Blog : I Have To Be Myself As Your Slave.

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9/26/2023 2:43 pm

I Have To Be Myself As Your Slave.

I won’t make myself beautiful for you.

I won’t put on a beautiful dress or force myself into fine lace as an act of service. I struggle too hard against the bounds of clear skin and smooth legs to be able to pledge such modifications to you, these ideas of visual pleasure are grating to me. I have to let my mascara run wild, my<b> nails </font></b>will always be too long and the paint on them, at least a little chipped; my stockings will always have a run in them, my socks will always be mismatched, my armpits will always be a little hairy. I cannot commit to a societal idea of beauty, even for you, but I will grow my hair out for years, because you ask it of me. I will painstakingly brush them even though I can think of nothing more loathsome than that, I will tuck it underneath my pillow every night so I can actually fall asleep instead of struggling against this unnecessary mop atop my head. I will suffer through this promise of long hair that you demand from me for the sole purpose of choking me with it. I shall grow you a weapon to use against me even though it is torturous to me every single moment of every single day. I will do that because it’s who I am.

I won’t clean your house or tend to your affairs.

To be honest, there was a time when this style of slavery was appealing to me and somewhere inside me is still a servant who views the entire world as their master, but that’s different. That is a spiritual journey and this is love. As I get older, I find, I cannot undertake a whole other job just by myself in order to be a good slave, nor do I find myself attracted, anymore, to people who need me because I take care of them. I care for you, deeply, and I love that you can take care of yourself, you don’t need me to do that. You don’t need me as my father needs my mother – to schedule your affairs, to assign you household tasks, to manage your social life, to find you friends, to raise your , to tell you where things are kept in your own home, to iron your shirts – I love that you don’t need me because that means you want me, all the time. I cannot be the sole builder of our home for you, it’s not an act of service to me anymore, but I will optimize my life and discipline every move so I can make as much time as possible for you, and us. If I have to be up at five to finish some work, so be it, if it means I can make more time for you. I will do that because it’s who I am.

I won’t commit to a ritual of kneeling for you.

I have no problem with the act, I even enjoy it when you demand it of me, even though it is not the position I enjoy, it’s the fact that you ask it of me, but it means very little to me. I understand what it is meant to be, an act of devoted ritualism and subservience, but when I get on my knees, I am saying nothing at all. Maybe I am meant to carry a booklet of slave positions that teach my body to communicate with you, but I would much rather do it wrong, than do it because of a norm. I cannot follow the rules of what slavery is meant to be as an act of service, but I will give up on a lifetime of looking into your eyes while you fuck me because you must have it so. Even on days when I want nothing more than to feel your weight on top of me and your arms around me, I will turn around and gratefully partake in the ritual of detachment you have taught my body to expect. I will rework a lifetime of sexual expectations in service to your temple of denial just so you can hurt me with it. I will worship at the permanent altar of pain you make me build. I will do that because it’s who I am.

I won’t sacrifice my pleasure for you.

You know what I am saying, right? You can have my orgasms, you can have my arousal, but you know, I cannot sacrifice even a morsel of pain. I cannot pretend that I want you to hurt me for any reason other than the fact that I love it. I will suffer past a point of sanity for you, but it’s always also for me. I cannot tell you that your pleasure is my pleasure or that mine lies solely in yours, it’s not the truth. My pursuits, both hedonistic and eudemonic, are for me as well, and often, me first. I am not so noble, nor so altruistic, that I can dedicate the entirety of my pleasure to the service of you, but I will behave exactly as you say when you hurt me. I will take a vow of silence and I will pledge myself to stillness. I won’t make a sound even as you flay me, I will put in the years it has already taken, and the many more I hope we have, to rewire my reflexes for you. I will take your compulsions and eccentricities as religion and devote my being to them. As demands they mean nothing – this or that, it’s all a set of protocols, it’s all the same – but they grew between us, like wildflowers that no one planted, and that is a language I live to build. I will modify my reactions for you. I will do that because it’s who I am.

I cannot define myself by you.

It is not my identity to be your slave and I am sure, it never will be. You are a part of my life and I am a part of yours, these roles mean a lot to me, they’re a huge part of how we love, but you don’t teach me my ethics, you don’t dictate my values, you don’t govern my habits, you don’t control my narrative. I must have that. I could easily romanticise this love into building myself in your image, but I have no desire to be a character of your creation, if all you need is an encoded set of behaviours, then I am not the right person for you. I cannot ornament myself in traits you deem desirable as an act of service but I will ornament myself in every trinket you put on me, for years on end. I will wear this cuff on my wrist, the one that’s been here for six years already, that I only removed for an MRI, I will wear this collar and any that replaces it and regard it as you do. It’s a betrayal to my personal values, object sentimentality is forbidden to me by the non-descript faith I choose, I fear nothing more than needless attachment to maudlin materialism, but I will participate in it for you. I will let you project your sentimentality onto whatever you put on me – old shoelace, silver or metal – because it means more to you than it does to me, and that is enough of a reason for me to adapt it like faith. I will do that because it’s who I am.

It means nothing to be a slave. It means something to be your slave. It means everything to be myself as a slave. I will give so much to this role and this relationship. I will confront myself. I will break myself down and challenge myself. I will suffer and I will rejoice, but I have to be myself. How I serve is who I am, and even as your slave, I have to be myself. If you look to serve convention, you will not find me, but if you want to play as our true selves in the fields of the madness of love, that’s where I am, and forever, will be.


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