seem devious) "dominants," usually men, who insist that if you reject them, if you don't accept them unconditionally as your master, then you are not a real slave. This can be very wearying when you hear it (as I have, lol) from hundreds of men. Think about this when it occurs: Should you care what this spoiled-brat piece of trash parading around in false dominant attire personally thinks of you? Is he actually in any position to judge you correctly if he is so immature to think that any woman who doesn't submit immediately to him is not submissive? Trust me on this: genuine dominants, let alone genuine masters, never act like this, never pull these childish whining ploys.  The "real deals" in this world quietly wait for you to recognize their qualities--and if you do not, you do not.  They never say a word to convince you otherwise.  It can seem, due to the sheer numbers of these parading morons, that no other type of "dominance" exists. These other types exist, they really do, but being true to themselves, masters will typically not go round to your inbox, capering, demanding, or begging in it. 

So guess what? If you want slavery to occur for you sooner rather than later, you have to overcome your vanity, your unwillinness to ceed the upper hand and be the one to pick and choose and judge. You have to take risks by humbly approaching those people you feel are best capable of controlling and owning you. The risks often don't pan out. You aren't what that person needs, or they're not in a position to deal with a slave at this time, any number of reasons could make someone who really seems to be what you need uninterested in taking you on. Swallow your pride and expect from the the start that there will be rejections.  The process of approaching others gets easier the more you do it. One word of caution: no matter how many rejections you get or how many situations that don't work out for other reasons (like discovered incompatibility) do not lower your standards. Do not start approaching people you feel merely lukewarm about. Conserve your passion and save it for the best, as such a person will be much more likely to offer a situation in which you can be fulfilled for years (if not a lifetime) than a more mediocre individual would.

I'm still on my lovely "fishing trip." I did not write the following to encourage dominants to engage me in conversation.
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Understanding Who and What You Are

"And you don't seem to understand...
A shame you seemed an honest man."

It's sad to hear the lyrics of this song frequently run through my mind when I read through the male dom profiles, especially when they pontificate about slavery and what a slave is and how she acts. There is so very much confusion out there.
One of the most frequent myths about slaves I encounter from men who want to own slaves is actually a half truth. They get half of the story (how a slave should behave, should act, should feel) absolutely right. Yes, always, a slave should consider her owner's pleasure before her own and far more important than her own. Yes, an unowned slave's primary desire should be to be owned. Certainly a slave should take whatever form her master finds pleasing, even if it is not a form she particularly relishes (she'll learn to relish it in good time). Yes, slaves are and should be selfless, giving, patient, and entirely uncritical of anything their masters should require of them, no matter how difficult or painful. These are all realities of slavery.

But. The people who most frequently espouse such things intentionally or unconsciously overlook one tiny fact and that oversight means they put the cart before the horse, they turn the whole process of enslavement (assuming they are even aware there is such a process) on its head. To wit, a slave is all of the above but there is only ONE reason she is all of the above. Her master, somehow, some way inspired her to want to do all of this for him. For a woman or a man to selflessly offer so much of themselves to another, that other person must first be extraordinary to them. Worshipable. Deserving of the full sacrifice. Irresistible. (Ask yourself right now: are you truly, really any of these things?) And the more a potential slave has to give, the more careful she needs to be to find someone who fully appreciates what she has to offer and who can _use it accordingly_.

Rhapsodizing about the self-sacrificing capacities of some potential slaves is one thing (the few who are capable of such feats do exist, but they're almost as unusual as someone who is man--or woman--enough to seize and use them appropriately). Drawing a specious and utterly false connection between that self-sacrificing ability and a beyond-foolish lack of discrimination is another. But that is precisely what so many "dominant" men (quotes QUITE intentional) do on this site. In their rather confused minds, only must a potential slave be perfectly capable of surrendering her all instantly at the snap of a finger with no work in capturing or controlling her required on his part, but she must also take the first guy to come along, stupidly beat his chest and pronounce, "I am Your Master! Just... Well... Because!" If the slave you desire so badly were to have no standards, no qualities she looked for in someone she could successfully serve, she wouldn't be with you. She'd be living with a filthy, drunken, abusive bum or 18-year-old college student who got his ideas of domination from World of Warcraft's Lich King, or some other individual that you personally would find totally unsuitable for her not to mention repugnant to you personally. Why? Because if she didn't take the first idiot to come along lying about his true nature, then, by your own whiney, petulant standards that deny her choice, discrimination, standards, and the need to fulfill her destiny by belonging to an owner whose dominance is just as genuine as her submission--then by your own admission she would not be a slave--which is what you claim you want.

This circular logic seems so basic, so simple, so easy to understand, but so few "dominant" men on this site seem capable of grasping the idea that if someone were to respond deeply submissive to them, in their current selfishly childish demanding state of mind, then her standards would be so abysmally low that she would have given herself away to someone even worse than him months ago! If your ideal dream slave is totally indiscriminate and should never state on her profile what she is looking for in an owner, then she would have thrown herself at the feet of the first bozo to knock on her door--and since you are the tenth or ten-hundredth bozo to knock, man, you are just shit out of luck.

The reason why some men who do not strike me as capable of mastering anyone fail to see this simple logic has its roots in an enormous but rootless ego that proclaims arrogantly to all of Collarme, "_I_ shouldn't have to do anything special. Just proclaiming myself a Great Master and making my whiney complaints about their characters should inspire most worthy slaves to recognize me instantly and THROW themselves at my feet." ...

Believe me, O Man of Bright Unrealized Prospects, we potential slaves recognize whine all right. Boy, do we ever. (rolling eyes)

It's very simple, gentlemen. If you want to own a slave, I mean really need a slave to totally lord over, not just a balm to your ego (a lot of guys on here do not do the dom gig out of a passion for or love of cruelly and firmly subjugating someone else to their wills but because their egos cannot bear the thought that they are not uber in everything--their so-called "mastery" is a disease born of insecurity, in other words), then you will do one thing and do it very well: make yourself the sort of man that a potential slave would adore, someone she couldn't help but throw herself at, a flame that the moths are drawn to, inevitably and repeatedly. If you can do that, at very least, then perhaps you deserve the title of master, although for some experienced slaves that charisma in itself wouldn't be enough: you'd also have to demonstrate a consistent ability to control and possess over time.

Why is the idea of making one's self into something the people you want to attract could admire and even pursue such an abhorrent one to so many "masters" on this site? Why is proving to others beyond a shadow of a doubt that you deserve to be served by them such a frightening or despicable idea? Why do they expect a submissive to come straight out of the box with a perfect, sweet, surrendered, obedient in temperament and then toss that shining temperament into the meet-market equivalent of a pig trough?

There is one primary and harsh answer to all of these questions: because, in their heart of hearts, such people are not really dominant. I have met a handful of genuine dominants in my life. (Yes, a handful. In over 20 years of consciously being submissive. And there are what? Tens of thousands of men calling themselves "masters"--not just dominant but "masters--on Collarme? Tell me about odds, tell me about needles and haystacks, but the chances are, I likely know it already.) Not a single one of these genuine dominants expected to get a free lunch, to get something for nothing. All of them worked hard and very skillfully to attract, capture, and keep the objects of their attentions. And despite having been contacted by nearly a thousand men on this site over a span of years, I can count the number that I thought had "it," that elusive mastery smell, on the fingers of one hand.

So, should someone like me just give up, give in, tempt fate and throw myself at the first random individual to come along? Knowing the way my luck works, the next random individual will be another submissive woman who will be totally baffled when I start to call her master. But hey, since I am a "true slave" with no needs or wants of my own, I should be able to submit to anyone, right? Mistress "Red-Bottomed Naughty Slut," I live to serve and obey you! I will show you that you are the dominant of my dreams oh esteemed naughty-butted one whose feet I am ever undeserving of kissing!

Bottom Line: If you want intelligent, thinking property that offers itself to you, then make yourselves into the sort of men such property would consider themselves lucky to be owned by. It's that simple...and that hard. And stop, for Christ’s sake, bitterly complaining about a potential slave's desires or standards as stated on her profile.(You realize, don't you how childishly undominant this complaining makes you look?) In some cases a submissive's stated standards are practical and designed to help her locate someone she would love to serve. In many others, they may be foolish or superficial, but so what? Cluelessness abounds in this world, in case you haven't noticed. Such submissives who imagine themselves slaves have the right to make their own mistakes, make their demands so rigid, their expectations so high (and so off-base from what a master really is) that they are never met. They'll learn from this foolishness one day--or they won't. (Lots of "dominants" on this site do something similar as I have just spent several paragraphs pointing out. So perhaps I should leave them alone to make their own mistakes and not be writing this piece? Perhaps. But consider this: perhaps the egos of such individuals cannot begin to comprehend that THEY might not be the primary audience for this article? Could it be possible? -le gasp!- Oh, the horror of not being the center of attention of someone like me! :p)

But anyway, if you are as big and masterly and above it all as you claim to be, then why should you care what confused or arrogant "slaves" (note the quotes) do? Is life so boring and so long-stretching before you that you have the time to fume and rant over each individual one that doesn't strike you as slavelike? This isn't Wal-Mart where you expect consistent (whether good or poor) quality in commodities. :/ People don't roll out of factories, all looking same. Just move on to the next profile, resist that urge to write those words that are like a "KICK ME" sign on your back: "Specific Screen Name Which is Against the TOS to Critique is a FAKE SLAVE! She claims to be a slave but... but... She was MEAN to me! Wah!" When I see someone who writes something that petty and childish in his journal, I don't how good the rest of the profile may be, I instantly block him, because I do not want that clueless dolt contacting me later when he gains enough sense to take the KICK ME signs down. If you are one of those rare persons who is sincere about owning a slave then do continue to look for what you like, and be sure to make it clear, in your profile and your contact letter (if you do the contacting), that you have something that someone with a slave mentality would fine absolutely irresistible: a deep understanding of exactly how control works, an ability to project that understanding to others, and to address her complimentary needs, in particular. With nothing real to bring to the table, all the desire for a slave in the world, all the baseless, arrogant assumptions of superiority, will get you nowhere. Fast.

On the commodities note realize, please, that while there is a basic mentality common to all potential slaves, we vary quite widely quite in our abilities to realistically express that potential. Some of us learn fast, some of us learn slow. Some of us are emotionally confused, some as clear and shining in our simpleness as a mirror. Some of us who have been in the alchemical power crucible before may be transformed--but it may not be in a shape that is pleasing to your eye, although evidence of any shape, even if it has to be melted down and recast, does speak positively of a potential's ability to persevere and endure. Some of us find devotion easy. Some of us are scarred and afraid to love easily and early. Others are more patient, more forgiving, less egotistic. Some of us are very smart, others not so smart, some of are more perceptive than smart. We may vary in our initial enjoyment of pleasing you, although that is a matter fairly easily fixed for those that know what they are doing. We vary, most, in our understanding of what slavery is. None of us come to you perfectly formed, as any form we took on in another's hands will not be ideally suitable for you. All of us require molding, and that molding, although many "dominant' men on this site feel resentful that they have to do it, is, in truth, one of the darkest secret joys of ownership. If you don't already "get" that basic fact in the depths of your soul, I must ask you what in the world do you think you are doing styling yourself a dominant, let alone a master?

At any rate, those of us who can be slaves and who may understand our value through the tests time has brought our way will probably never give ourselves, out of compassion, to the hundreds of men on this site who seem so badly in need a "training-wheels slave." We're looking for the experts in the area, who can bring out of us our finest performances, and such people are very few and far between. Imagine if a Stradivarius could speak. It might very well tell the majority of potential musicians to keep their clumsy digits off of it, no? (I will spare you what it would say to all the non-musicians who only imagine themselves to be trained virtuoso violinists--as it's rather... violent.) But waiting is Ok. If we've been owned by anyone halfway competent, one of our primary skills will be patience. In this regard, I have been much amused in the past by "dominant" men who have written me to say, "You must be of very poor quality, of very little worth, if you have been on this site for so long without somebody snapping you up." I don't respond to such sour-grapes thinkers personally (I know what the best answer to a fool is), I prefer they struggle long and hard to find out, on their own, how few dominants are worth being snapped up by...and how relatively few submissives are worth snapping up.

"There is something I need to do before I die."

This is a feeling I frequently have. It sounds almost procreative, doesn't it? ;) Actually, I think it is in essence  creative,  and thus similar to the first concept in more ways than one.
 
It has to do with my vocation, but beyond that it's not very specific, other than a sense I get that it needs to be a little different than what I've already done. I've seen signs over the last couple of years that it's going to be considerably more... challenging, as well. Finally, I sense that I've acomplished about 1/2-2/3 of "it" already, but this last unfinished part is pretty essential.

If you're going "WTF" at this point, I frankly don't blame you (join the club, have a seat). But do remember something: nobody "forced" you to read this journal entry.  ;)

It feels a little weird to see bdsm relationships in terms of a "work" or maybe a project, as well as mutually gratifying emotional connections, but I tend to do so, although I don't think about it too much. People can be profoundly changed by them and something intangible can emerge from them, some of which remains with you, even when the relationship is gone.

A link from collar chat: http://www.collarchat.com/m_3441483/tm.htm



This is quite an interesting thread.  Reading it is a bit like reading a National Geographic: seeing exotic sights I expect I'll never see locally. That's always a mixed blessing. :)

I don't think I've  ever experienced subdrop in all the hundreds of times I've been played with. I've certainly never wanted nor recieved blankets, cuddling, or candy aftewards.  But then, I've never experienced subspace either. Maybe the two go together? I wasn't permitted subspace, he liked my consciousness right there the entire time, "in the moment," aware and alert.

I sometimes wonder if I am missing out on something good or if there is something wrong with me for not undergoing what seems to be a common submissive experience.  But you know, when I became sexually active and found heterosexual vanilla intercourse to be completely unstimulating, I also wondered why I wasn't like all those other women who orgasmed from this experience. It was easy for me to conclude that I was frigid.  A decade or so later, when my master would pound a buttplug up my ass with his fist, and I'd be close to fainting from the pleasure, it occurred to me that I might  be a bit  differently wired, below the waist, than most women. (Well, cough, quite possibly above the waist,  too. But I'm not sure that's germaine to this post. ;) ) 

So we did all the usual stuff. Intensely engaging mindfucks (in fact, I even did things, with his permisson, that would increase my susceptibility to mindfucks, becuase I so love-hated getting lost in the pitch-black labryinth). There was very intense pain, including a lot of bloodplay, but no significant blood loss. Maybe that's why I didn't need a blanket, I never came close to getting shocky. I felt no conscious arousal during those experiences, I just felt pain, but aftewards, I'd have all the physical signs of being on the edge of exploding.  There was a good deal of humilation and degradation--again, not exactly fun in the moment, but my body responded as if it were heavenly.  It's not surprising, I guess, that  I interpreted all of that, as momentarily distressing as it was at times, as sizzling hot sex, not as a traumatic experience that I needed to recover from. He usually requried me to climax near the end of the experiences, when I was close to turning to jello from unrequited lust. Maybe that makes a difference in whether you drop or not?  Someone posted in the thread that an orgasm made  her sub more likely to drop, but I just found it to be... um... relaxing. :D

I always played with a partner who I trusted and who was very affectionate at core. But a lot of other reporters of subdrop are clearly dealing with that sort of person too.  Hmm... I'm leaning toward a subspace/subdrop connection, but being outside either experience, it's just a guess.

NEWSFLASH!!

I AM NOT OWNED!!!!!!!!

NOT MARRIED!!!

NOT UNDER CONSIDERATION !
(barf-o, I so hate that stupid phrase and the concept behind it!)

NOT MENTORED!!!

AND NOT EVEN IN A THIRD WORLD COUNTRY AND LOOKING FOR A MEAL TICKET!! (although my country does seem to be "merrily" headed in that direction, doesn't it?)

Amazing, ain't it? ;)

Perhaps if I post one of my darker stories down here deep where only the most interested go, it'll drive away some of the individuals who are so very incompatible but imagine I am perfect for them and attract some of the individuals who might have a mind or attitute similar to my own. Not being able to find any one of my "kind" on here is one of this site's most depressing features. 

Now, remember, delicate readers, it's just a fantasy.

I think. ;)

-----------------------------------------

Quad
(c)  me. 2003

I came to visit you, my lovely friend in Canada, because you seemed so kind and true. I'd known you for several years and you were always so good to me. You listened to my strange fantasies, you taught me the difference between what can be done in fantasy and what in reality, and you remained both gentle and sexy at the same time.  After a passionate first night of  mildly kinky lovemaking, I fell peacefully and trustfully asleep in your arms, my limbs wrapped possessively around you.

I wake up in tremendous pain. The last thing I remember is the strange smile on your face and the needle in your hand. You must have stabbed me with it but I don't remember it.  My arms and legs are aching horribly and I can't seem to move them.  I look up at the ceiling where there is a large mirror. I see a bandaged naked woman lying on a bed. It looks like her arms and legs are missing, and the stumps are bandaged. What is this deformed woman doing in the same room with me? I look closer and the shock of recognition makes me so queasy that I turn my head to the side, preparing to throw up. It's me. Those bandaged stumps are mine. My beautiful brown arms and legs are gone, and if they still exist at all are just pieces of dead meat, no longer having any connection to the rest of my body. Oh god, I want to die!

You walk in smiling with a tray of hot food in your arms. Steak and eggs. "Would you care for some breakfast?," you ask me politely. I am hungry, despite the pain, and the breakfast smells delicious. I nod, then ask the crucial question: "What have you done to me?"

"Only fulfilled your deepest fantasy," you say, cutting a bite from the steak and holding it to my mouth. "But that was JUST a fantasy!" I protest, my horror growing, ignoring the morsel of food in front of me. "It wasn't meant to be fulfilled!"  "Fantasies _are_ meant to be fulfilled," you answer, "especially ones as intense as yours. Now eat."  I take the bite of steak into my mouth and start chewing. Despite my growing horror, it tastes delicious, actually more like pork than steak.  "You like that?" you ask, smiling. I nod, my mouth full, and you cut another piece for me, along with a bit of egg. "It's from the choicest part of your thigh," you inform me  casually as if you were talking about the tomatoes in the garden. I don't understand for a moment, but then I do, and I barely have time to turn my head to the side before I throw up--this time for real. You laugh and laugh at my sickened response, then ask me if I mind if you finish my breakfast for me. I don't answer. I watch you eat the steak made from my thigh with obvious relish. You get up, clean up the mess I've made on the sheets and then start to leave the room. As you do, I say, trying to appear extra casual about it, "Um, I'm in a lot of pain right now. Anything that can be done about it?" You smile broadly and kindly. "Of course." Another needle, another prick, and lights out for me.

A Month Later.

I've learned to eat my own flesh as that is all you offer me for days, always eating the meal in front of me if I refuse. One day I finally broke down and wolfed down the meat from my leg faster than you could cut it. The pain is much better and I can actually move the tiny stumps of my legs and arms a little without wincing. I can even sit up, with much difficulty. It's sunk into me now that I must rely on you for everything and that I no longer have the ability to run away or have any physical privacy, although a part of me still feels that this can't be happening, that it is a dream I will awaken from. You keep me in diapers for the first few weeks, to my deep shame and discomfort. After I appear to have accepted my new station in life, you allow me the privilege of going to the toilet, but you must place me on it and you don't go away no matter how much it humiliates me. I try to pretend that you aren't there. If I have an itch, I must call you to scratch it. Sometimes you do, sometimes you sit there and laugh while I squirm in agony on the bed, trying futilely to rub the irritation away. If I'm too cold or too hot, only you can do something about it. Again, you usually do, but sometimes you say you want to watch my goose bumps or my sweat and you leave me in misery. Eating, drinking, shitting, every single personal comfort except sleeping is dependent upon you. I start to fear what will happen to me if I anger you.

Although you have not touched me sexually, I have not been permitted any clothes this entire time (except for the early diaper), and a camera in the ceiling is always trained on me. I think about escape through rolling off the bed and along surfaces, now that the pain has receded, but I wonder if I can avoid detection. You seem to have had the same thought because the next day a metal collar is welded to my neck and then attached by a chain to the heavy oak headboard.  You tell me that you're preparing costumes for me to wear when I'm more acclimatized to my condition, but  that they will be worse than being nude. Great. Just great.

Most of my days are spent in empty boredom with nothing to do, although sometimes you leave a TV on for me or read to me. I love the reading sessions--I almost feel like I like you a little then. Being left to my own thoughts a lot, I find myself running over in my head many times what's happened to me and how horrible it is. I think of all the things I’ll never be able to do again and how people will always see me as a freak and then, usually, I cry. After that I fall asleep.

Three Months Later.

The bandages are off and have been for some time. I'm as healed as I'm going to get. You've now begun sexual relations with me. It started very simply but it had a profound effect on me. You said quietly, "I want to touch your nipple." You then placed a thumb and forefinger around my left nipple, and stared directly at me as you held it, occasionally rubbing it back and forth between the two digits. My reaction surprised me: I was instantly enraged and terrified at the same time and I snarled at you to take your filthy fingers off me. You only smiled and said, "No." I then began to furiously roll back and forth on my bed, trying to dislodge your hand. You just gripped my nipple more tightly, which hurt. Finally, I stopped that and lifted my neck up in an attempt to bite your hand. Your other hand instantly slapped me hard across the cheek as you said firmly, No!" Nevertheless, I tried it again.  This time in response you pressed your hand against my neck with such pressure that I could not breathe then pressed your fingernails deep into my nipple. It exploded with pain but I could not speak or even breathe. You held me like this for almost a minute, then let go of my throat. After I took in a deep, ragged breath I started to scream. "Screaming is OK," you said, still digging into my nipple. I don’t know how long you held it pinched that way, but my voice grew hoarse long before you stopped, and I was reduced to begging you in whispers and tears to please stop.

Sometimes you come in and just stare at me for long periods after propping me up with pillows in some obscene position. Sometimes you touch me, and your touch is always deeply humiliating. Once you came in to read to me and spent the entire time as you read with one finger shoved deeply up my ass. What I hate most is when you shave my cunt, as you talk about the shape of my lips, the size of my clit, the hairs in my asshole, my skin coloring, a pimple on my ass, everything deeply personal and humiliating, as you do so.

Three and a Half Months. 

Last night was horrific. You came into my room where I was lightly dozing and, without any notice, rolled me on my tummy and began raping me. No warning, no lubrication, no foreplay. I realized even more deeply than I had before how utterly helpless I was. Nothing I did, no squirming no screaming, no pleading, made any difference to what happened to me. You knelt on the bed pulling my ass up to your groin and fucked my cunt ruthlessly and soundlessly (except for a couple of grunts) as you groped my tits. I have never felt more like an object in my life. In fact, I'm sure that's all I was to you that night: an object to use. My humanity has been stripped from me and the life I now face is one of fear and dependence and abasement and, most of all, doing my best to avoid pain. When you finish with me, you just drop me on the bed and leave the room, shutting the door behind you. I cry myself to sleep.

You rape me regularly now, always in that soundless, abrupt way. When you take me up the ass it hurts so bad that I feel I will go insane from the pain. But nothing stops you, although sometimes, when the pain is the worst, you smile and rub my clit (another thing I can no longer do for myself!) with your fingers or a vibrator until, in spite of myself, in spite of my desire to resist this more than anything you do, I orgasm. When you feel my sphincter contracting from the orgasm, your cock gets more vicious and hard and as my orgasm fades, the pain blooms so brightly that I sometimes pass out.

Five Months.

I'm learning to love pain as you always bring me to orgasm during the worst of it. You've started using toys on me: clamps, clips, needles, whips, paddles, cigars, cigarette lighters, and electric probes. The electricity is by far the worst, but you are clever and have a milder electric probe on my clit which sets me off in orgasm after orgasm as I feel the rest of my body being burned alive from the inside out. I wonder if anybody else alive has felt this horrifically intense combination of sensations: pain so bad you'd choose hell over experiencing it again, intense pleasurable orgasms, and always pervading everything a sense of utter helplessness: nothing I do affects what you do to me, I must simply endure it with the knowledge that eventually it will end.

Five Months and Two Days.

I underwent surgery again last night. You told me nothing about it, you just did it. I can see the bandages on my body in the ceiling mirror. My tits hurt, my ass hurts and my mouth hurts terribly. What have you done to me now? I'm very relieved, however, that while I'm healing your sadistic sexplay stops completely.  Eventually the bandages come off and I see what you or your hired surgeon has done. My tits are enormous, grotesque balloons. I've seen a few porn stars with tits this large, but not many. You've enlarged the nipples as well to width of quarter and length of...it looks like two inches! They are always hard and erect.  Likewise my ass cheeks have been enlarged outward to an extreme and obscene degree. They've also been pushed together so that unless I'm spread in someway it's hard to push something between them. I think of how, lubricated, they'll make a wonderfully tight hot tunnel for a cock. I felt the most horror when I found that all my teeth had been removed from my mouth.  I can still talk but I sound retarded as many of the sharp consonant sounds are now impossible. My lips have been enlarged and reshaped, too, into a thick round doughnut with a permanent small hole in the middle which expands when something large is forced into it. The muscles of the lips hug the hole, however, which I assume makes it a perfectly tight and delicious-feeling entrance for a cock.  Finally, I notice that soft plastic pads have been fitted to my stumps. They are not mere aesthetic coverings, although they do make me look a lot better than when I had raw stumps. They seem to be somehow melted into my body; they cannot come off.  These pads are firm enough on the bottom that I can be stood up or placed on all fours (because my arm stumps are so much shorter than my leg stumps, however, my all-fours position almost places my head on the ground and raises my grotesquely large ass into the air. My tits, of course, drag on the ground, but I can crawl a little. It must look pretty obscene when I do so.

Six and a Half Months.

I appreciate the fact that so far you keep me appraised of the date and the time. There is a large wall calendar and a clock in this room. You routinely carry me around to other parts of the house now. You show me the secret dungeon room and when I see what sort of equipment is in it I shudder in terror.  The other day you pierced my body. There are two very heavy gold rings in my nipples. Each is the size of a small bangle and very thick. They drag my huge fleshy balloons downward. A ring almost as large has been placed in my lower lip, or rather, at the bottom part of the donut. I also have a heavy gold ring closing two of my pussy lips and one through my nose that makes my face look bovine. You made the piercings with a thick, red-hot needle very slowly pressed into the skin and twisted around and this time the incredible pain wasn't softened with orgasms. I can't describe pain like that--I don't even want to think about it.

8 Months.

Today you branded me as you raped my ass. Four brands: one on each buttock, one under each breast. When I saw you wheeling the brazier into the bedroom I started to scream nonstop.  You tied me down so that even my slight ability to wiggle wouldn't ruin the brands, and held each iron to my skin for a very, very, very long time. I passed out after the first one, so you gave me a shot and then I didn't pass out anymore. To my deep shame I did loose control of my bladder and bowels, however. You just laughed. My world seems to consist entirely of pain these days. I wish I could figure out a way to kill myself.

9 Months. 

Today you moved me to a room without any windows, no calendar, no clock. The floor is cement, and the bed I sleep on is simply a foam pad and blankets inside a steel cage that hangs from the ceiling. A lot more of my time now is spent in this room, often in complete darkness. When you come to see me I am so eager to see you. Although  your visits often mean horrible pain and humiliation, even this is better than the sensory deprivation I experience in this room.  I'm losing complete track of time, sometimes it seems you visit me every  few minutes, sometimes it seems days before you come. I tell myself, in an attempt to stay sane, that to keep my body alive you have to feed me and give me water and let me use the bathroom at regular intervals, but my subjective sense of time has vanished and the visits don't seem regular at all.  I see and hear extraordinary things in the dark, and at first I know it's just my mind "filling in the blanks" but after awhile I cannot tell what is real and what is illusion.

Sometime.

I had been in the dark a very long time this time. Years, I think? When you came into the room and gradually turned up the lights I whimpered in happy gratefulness and licked your palm to show my gratitude. You picked me up and took me into a big bright room. I think I'd been in it before but I'm not sure, with lots of windows that looked out on…  on things outside. I recognize those things but I don’t remember their names. In the room were dozens of strange people I'd never seen before, all with full legs and arms. All were men.  I squealed in terror and tried to bury myself in your chest. They all laughed at me. They laughed even more and applauded  when you set me up totally naked on a tall narrow pedestal in the middle of the room and asked them, "What do you think of my new sculpture?"  You then said, "Feel free, make yourselves at home, just don't cause it any severe damage." I wondered what you were talking about. I found out soon, to my mortification, that you were talking about me.

The men gathered around me and began to squeeze my breasts, play with my nipples and suck them (sometime ago you had induced lactation in me and if I wasn't hooked up to a painful suction device which removed the milk each day my breasts ached). When they discovered the milk in them, they had fun aiming my tits and squirting it all over each other and into their mouths. My ass was likewise pinched and groped and prodded. Each guest seemed extremely pleased when he discovered how tight my ass crack was. Some were likewise turned on when they put a finger in my mouth and found my teeth removed. Others seemed a little grossed out by that, but they got over it soon enough. Pretty soon I was off the pedestal and on the carpet with dicks in all of my holes and rough hands groping and pinching me everywhere. I was carried around the room while being fucked, set on tables, held between two men at groin level and placed on or in various objects while being fucked. My holes began to feel scraped raw from all the unexpected activity, but even more raw was my pride. I'd never been in a situation before where strange men, most of whom I found unattractive, could use me in this deeply intimate and intrusive fashion. While submissive, I had prided myself on choosing my partners. My feelings of outrage and violation had nowhere to go: these men did what they wanted with me and the futile but energetic  waving of my stumps and my facial contortions only made them laugh and fuck me harder.

I was taken to your dungeon and my limbs stretched by hooks attached to the plastic pads and chains to the hooks. The men fucked me on this makeshift rack as I felt my muscles strained beyond belief.  One man stuck the electric anus probe up my ass but he didn't put any conducting lubrication on it. He and his friends laughed so hard at  the way I squealed and jumped and rolled and wiggled when he'd bump the juice up to maximum, not realizing (or maybe they did--shudder) that they were giving me terrible burns inside my colon. Two men eventually took me into the backyard and, to my complete terror, threw me back and forth between themselves while on the cement patio. One fall to the ground would have cracked my head open like a melon.  One fellow almost dropped me which caused you (you seemed to be lurking everywhere I was although you did not touch me or speak to me) to stop that game. Another man took me over to the swimming pool and pushed my head and shoulders underwater while he viciously fucked my ass. He let me up for air, but always at the last minute, just before I felt I would have to breathe in water because my lungs hurt so bad. You either allowed him this fun or you weren't around. No one interfered with this terrifying game. Later I was thrown into the middle of the  pool to see if I'd sink or swim. I wiggled my stumps frantically underwater but, to a crowd of laughter, sunk like a stone to the bottom and nothing I did caused me to float. Again, just before I felt my burning lungs would burst, someone brought me to the surface. 

At one point you demonstrated my daily milking to your guests. First my four pads were secured on the tops of four raised poles so I was about chest high and my tits hung straight down. Then the teat cups were placed on my nipples (you removed the nipple rings first and then tried your best to stick as much tit as you could into the narrow glass tubes.) When the machine was turned on,  the cups, with an especially strong suction force gripped my nipples and the skin around them and pulled them almost all the way to the end of the tubes, about four inches. The machine worked by holding one tit under milder suction while the other tit was sucked hard. This alternating suction made my fat breasts look particularly ridiculous, first one dragged down, then the other, then the first one, then the other, over and over. And, naturally, it hurt like hell, too, causing me to cry and beg to be let off it. This caused laughter all around. Several men, amazingly still horny, jacked off to this sight and almost all of them tried the milk later. While I was immobile on this hellish machine, one man slowly injected the skin around my anus with saline. The long needles hurt like hell and later he showed me the results in the mirror just before a new round of sodomy began: a round, red, tight doughnut shaped ring of skin surrounding my tiny asshole: a plump cushion for a dick to insert itself into. I looked like a baboon in the back, and, with my tit ends elongated and distorted by the milker, like a cow in front.

When it got dark, someone started a barbecue on the patio and of course lots of jokes were made about roasting me on it. To the men's savage delight, you placed me briefly on my back and bottom on the grill when the coals were hottest, with my screaming NO! the entire time. You probably only left me on there for ten seconds but those were the most painful ten seconds of my entire life. I sobbed and screamed from the searing agony. You had your cock pumping in my hips which hung over the edge of the barbecue the entire time and, although the period was relatively brief, I think you came.  After lifting me off this burning hell you walked me over to a large cooler full of ice and laid me into it. As the ice did its work causing me almost as much agony as the flames had, you stared me in the eyes and asked, "Do you understand now how utterly helpless you are? I can make your life a living hell, as I just did, and enjoy it as much as I’d enjoy making it a very happy place. If you want less torture and if you want less sensory deprivation in the dark room, I expect you to constantly express your gratitude to me in whatever creative and clever and demeaning ways you can find. I am a god to you, my dear, your god. Worship me well and all will go... more or less... well for you. 

The burns on my back had pretty much  ruined me for further play that night and after these were treated, you soothed my burning and bleeding cunt and ass with some of the burn lotion. Later I was left with grill stripes on the skin, which eventually faded but all you had to do was touch the raised scar tissue of a stripe to remind me of the horrors of those moments. That memory instantly stopped any rebellious or obnoxious activity on my part.

Later.

You've started taking me out in public. Sometimes you push me in a baby stroller; sometimes you carry me. Everybody stares at me and kids always giggle and point or say "Eww gross!"  You take me to buy lingerie and leave the dressing room door open so that men in the store can casually stroll by and see my naked perverse body or, even worse for me, wearing the ill-fitting underwear you've picked out for me.  You have great fun trying in the open to fit the store's largest bras on my enormous tits. The men who happen by gape in amazement at the sight of you trying to stuff my enormous tit meat into the too tiny cups and scolding me all the while for being so "fat." Sometimes you ask these strange men for help and they are happy to oblige,  grabbing my fat teats and stuffing them into the cups, while getting lots of good feels of my nipples.  You do the same thing with panties: you always choose a size too small for my obscenely large buttocks and leave the dressing room door open as you try to wiggle my ass into them. Sometimes you leave me balanced on the bench in a pair of too-small thongs that you've reversed. If I'm facing front, the men see the thin string of material cutting deeply into the middle of my bare cunt lips. If I'm facing the back of the room, they see how the material only comes halfway up my ass or less, exposing my gigantic butt checks and their tight crack to their view. Either way, they are delighted with what they see.  Even if there aren't men around you refuse to let me talk during these outings and quickly get the saleswomen treating me just the way you do: like a brainless object.  The shame I feel during these outings never seems to lessen.

The worst times for me are when you take me to the beach. Invariably one of my nipples will "accidentally" pop out of the too-small bra of the swimsuit or the bottoms will only cover my buttocks partially, halfway up the ass, which looks far more obscene than a beach thong does because it's not expected in public, or you'll have me in a teeny front thong in which 90% of my puffy pubes are exposed to men's leering eyes. Then there are the kids: the kids are the worst, they make the most degrading comments. Sometimes you'll take off my suit, forcing me to be totally nude on a beach where most everyone else is wearing a swimsuit. At those times you often invite the men who walk slowly by my towel to spread tanning lotion over my nude torso which they eagerly do, while all the while you talk about me as if I were an object or a piece of livestock that you owned. You point out to these men the tight butt crack, my doughnut lips which are perfect for face-fucking, my enormous tits. You make sure they spread lotion deep in my cracks "and in any holes they might find, so she doesn't get burned." Sometimes you spread my lips to show them what the inside of my cunt looks like or you press my tits together so that they look like two obscene fat bullets. Sometimes you squirt nipple milk in their faces. Naturally the men get very aroused and enthusiastic about their task.  Often you'll then carry me under your arm with a couple of strangers in tow to some more private spot where you watch and comment as they screw me silly in whatever holes they want. Your comments are always objectifying: you talk about what a little animal I am, and how I've been trained to love pain (this inspires the men to hurt me as they fuck me) and how you give me away to strangers to play with at parties. You tell them about how you've trained me to be completely servile and abjectly submissive to you.

Not a single man feels sorry for me or horrified at my treatment. Not one threatens to turn you in for the mental and physical abuse you've inflicted upon me. In fact, your descriptions of my worst treatment only makes them more excited and they hump me harder.  You tell me that you love to see the glazed look of pleasure in their eyes as they fuck a woman who has been completely turned into a degraded sex toy, whose only purpose in life is to please their cocks, a woman who can't fight back against anything they do or say, a thing more than a person that will have no choice but to take any sort of abuse they want to give her, a woman upon whom  they could, if they owned her, inflict their darkest and most cruel sexual fantasies. My peculiar condition has taught me a lot: most men are held back from committing sexual atrocities by only the thinnest of leashes. Snap the leash of propriety and fear of being caught, present them with a totally helpless woman whom they can freely and with smiling encouragement do whatever they want to, and they will revert to savagery.

Think about it: if you were offered a free sexual orgy with a woman who had been turned into a helpless sexdoll, if there were absolutely no repercussions, mightn't you fuck her mouth until she passes out from lack of air or beat her until she becomes bloody and unmoving, or zap with increasingly higher electrical current for the thrill of seeing smoke emerge from the contact points, or place her helpless body in a pen of wild lions and watch in fascination as her flesh is gnawed and torn apart?  Or maybe after you took a dump you'd use her mouth as toilet paper, make her clean you thoroughly. What choice would she have? If she refused any of your desires, assuming she could, given her limited range of movement, a casual threat to drag her behind your speeding car until nothing but bone was left on the end of the rope or to pour gasoline on her and set her on fire would bring her quickly back in line.

Maybe you're not the sadistic sort, maybe you never tore the wings off bugs when you were a child or fantasized about what it'd be like to have a tiny, bug-sized or maybe bird-sized human being to torment in various ways, but surely, if no one would ever catch you and if other men praised you and laughed in admiration at your actions, you would fuck this limbless doll, your slave, in ways you'd never dare do with a normal woman. You would because you could, and this might be the only time in your life that you could.

Sometime Later.

You sleep with me regularly now, often taking me sexually several times in an evening (your fucking always feels like rape to me), always roughly and without warning, with no regard for my pleasure or pain at what you do. Actually, you do pay attention to my pain: it gets you off, and you'll often play with me in some very painful or terrifying way, your cock getting harder with each scream, until I beg you to fuck me. And when you do fuck me it'll often be interspersed with choking and hard slaps and other sensations which make me feel terrified and desperate.  Then there are other times, long times of dark isolation in my cage. I never know how long these dark times last. I am, of course, always very grateful to be let out into life and I always think that any pain is worth suffering in order to stay out of that dark unholy place, but later, under the kinds of intense torture you like to subject me to, I always change my mind about that. I do my best to please you in the hope that the times I am left out will be long ones. I've discovered that I can amuse you by doing, with great difficulty, things that normal, limbed women take for granted, such as getting you a beer from the fridge. You think it hilarious when foods from the upper shelves fall on me or I slip off the chair I've managed to climb on. You love the way I roll the can down the hall with my nose, and sometimes you get up and follow behind me, whipping me with your belt and yelling, "Faster you lazy slut!"

I have become quite fond of you, maybe I even love you a little, and the worst times of all for me are when you leave me with strangers whom I don't know and who hurt my feelings in a thousand different ways. The worst thing is that they assume I am not intelligent because my mouth cannot form words crisply anymore. They start to talk to me slowly and in baby talk and if I sass them for their stupidity, guess who is severely punished? It isn't them! Why do you have to give me to these strangers for a day or a weekend at a time? Some of them are not even your friends, I can tell. One businessman perched me nude in the middle of his conference table while he held a board of director's meeting for his company. No women were present and the male shareholders let off tension by sometimes fondling, sometimes hurting my body. During breaks I was placed in a side room and each man entered one at a time and had sex with me. Many slapped me around, called me horrible names, punched my tits, bit me, stuck pins in me, or stuck large hard objects up my cunt and ass before taking me. You seem mildly concerned at my bruised and bleeding condition, but you heartily thanked that man for "babysitting" me and offered him use of me at some future time.

One thing I've learned for sure as a "love doll" for men: you all hate women, with a virulent seething sexual hatred which is terrifying when you're a limbless woman and unable to run or hide or cover your obscene body from your aroused glares. You, my owner, are of course included in this description. You hated so much that you brought me to this horrific and limited state in the first place: a state where I can refuse no man, no matter how much I might want to.  I wish you, all of you, could express this hatred more clearly toward women who have more of an ability than I to protect themselves.

Even Later.

I don't know how this is happened, but I am learning to love the hatred most men express when they use me. I'm beginning to enjoy the false names they call me and to see myself  in some ways as they describe: a worthless piece of limbless meat, a gutter slut whose only ability left is her true female ability: to please men sexually as a sperm dumpster. I get sexually aroused now when beaten and tortured, and enjoy seeing your hard-on as I scream in agony. I try to say and do things that will make you want to beat me more, that will arouse your generic anger at women and cause you to take that anger out on me.  I like the public exposure and humiliation much more now, and instead of being worried when you stand me up on a bar with my skirt "accidentally" raised in back to expose my large bare bottom, I get a thrill from wondering who will touch me first and how he'll do it or whether he'll try to humiliate me first by talking about the brands on it or its size. I get an even bigger thrill from wondering if one of these men will manage to kidnap me from you one day, and I wonder happily in what new cruel and sick ways they will treat me. I've turned into what you wanted from the start: a helpless piece of female meat who loves rough sex, torture, rape, and degradation: a living breathing sex toy who's learned to identify entirely with that role and love it.

The End