I was talking to a very good friend last night about some of the desires written here… A very smart man who is on the list of ‘if only’s…’ but he is very happily in love and I am very happy for him.
But I said to my friend… sometimes I just want to be sold. In a controlled environment, of course, to the right person and in the right situation. My friend said… of course you do. That’s the very opposite of your life.
It is true. That is the very opposite of my life. I make my own choices and I live with the consequences. But why is the absence of choice as erotic as a plethora of choice? That uncertainty. The unknown. What you don’t know is always exciting. How was the new world found? How was the west won? Because there were those who weren’t content with the familiar and went in search of the unfamiliar.
There is actually a gene for it, or so the scientists believe. DRD4-7R, the gene that makes some of us incredibly restless and gives us wanderlust. Also interestingly might be tied to obesity and… shall I say… substance appreciation! Dopamine genes… getting that little hit of chemical pleasure in our brains makes us feel so damn good.
I’m sure I have that gene, and I’m working on a confirmation, but the quirks of the 20% of the people who have it are really very me. I move like a restless vagabond, constantly looking for something I never seem to be able to find. I like to taste and savour most of life’s pleasures as I travel on my way.
So how does wanting to be sold match with being an adventurer? Because a loss of control is an adventure. I can only imagine what it must be like to be told what is going to happen to you now, and to not have a choice. (Let me preface that by saying, I am not thinking being a victim of human trafficking is an adventure. I think it’s a horrible crime, and doesn’t fit into this narrative at all!) Perhaps I should say that power you chose to give up is an adventure. I’ve been in my own share of truly powerless situations and it’s made me stronger, but I can’t say as I’ve enjoyed most of them.
But then there is ‘BDSM’ slavery. My issue with so much of ‘sex slavery’ in the BDSM world is that it’s an incredibly broad umbrella which seems to have very similar interpretation. A slave is something you use, humiliate and degrade. To me, that shows an elementary lack of imagination in the interpretation of the word. Some slaves were of no value in the hierarchy and some were of exquisite value. Not all slavery has to be of the Uncle Tom’s Cabin model.
What about seeing something you want so much, you are willing to pay anything to have it? Would your first impulse be to destroy it? If you were suddenly given a a Maserati Quattroporto, would you hop into it and drive it into a wall? Would you call it a piece of shit because it was free?
Perhaps this is why I am attracted to Daddy play because a father inherently values his daughter. It’s part of the dynamic. Someone wrote this for me a while back. I’ve always really liked it.
Too many daddydoms think their job is to trick the little girl into making an error so they can administer punishment. Few understand that the mystery is the mutual seduction to lead the little girl into deeper and deeper explorations of her own lusts and corruption. She wants to please her daddy, but needs daddy to tease her into leading her to shameless molestations, unspeakable sexual practices and shocking admisssions of lust. It is a process of discovery and training to mold the little girl into really want to do all those things that please her daddy. She is concerned that he has even more surprises for her if he would only share them. And on it goes.
Gets me every time…
But back to being for sale…
I’ve written about being prepared. The trembling nervousness of what is to come. The lack of choice. Servicing someone you don’t know and have never met. Submitting to their will. Letting them inside your body and knowing they can take you again- whenever and however they want. Surrendering yourself to them. Knowing they have paid to have you. More than to have you, but to own you. This isn’t a service. This isn’t a one off. You are their property. You are their chattel.
I’ve often wondered if mail order brides felt that way? Or the women in arranged marriages? There’s a wonderful scene in The Duchess where Ralph Feinnes takes Kiera Knightly for the first time. She has been mostly undressed by maids, and then this man she has met a few times takes off her clothes, puts her on the bed, and has his way with her. She is his to own, and his to breed. (which happens rather brutally and somewhat deliciously later in the film.)
Perhaps that is what I seek? That every day loss of control. Not for an hour or a day or a weekend or a scene. One of my deeply powerful kinks, erotic lactation, can turn you into a slave to the clock. Aching, full breasts require attention and care. A milkmaid must be milked or suffer.
Breeding. A task that I can only fail at, and yet… The action. The talk. While for me, it is only the whisper of risk, but the talk of it still curls my toes and makes my palms damp. I’ve seen pictures of women on Tumblr strapped to breeding benches. Tied down. Used to take seed until their bellies swell. Filled up with semen until it runs down their thighs like an erotic fountain. But the women have no choice in it. They are a receptacle of of it, like a champagne glass in a fountain.
Just the thought of it. In my mind I can feel it so vividly. Being used that way. Filled up with spurt after spurt of your precious seed. Restrained so I can’t move, or fight your or get away. Forced to take it whether I want it or not. What matters is that you put it inside me.
Then the feeling as the excess of those pearls rolls out between my swollen nether lips. My chafed, brutalised, pink lady garden giving up that seed which it can no longer hold. The warmth of it; the stickiness of it as it rolls with gravity out of me. Viscous strings that slide down my thighs or drip directly from my lips to the floor.
Perhaps you use that wonderful lubricant to fist me while you wait for round two? Perhaps you use it to moisten a thumb to slide into my oh so tight anus.
But in the end… I am owned. I’m a possession. But I would never want to be a possession that isn’t of worth. I want to be your most precious possession… Your beautiful pearl of great value….
And now I shall take a moment… and think on that scene again….