One of the main tenet of my slave contract was sexual availability and sexual service. First and foremost I was a sex slave, and when sir and I began this journey together I was vocal and explicit about my sexual needs. Objectification was a big turn-on for me, and I craved to be used. I enjoyed being a living, breathing sex doll of sorts. In fact, I insisted on it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want an emotional connection during sex, but it didn’t always have to be about the feefees. Sometimes what I wanted was to be bent over the kitchen counter and commanded to present myself for penetration. Luckily for me, sir was looking for that exact thing. We both had high sex drives, so when we crafted our contract, sex was number one on the proverbial “to do” list. This meant that it didn’t matter if I was in the mood or not. If sir wanted to fuck, or be sexually satisfied in any way, shape or form (in a way that wasn’t on my limits list) we did it. Even though he pushed my boundaries in his charismatic and loving way, I was game. It got intense at times, but we more or less saw eye-to-eye when it came to sex. And then December happened…
I think it’s part of the human experience to have contradictory feelings about the holidays, but December was particularly intense for sir and me. Sir had the month off, and since I worked from home, we spent most days together. Sir called it The Month of Obsessive Compulsive Fucking, because we did it all the time. At least, that’s how that month felt to me in hindsight. When I think back on it, everything seemed blurry. It passed in a haze of come, sweat, rich foods, endless family visits, and booze. It felt like we squeezed a year’s worth of debauchery into 31 days. I wasn’t sleeping more than a couple of hours in a row, because we’d fuck in the middle of the night. There was a blowjob in the morning, at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day. He’d come downstairs, pull out a chair beside me at the table and tell me to get on my knees. We fucked all over the house, in all the rooms, using all my orifices. I took to keeping a tube of Aquaphor on my nightstand, because the delicate skin of my labia, lips, and anus were rubbed raw. It was an intense rush. I had never felt closer to sir emotionally, and it seemed like our physical joining was reinforcing that. On one level I felt amazing, but by the time January rolled around, I felt like I was falling apart emotionally.
The first sign of trouble was that I began to resist being hypnotized. We have had a lot of fun with consensual mind games, but in December, more often than not, sir would put me under and I wouldn’t remember what transpired. One moment he was mid-thrust, and then my consciousness was gone. I would eventually wake up to our dark bedroom with sir fast asleep beside me. I’d be covered in bodily fluids, smelling of sex with come trickling out between my legs. Any other time, I would have been so turned on by that level of objectification that I’d wake sir up to fuck me again. I loved to be used in this way. I felt like a sex detective which made the disconnect in my brain fun. I’d take stock of my body and sensations and try to guess what had happened. Often sir would give me a brief recap of what had occurred between us, but it got to the point where I feared that I was hypnotized more than I was conscious. I began to have an emotional reaction to going under, and I couldn’t figure out why my sex doll role play wasn’t making me the horny, wanton slut the way it usually did. Sex wasn’t supposed to be a point of stress for me, but that’s precisely what happened.
It took me a long time to work up the courage to say that I needed break. In fact, I still feel guilty that I said anything at all. I’m a prideful whore, and I take great satisfaction in pleasing my dominant. Admitting that I was beginning to unravel felt like weakness, but I had to do something. There was an internal war happening, and sir didn’t have any idea that I was ripping myself to shreds. I resisted hypnosis because on some level I felt like he was rejecting the conscious Heather (who had an opinion about everything) in favor of a doll that he could control completely. An insidious voice whispered that if I truly was as devoted as I claim to be, I could have endured. I could have stuck it out while silently hoping I’d be granted a reprieve. I learned, though, that there was a limit to how much pounding my body could take in the span of 24 hours. And I now know that even though I wished to submit and serve, I also wanted to be present. Not all the time, but for most of it.
These feelings of criticism and self-censure were an echo of an old family message that I’ve struggled with almost my entire life. It takes time for me to become conscious of them, and part of my healing has been teasing apart the strands of what happened in December and articulating exactly what triggered those shrieking monkeys in my head. Sir and I both had to expose our feelings about the situation, and it turned out that the emotional landscape behind December was vastly different from what showed on the surface. Both of us grappled with outside stress and uncertainty, but we weren’t talking about it with one another. We clung to each other and tried to find solace and distraction in our favorite activity: sex. My mini-breakdown finally ripped off the cover to expose what was going on at the root of our compulsive fucking. We were trying to bury ourselves in sex and physical connection in an attempt to cushion ourselves from the pain of what we were feeling regarding outside circumstances.
I’m still sorting out the repercussions of December. Hindsight is a helpful lens, and I’ve been able to open up more to sir about what I was feeling. Our conversations since Debaucheries December have revealed that there are innate expectations associated with our role of Master and Slave. It’s natural for sir to feel pressured to be in control of himself and everything else as a loving, caring dominant, and I have my own expectations of how a slave should behave. But without open communication regarding the feelings associated with D/s, we’re stuck playing shallow roles that have little to do with who we are as people. As my dear Mama pointed out, there is strength in vulnerability, and I think that’s the biggest lesson for me. It takes strength to open myself to the control of another, and it takes strength to advocate for myself as well. As uncomfortable as it feels in the moment, I’m learning that this kind of emotional exposure only strengthens the bond between us in the long run. I don’t want a robotic, super-human dominant who knows all without me uttering a word. I want a flawed, loving man to take the lead and who understands that I’m bringing along baggage as well. The gift in this has been forming a healthy dialogue and pushing past our perceived hurts to find the other willing partner again. It’s my sincere wish that we will always find each other again.