Do you contemplate sex without pain?

Is it the lead-in, the foreplay that needs pain or the thing itself?

Does old-fashioned pleasure still float your boat?

When someone on CollarSpace invites you to write and tell them about yourself, and you feel too shy to respond frankly, candidly or adequately, you ought be asking yourself whether you're big enough to have a profile on this site.

If you've had a profile here for years and years but are still so unsure of who you are that you can't answer simple questions about your dreams and desires without then having to run and hide, this is not the right place to hang out.

Lots of people come on this site to lie and pretend, and it's perfectly understandable; after all, it's free and it's a great place to adopt the magnificent persona you've always dreamt of owning.

But lots of you are earnest and honest, and you make the effort to be honest, so, it's beyond frustrating when you turn all coy, bashful and elusive when someone actually shows and interest in your truth...

*shakes head*

"Sheeeeesh!"

Two truths are self-evident within the soul of a Slave:  

1.) I am less than. I am not free. I am disempowered. I am vulnerable and unsafe.

2.) Others are more than me. They own me. They have power. With them I am protected and safe.

 Two truths are self-evident within the soul of a Slave-Owner: 

1.) I am lord/lady. I alone choose. I own them/him/her. I protect and shelter.

2.) They/he/she are necessary to me. I need their weakness. I need their power. I must have them.

and now I'm not sure whose neediness is the greater; slave or owner?

If you call youself a slave but your profile reads like that of a young woman shopping for a big romance, there is most probably some confusion in your heart of hearts about your role in life.

If you think I am wrong, I would like to hear from you, as well.

Generally, statistically, men are more interested in Things - Technology; while generally, statistically, women are more interested in People - Psychology.

What makes BDSM so fascinating is that so many of those very same women long to experience the sensation of being treated as a Thing.

And then, there are those few, special ones, who dream of actually becoming a Thing.

If you have the words 'lost', 'broken', 'lonely' or 'victim' in your ID name, the first people to contact you are the manipulative and predatory. I know this because when I see a name like that lighting up all soft and pink on my screen, my predator antenna go all tight and quivery.

I'm already thinking what I can say to convince you to trust me - because I'm so trustworthy and you need me so bad and we would be so good together... Come nestle 'neath my wings, child, pappa will make it all go away...

*drool*

You'd rather be a slave who knows what the hell is going on than some free soul who's thrown screaming into the jungle at night; because it's Chaos that frightens you most.

She asked us: "If you find a suitable person, are you also looking for her to work and bring in money to you?"

We said: "Of course. We have no need of having someone sitting around the house while we work to support them; it's supposed to work the other way around, they work to support us."

She said: "But the slave can do everything around the house."

"How much time does it take to look after an apartment, an hour a day? What about the other 10 working hours, is she sitting around painting her toenails?"

"What about being chained, or something?" she asked.

"Oh, give me a break! After a week of it you would go mad of boredom; MAD of being chained."

"True," she admitted. "But there can be many activities around the house. i'm not saying not i'm agreeing to work a regular job for money but most submissive want to stay around the house to take care of it."

"In essence what you're saying is that the owner is really like the Activities Director in the summer camp whose job it is to make sure the clients are always busy and entertained?"

(since you're reading this - write and comment, please; what do you think?)

Fearless does not mean 'without fear', it means 'in spite of fear'. When you meet your genuine match, the dominant or master of your dreams - you are going to feel fear, it's natural. Sure, there will be excitement, anticipation and elation; there has to be. But if there isn't also the charged terror of being consumed, devoured and changed to the point of disappearance, then it probably isn't the real one...

************

Now, this might have been a profile filled with witty, intense, seductive jargon to grab your attention. It isn't.

Dies könnte ein Profil mit witzigen, intensiv, verführerische jargon ihre aufmerksamkeit zu erregen ausgefüllt haben. Es ist nicht.

If you're serious and available, we'll consider you.

Strict, mature couple, living in the mountains, seek slave or daughter.

This position is NOT FOR YOU if you need ever more, louder cruelty, more, shriller pain, more, coarse sexual slavery, gang-bangs, more tumult and torment....

Most slaves don't even know the exquisite tortured ecstasy to be squeezed out of enforced, prolonged sexual arousal and denial, beckoning and banishing the cumming moment.

They talk of needing to submit, while really they're imagining a life of unbridled penetrative sex and multiple orgasms; never dreaming of all the exultation buried in the depths of unfathomable longing, never exploring the edge of orgasm, that ever sharpening crystal moment where the point of no return meets the law of ever diminishing orgasmic returns.

Where the imminent narrow edge of orgasm becomes a ledge, a widening plain, a distant receding horizon and all without losing its desperate need to cum, its sharp and desperate urge.

Chastity - That Dreaded Condition!

Strict, Älteres Paar, in den Bergen leben, suchen Slave.

Diese Position ist nicht für Sie, wenn Sie immer mehr Grausamkeit, mehr Schmerzen, mehr sexuelle Sklaverei, Gang-Bangs, mehr Lärm und Qual brauchen ....

Wir sind nicht herumlaufen Suche nach Aufregung. Wir möchten Ruhe und Gelassenheit, wir kämpfen nicht, und wir nicht schreien. Wir sind langweilig und wir mögen es so. Wir möchten Routine und Disziplin.

THE BOOK

Once upon a time there was a girl who went shopping for a book. She walked through the store aisles, wandering from shelf to shelf, picking up a book and browsing through it. The problem was, she didn’t really know what book she was looking for, what subject, or even what genre. A man stood next to her. He reached over her shoulder to a shelf and took a book. He handed it to her, saying, “This is the book you want to read. Take it and read it properly. When you've finished it, come back and I will give you your next book to read.”    

She took the book home and opened it. Tucked her feet under her and settled down to read, page after page after page.     

page after page after page

page

page

page

one after the next. And when she was done reading it she was a different person. She stood up, shook her head, frowned at herself in the mirror, blinked her eyes a few times, stared at the closed book, shrugged her shoulders.

Something had changed. Something had shifted. Something about her was different. Something was altered. Something was out of kilter. Something was out of place. Something was odd - she didn't recognize herself in herself - everything was still there but she was not. The man, the book, the reading, the process; things were not as they were.

She knew what she must do. She put on her coat and hurried to the bookstore, hurried to the shelves and began browsing the bookshelves. And the man was reaching over her shoulders for another book “What was in that book you gave me to read,” she confronted him angrily. “What did it do to me?"  

The man held a finger to his lips “shhhh” was what he said. “Now read this next. When you finish it come back for the next book I will give you to read.”

She responded angrily, “What was in it? What did it do?”

“shhh” the man said. “Did I tell you to ask questions? Did I tell you to talk at all?” he asked her.

 She looked down at her feet. Why didn’t she have any answers, any responses? Why was she letting him make the rules? She tried to open her mouth and retort in a cheeky bold way. She looked at him defiantly and opened her mouth

opened her mouth  

opened her mouth    

opened her mouth

opened her mouth and nothing came out, she took the book and, filled with shame and emotion, ran out of the store and cried in the rain all the way home.  

To read the second book she did not tuck her feet under her and seat herself comfortably. Instead she sat on the edge of her chair, her legs spread so wide every moment was torture. She read like a madwoman, in a frenzy, her eyes devouring the words, sentences, pages, and all the time she was aware how her legs were spread her knees open wide. She tried bringing her knees together but they opened back up of their own accord. She took her denim jeans and tied them around her knees to keep them together, but the pain

the pain   

it was like her bones were going to crack open if she didn’t untie them, so she untied them and read the book, and still they kept spreading. She was no gymnast; this was like doing the splits. IT HURT. She grunted as she read on. She stood up and walked around feeling the strange aching in her hips; what a strange way to have been sitting - under pressure - under stress - hips splayed so far they ached. But as soon as she sat down again they opened up again, so she stood and read the book; stood reading until the end.

And the man gave her a third book. She took it without demur. He said, “On the last page is an address. When you get to the end of this book you will go to that address and I will give you your next book.”

Not another word said the man. She stood there in the bookshop feeling her life drain away, feeling her options fade and her future narrowing down to the dictates of this strange man. Suddenly she wanted to run, but her hips felt funny; they rocked and wobbled. She tried saying no, tried shaking her head,    tried looking him in the eyes, but none of it happened; she said, “Yes, Master,” and took the third book.

Ask yourself this: Do I have experience living in a home where I am the third class citizen, the invisible one who has no say, no footprint, no voice and no money?

Came upon this little gem in a profile today:

 I work for a publishing company, and love writing books...  I work out do yoga and take marshal art classes...

I love Collarme!

Been chatting to a Russian sub, on Collarme - I call her Red October...

I see you advertising yourself as a slave, I read your profile, so I'm asking, do you even get the premise of slavery?

Do you even understand that in calling yourself a slave you're advertizing your desire to put SOMEONE ELSE at the center of your life, saying that you want to displace yourself from the center of the world, to stop everything rotating around you, to take yourself out of your personal cosmos, to put something else there in your place?
Mostly when I read your profile I get the impression you're so self centered you wouldn't even understand my question. You spin, supremely indifferent to the world, around yourself in splendid self-adoration.

Inside some of us, though, sometimes buried deep, is a slaveSoul. In certain lucky people that soul moves them to bow and kneel and suffer - because their soul loves to worship, to serve, to adore, to be a slave. 

How do you respond to your soul at moments like those?

Oh, and by the way, you are brave enough to move from CM messaging to correspondence via regular Email pretty swiftly or else it will be assumed you are a time waster.

Caution is a good feature, (even fear may be a pleasure) but furtive and secretive hiding on your part is a major red flag. MAJOR.

*sigh*

It's far easier to explain what I don't want, to paint you in negatives, saying I won't want you if you're too fat or tall or domestically untrained and useless in the kitchen.

It's much harder telling you what I want; to paint you positive - spelling you out loud and clear without wiggle room for me to 'er' and 'but-but' when you pin me on the sharp end of my contraditions as we actually correspond.

You don't have to be sharp, smart or clever. You can even be a little slow or dim if that's the way it is. Personally, I think I'm a trifle slow myself, if we're being honest; Dr. Alzenheimer, my wife calls me. My memory really is that bad. What you should be though, is focused, determined and capable of single-minded (even obsessive) follow-through. You can concentrate when you have to, or are made to. You can plod and nod and trod on to finish a task even if means hanging on like grim death.

You can let go of your past, your baggage, your tightly clutched personal 'issues' and distinguish between what's personal and what's important. You can smile when you remember how important all that shit seemed yesterday; how pathetic is seems in today's light.

You can make someone and something else center of the world - you can worship.

That you are not worthy does not mean you are bad.

You may become worthy by leaving your world a better place than you found it.

Someone ought to make note of trends in Collarme profiles. Has anyone else noticed 'lists'?

The 271 First Rules Governing This Slave.

The 1280 Characteristics I Look For In A Master. 

Them lists, they're proliferatin' man!

And then there are those who simply cannot take 'Yes, for an answer!

I've explored most forms of BDSM, with a few notable exceptions. From rope to knife play, leather, cane, sassy bottoms and bottomless masochists. I don't explore choking, breath-play, asphyxiation or any version of oxygen denial, though. I've seen it done, watched it and been fascinated by it, like anyone else watching serious edge-players at work, I've been thrilled and awed. 

I recall one night, back at the Leather-Rose on Fullerton, when Mr. Two-Canes was doing his thing. He'd finished caning her shoulders, buttocks, breasts, feet and tender private parts. He'd worked them over pretty thoroughly for at least half an hour. He was fisting her, strapped face down on the medical examination table, she was wriggling. He was shouting at her, "You're not getting any more air until you fucking come, not a single breathful, d'you hear me?" His right hand was pumping her asshole while his left hand was cupped over her mouth and pinching her nose. The two canes were trapped under his right armpit, that's where he carried them while he fisted her. He always knew where those damned canes were. Faster and faster. She grunted and squealed, but he held fast. I'd been watching because I was interested in seeing him wield his canes, one in each hand; he was a master. But now it was serious. A battle of wills. Her labia and pudenda were burning with the pain of the cane, she bled a bit. His hand was deep inside her, stretching and violating her. He owned her. She spasmed. He plunged in and out again. She shrieked through the gagging fist over mouth and nose. The two canes dropped to the floor. He put his back into the work. And then she CAME, squirting piss and cum and who only knows what else all over the room, onto him, onto me who was watching up close. She pumped it out, he pumped her in. It was a moment. Ya had ta be there. She gasped; he'd let her breathe. I sighed.

As I say, I've watched the edge players but I've never thought it worth risking a trip to the emergency room, morgue or doing serious jail- time. Perhaps I'm too cerebral? Call me coward. I get other kicks.

An overripe persimmon tastes, I have it on excellent authority, as jism tastes in your dreams...

In this house 'large endowment' does not refer to either breast or penis amplitude, it means a minimum of $30,000 a year after tax; a legacy, annuity, bequest, inheritance or stipend. Get real, woman, who's interested in your bra-size?

In this house 'toilet slavery' doesn't mean coprophilia, it means cleaning the toilet bowl pedestal, seat, lid and back, including the nylon nuts and bolts passing through the ceramic; scrubbing, bleaching, disinfecting and wiping it to the point of being able to eat your lunch off all of it, which you will do if I don't think you've done your job properly...

ON CHASTITY

 If you practise chastity on your own it has its own satisfying payoff.

But if you undertake the practise as a discipline within a BDSM framework it starts off being about chastity, ostensibly about denial of the rights to masturbation and self pleasuring. But it grows to be about something else, more powerful.

It starts off being about about rules and regulations, about acts, habits and accountability. But it grows to become about the relationship.

It starts off being about moving beyond sexual acting-out, but becomes an act in and of itself, an act of obedience, compliance, obeisance, an act of giving and letting go. It becomes an act of worship and an offering of sacrifice.

It moves through a variety of well-recognized phases, but eventually develops into a personal and very particular journey unique to each individual.

The chastity device, belt, lock or whatever is merely a symbol of your commitment.

Nothing will prevent you masturbating if you are set on walking down the path in that direction. I don't have to tell you how many ways there are to get yourself off without putting your fingers to your skin. The belt is there to give you a minute's grace, to help you recollect your vow of chastity before you go ahead and break it without thinking. It's there to provide a fence to remind you who you are and what your focus is. It's not there to police your fingers or stop you breaking your promises to yourself and your owner.

The device is just a physical symbol of a sort of religious calling. I call it religious, 'cos nothing short of total emotional, physical, mental and spiritual dedication will see you through the long haul. That's what nunnery was about. Girls entering holy-orders took a vow of poverty, chastity and obedience, and each vow depended for it's stability on the support of the other.

I wonder if you have thought it through sufficiently?

How your chastity develops, how it harmonizes with your life, with the rest of your behaviors and patterns will depend in part with how you regulate your other activities. If you're used to go out clubbing, drinking, smoking dope and getting intoxicated with friends and strangers it won't last very long before it clashes and crashes. If you spend evenings playing with a vibrator, sex toys or watching or reading porn or other sexually stimulating activities it is only going to set up a lot of feelings of frustration. That's why the nuns had poverty and obedience as sister vows to the chastity. They raise the entire sexual denial endeavor to the realm of the spiritual quest for fulfillment and enlightenment. All enlightenment comes through self-knowledge.

Chastity is a wonderful tool with which to learn yourself. If you dream of moving on into a life of real slavery, service, availability, humility, to become property, to take equivalent vows of poverty and obedience, you could not hope for a better preparation than a thorough familiarity with chastity.

Most young women I encounter equate 'slavery' with unbridled licentiousness and sexual depravity. All that tells me about them is that they think that by calling themselves a 'slave' they somehow oblige their owner to 'service' them sexually, frequently and satisfyingly. Nothing could be further from the truth. If you are my slave the last thing I am obliged is to satisfy your sexual needs or any other desires.

Becoming a slave does not mean you become entitled - just the opposite. Being an owner, a master, mistress, parent or guardian means entitlement. Being a slave means the opposite. Entering slavery means giving it all away.

By completely stripping yourself of autonomous sexual activity you open yourself to have your body, mind and soul become a playground for someone else's sexuality. Your body becomes a matchless possession and part of your owner's estate and property. You become as precious as a racehorse or yacht...

Living in conscious chastity for a prolonged period will help you settle into the proper mindset, and is a great preparation for a life in service.

Chastity is not sexual numbness or deadness, either. Periods of time may pass when your sexuality lays dormant. But in the main you will find it's a heightened awareness. Some days it will feel like freedom while on other days it will feel like a perpetual weight in your groin.

(WARNING: TMI)
 You will need to keep your vagina clean, especially when menstruating. It will need washing with water and sometimes with soap. What temperature the water used during washing what approach you take to hygiene in general, how much care you take not to stimulate yourself, all these details will put a spotlight on your commitment to chastity. You will require clarity, rules, discipline. It all needs to be in place before you begin, because in the heat of the moment you may make the wrong decisions. Shaving and depilation also needs clear and precise guidelines. You'll need rules to govern touching or caressing nipples or other erogenous zones.

Some rules will come to the fore naturally, as life proceeds, they'll make themselves known to you. Other rules will require thought and discussion.

Are you committed, have you thought all of this through to the conclusions?

Do you have a different definition of chastity from the one I just outlined?

Why am I here today?

Philosophically speaking, Collarme is arguably the last places on the Internet where chaos in the form of personal sexual expression still exists, where the App is not the content, where my curiosity has not been monetized and the voice of individual freedom is still loud enough to excite me with optimistic caution, awe and wonder.

It's ok to be both fascinated and repelled by a person or activity on collarme. Fascination coupled with revulsion can be a powerful stimulant, I've found. (But only if you're curious and daring. 

It's also ok to be judgmental about people and activities on collarme. Right and wrong still have meaning and value, even when I'm a pervert and sadist. Cheating is still cheating and lying is still lying, and I've gleefully done enough of both to know what I'm talking about.)

Don't you just love it when she refers to her breasts as udders? Soooo Classy!

She asked me in one of her letters, (it was her final letter, actually): 

Will I arrange gangbangs (or other hot sexual shit) for her? 
To which I responded: To be utterly frank, I'm much more likely to put you into some serious, long term chastity and sexual restraint. Mostly because you enjoy sex so much and it would be my delight to deny it you, as a form of torture, but also because I think you might benefit from the discipline and denial. 
I'd constantly be trying to break you, not physically, but mentally and emotionally. It's how I get my kicks, overpowering a weaker mind and forcing it into new and unexpected pathways, forcing you to learn skills you never dreamed of, or getting you to forget how to do the most commonplace act.
My sadism is more spiritual than simply administering pain, if you know what I mean. 

*********

Needless to add, I never saw or heard from her again...

There's only one thing smells worse on a collarme applicant than body-odor, my wife tells me, and that's desperation...

"Wow!" I said. "A cosmologist; not a lot of them on Collarme."

"No," she corrected me. "A cosmetologist."

I know I left my reading glasses somewhere around here, I just know it...

Turn-on words (work in progress) Just assembling a list of words I find exciting, triggering or eye-catching when I see them in a SN or profile:

Wanton - it's a delicious word; has a hint of mad recklessness to it, something breathless and abandoned.

Servile - suggests someone prepared to lick my toilet bowl just to earn a pat on the head; a cringer*, ingratiatee* or pathetic desperand*.

Abject - when misery is reified, and bottomlessness quantified in one utterly incomprehensible state of being.

Bitch - astoundingly frank.

Lascivious - intellectually evolved, with an added touch of wetness, to it.

* I know, I know; but sometimes you have to make up your own words or else the sentence gets too long...

**************************

Oh, and topping the list of turn-off words is Discreet,with Precious not that far behind it. Tits, Slut and Cum have no class, and don't even talk to me about lil.

     Breasts are not assets, they're attributes. They have no "meaning" beyond their function, shape and style. Any dominant, submissive or vanilla man who would first be drawn to chase a woman because he was shown a photograph of her cleavage is still looking for his Mommy... 

     Just my $0.02 

"My body is a Temple," she told me. "Where I go to pray for drugs."

    I have seen photographs on collarme showing ugly things. A woman proudly displays pictures of her breasts with nails hammered through them into a 4"X4". Another shows a cunt with a toilet brush stuffed up it, presumably as proof to everyone of her noble (and hygienic) masochism. You can find photos galore of breasts purple and distorted with ropes, cords, ties and laces in a hundred squalid permutations; there clearly exist people who turn onto such activities, and who am I to cavil?

    But I have to admit I am creeped out by gooey photoshopped images of miniature kneeling females languishing - cupped in the open palms of their disembodied mens' hands. 

    Don't ask me why, because I cannot explain my squickedness, it's just so tweeeee.

It may not be a function of knowledge, per se, or education, but I find that kinkiness, perversity, sexual abandon and joyful sado-masochism increases in proportion to intelligence.

Because you are indeed a beautiful face, and because you are a mother; because you are acutely, exquisitely aware of all your body's imperfections and those things which make you less than, lower than, unworthy of, beholden to and of necessity incapable of...

Because you have begged, pleaded and entreated; because you went down on your knees, groveling, with reddened puffy eyes and no dignity whatever, blubbering and hiccuping with lust, servility and abject, shameless and pitiless self-abnegation, I acquiesced. I nodded to your husband and made the appointment. "Make sure she's prepared," I tell him.

You turn to him, asking for information, wanting to know what I meant. But he's not responsive, mumbling and muttering under his breath. You pump him for details, "What did he mean?" you beg, "Tell me; what preparations, tell me what he told you," but there's nothing forthcoming, nothing you can use. You husband is closed to you.

You were expecting a motel room, you'd discussed a motel with your husband, it was decided. But when you got into the car for the appointment he didn't drive you there. You looked at him, sitting at the wheel of the car, a stranger to you, your husband. "Where are you taking me?" "To your appointment," he answers. "The Master specified a place, I'm taking you there."

You fall silent, wondering why your husband is calling me Master. Since when did he get into the spirit of things? "You won't leave me there alone?" you ask, suddenly a little afraid. But your husband only smiles at that. "Leave you alone? I should hope not"

You don't know whether to be relieved or more anxious, it feels so 'off'. It's not a motel, it's a barn. And it's obvious your husband has been here before. He knows the way around, he knows how to slide the door open, he knows something you don't know. He comes around to open the door for you to step out of the passenger seat and you suddenly realize why he had you wear that long, hobblingly tight pencil skirt. There's no way you can run, your feet trip like a caricature of a japanese geisha, heels dig into the grass. He takes your elbow and guides you into the dim interior.

Something in you feels a little wild, panicked, surges of energy tremble through you, fear, terror, anticipation, shivering, cold, hot-flashes, your eyes swivel back and forward, alarmed, excited, mortified, filled with longing and aching with sex. He leads you over the the table in the middle of the barn, well, table, bench, contraption, whatever it is and bends you gently over, rests your arms on the table, just so. He puts his hand on the back of your neck and softly, firmly, purposefully presses your head forward and clunk-clicks the top bar over your neck. It's a very simple but effective version of the stocks; your wrists and neck are immobilized. Twisting your neck and face around to look at him, a thousand question on your lips, he merely looks more businesslike than ever. "Here," he says. "Bite on this," and puts a soft chewy grey ball into your open mouth. You bite down, feeling your teeth penetrating the chewy mass all the way to your gums, slippery and slidingly like the stuff dentists have you bite into.. and then you try to part your teeth. No go. They're there for the duration.

"Nnnnggghhh, Unnnnhh," is the sum total of your vocabulary. There's more than a little terror showing in your eyes now as you flash your face at him, nodding, shaking, trying to convey all your questions, all your disconcertion, your chagrin, your anxiety, your doubts and your discomfort. He does the oddest thing. Your husband sits down on the chair at your head, picks up a book off the table and begins to read as though you were not there at all. He can hear you phumphing and snuffling and chomping and fnufffing and he can see your feet racing and shuffling and testing and adjusting, but he sits there reading, not looking at you. And you. You wish the skirt were not so tight, the heels not so high, the bend in your hips not so acute, the wetness between your thighs not so, not quite so...

As soon as I put my hand on the nape of your neck you go still, you freeeeeze like a stunned creature, your heart-rate shoots up and your mind goes quiet. Very quiet. When I open the stocks and lift your head and look into your eyes you are quiet, but I never take my hand off the nape of your neck. Four of my fingers are wound through your hair, curling and tight, but the pressure is always there and you are held. "The gag we'll leave for now," I tell you. "First I have something to show you."