Collars and Tears

My Dearest Master,

I am incapable of expressing my love for you. Gods, I love you. I wish I could explain how I feel when you treat me the right way. I love when you treat me as what I am: your wife, your pet, your property. When you treat me as yours to do with as you wish, your playtoy, your cumslut, your whatever it pleases you to make me be. 

I am yours. You own me, and it brings me no greater joy than to have this acknowledged by you. I love when you don’t treat me as a capable, independent woman, but the reduced thing that you have made me. I love when you hurt me until all that is left of me is agony and devotion to you, Master. I love when you push me to my limits. I love when you dismiss me as anything more than what it pleases you to make of me.

I feel bliss when you bind me and leave me await your pleasure. I feel such indescribable fulfillment and devotion when you leave me to suffer, not even worthy of being tortured at your hands, knowing that I am being a good possession to suffer as it pleases you, abandoned and awaiting your notice. A good possession remains in place, no matter what, until its owner finds it useful again. I delight in being your good possession, in subsuming the false me to what I really am. This is how I would spend my life in service to you.  Were it my choice, my life would be a life of such service, reduced to my essential function, to please you.

Today was wonderful, Master. You locked me into the pet collar that once brought me so much angst. We were so broken then, and you bought it, my first real collar, with such hope. You brought me to see it, each of us so hopeful, and I was shattered to see you thought such a collar, an ugly animal collar, was appropriate for me, your prideful and rebellious sub. And so I lashed out, and shattered us even more. But, as usual when it comes to knowing my heart, you were right. A pet collar with a lock held by you is exactly right for me. It is uncomfortable and the false me, the capable, independent woman of the outside world fears and loathes it. And yet she willingly allows it to be locked in place so that she can disappear for the brief, beautiful time I am able to wear it. And she mourns her revival at its removal. 

Today was agonizing, Master. Today went from play to torture. It surpassed pleasure, and it wasn’t fun. You pushed me further than I’ve ever been pushed, further than I thought you would ever go. I was mere seconds away from crying while you twisted my nipples after twenty minutes in the clothespins. It was true agony, my world was reduced to nothing but you and that terrible pain.  I can’t thank you enough for that experience, Master. I can’t tell you how much I crave it again, but more, further, longer. I crave that release. I want to scream and beg and cry uncontrollably at your hands. I want any semblance of control or autonomy stripped from me so that the truth is laid bare. I am your creature, nothing more. And I love those moments when you acknowledge what I know to be true in my heart and soul. I can’t explain how I feel at those little unconscious gestures that prove it. When you wipe your dick across my face after you’ve cum because that’s what I am to you, a place to leave your cum. When you’ve finished fucking me and push me aside because my use is over.  When you deliberately hurt me because you like the way it makes my vagina clamp down on you.  I daydream about a time when I am chained on my hands and knees on the bed, collared and clamped, waiting to be used, fucked, bred by you, my Master.

Forever your,


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