On Being A Slave

To think that i once shunned the identifier that fits like a cloak knitted especially for me now.

In the beginning all one hears is the negative. The history our country has with slavery. The picture that word immediately conjures, not to the fault of those hearing it.

Once you can wrap your mind around one word describing two different things (the way “football” creates such dissimilar mental pictures depending on the history and culture of the person hearing the word) the acceptance of “slave” becomes swimming upstream.

For me, to describe myself as a slave is to describe who i am at the deepest of my core. i am owned, and driven, and bound in figurative chains. But it’s more than my place in a relationship.

It’s simply more.

It’s simply, me.

From my earliest moments in life, i have been driven by pleasure. Not my pleasure, no, but other people’s pleasure. It pleased me to no end to provide happiness to others and if, forbid, i created unhappiness in somebody else’s life, i was crushed.

I spent my early life lost, a forever “people pleaser” or “brown noser,” constantly searching out the next pat on the head telling me i did a job well done. Early on my call to service consumed me. The first to volunteer. The girl to raise her hand. The one who fucked up the curve.

The world is not always kind to those who commit to being good and seeking out perfection.

i could only make apologies for myself.

Until slavehood. Until i had a word for who i was, who i wanted to be, until adulthood, and self-awareness turned to self-acceptance which turned to no more apologies for being myself.

i am a slave.

i am a sex slave.

i am a woman who is a walking ball of sexual energy. It is unending, and recharges constantly, and the more sexual attention i get the more i have to offer. i am a wanton seductress, fueled by the desire of others, encouraged by positive affirmation, and at every moment of my day prepared to fulfill a sexual fantasy. i want to be transformed into a Master’s walking talking ideal woman, to be molded into everything that gets His dick hard. The way i carry myself, head held high, perfect posture, smiling at strangers, encouraging stares is all because i am a slave, not in spite of it.

i am also a service slave.

It isn’t just about sexual trysts. It is equally about serving up goodness in the life of others. i live with the desire to bring all pleasure, into the lives of everybody i cross paths with. i want to be a muse, a stimulus, to tantalize and flatter. To be pure inspiration for what kindness and goodness and happiness can look like. To encourage others to be perfectly them as i example that very thing every day in my life. To help people shed the skin of societal expectations. To be an ally to alternative lifestylers and mainstream folk alike. i vow to cause no harm, to ruffle no feathers, to only bring joy and light into the hearts of others.

my goal is to be “joie de vivre” brought to life. This is my personal path as a slave.

i am gladly still a slave to each person i meet, in my dedication to serve them up a large helping of my sunshine. i want to leave every person i cross paths with feeling better than they did before crossing my path.

Yes, i am owned. Yes, i tailor my energy to a specific (incredible, worthy, amazing) Man in my life. Yes, i am a slave to a Master.

But strip me of my collar, of my position, of my Owner, and i will simply be a slave unowned.

i am equally as bound to my own persona as i am to Master.


The Rest Are Minor Details

“What tools do i like best?”

Well thanks for asking! Whips more than canes, paddles more than floggers, and let me tell you about my feelings on electric play….

No, wait, never mind. Scratch that.

i like to be dominated; to do as demanded. To be taken. Used.

i like whatever gets a dick hard when brushed up against me during play.

i want to be a fantasy. my body to be a sexual muse. i wanna inspire.

i’m am exhibitionist, pulling my desire from others desiring me. If i walk into a room, i want all eyes on me, to feel the heat of being undressed with stares all around. Make me a future dream.

i want to be shown off. An arm around my hip, collar upon my throat, watching each person do their best to stop staring at my lofted and bound breasts while talking to me.

Picture untying that corset. Let it turn you on.

i dare ya.

Tell me how badly i’m wanted. Tell me how sexy i look tonight. Tell me how amazing i am.

The floggers and tools? The rest?

The rest are just minor details.

Kind Regards,
Mrs. Darling