| December 7th, 2005 |
Something happens when the collar goes on.
I become a bitch-in-training.
Your bitch-in-training.
That slim ring of diamante leather reminds me that for now, I have made myself your sexual plaything, an object for you to torment and enjoy, tease and terrify, crush or free as you please, like a willing mouse between your leonine paws.
The collar means lessons in self-abnegation, focus and concentration, patience, courage, endurance, service.
With ropes and shackles, blindfolds and belts, you immobilise me in exposed and humiliating postures which render me helpless to repel your attentions. Tied, spread, arse up and face down, my body in its forced stillness teaches me to crave my own lewdness and to welcome with gratitude your fearsome intimacies.
You school my stamina by driving me to the brink and holding me there all a-gasp, my nipples throbbing under the pinch of clamps and my cunt aching while you redden me with brush or cane, nestle the nose of the vibrator into my clit, and shove the glass dildo up into me behind.
You teach me obedience: to your hand, to your voice, to your cock. You pace my orgasms, one after another, to condition me to your command. You order me to scream filth so I will learn the joy of emptying out as you ream me. You quell my natural rebelliousness by fucking my mouth: your fist tangled in my hair forces my face flat against your belly so that the inescapable, undeniable enormity of your cock in my throat gives me no choice but to surrender, suffer, and swallow.
The collar teaches me hunger: not for what I want, but for all you want of me.
These are just some of the lessons of the collar.
Sex
***************Feeling: love all around Listening to: Till There Was You, The Beatles |
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