Oh Master I wish I could tell the world how wonderful you are and why I love you so much. But I can’t say “Mom, the night before last he ignored my shivering in fear and my begging him not to, and he clamped my nipples and used the crop on my breasts because he knew I needed to be reminded that he owns me.” I can’t explain to my co-workers how valued I feel when you wake me with the question “Are you my good slut?”, shift my body how you want it, and probe to see if I will accommodate you. Whether audible and intelligible words or just the shifting and acquiescence of my body, my answer will always be “I want to be your good slut.” I can’t tell my girl friends about how you can reduce me to my lowest animal needs by simply raising my from my breeding posture of face down, ass in the air to being on all fours as you knead and pull at my breasts or the clamps on my nipples until the beautiful agony of it drives out all higher thought and reveals the elemental simplicity of who and what I am. I can’t brag on social media how you can raise me from my lowest point, from the animal you’ve reduced me to, tortured until I cannot withstand the pressure any longer and collapse forward back into breeding posture, to feeling like the strongest, most confident and capable woman on the planet, simply by whispering that “Good girls can hold themselves up and keep their back straight.” Because with those words, suddenly I am transformed into your good girl, and can pull myself back onto my hands and knees, straighten my back, and not only endure but find joy in what was unenduarble only moments ago.
I wish I could share the beauty and transcendence in our love with the world. But I can’t so I’ll continue to share my truest thoughts and feelings here in my journal.
I am whatever you would have me be, but always your,