Someone recently asked Me what I want from a collared slave and just what the slave relationship means to Me. Well…………….
I want you.
I want you to be mine.
I want you to *show* that you are mine, submissive to my every desire. Mine to do with as I please, to say yes as a good little boy should say to his Mistress, and never say no. To agree to whatever I want, whatever experiment, whatever position, whatever whim I might have in mind for you. I want you to agree that *my* pleasure is paramount, the end-all and be-all of your existence, and far more important than your own, to give me what I’m not getting elsewhere in the tedium of my life.
I want you to kneel naked before me, heels under your buttocks in that way you know I like, the way that spreads your ass cheeks just that little extra bit, making you hyperaware that your asshole is mine, too. I want your knees splayed wide, too, displaying the penis and balls dangling at the apex of your thighs–and that penis had better be hard; it’s disrespectful to be limp in front of your goddess.
I might want your hands clasped behind your back at the base of your spine, or I might want their fingers laced together behind your head, but either way, they will be out of my way, as you keep your head down and your shoulders back, displaying your chest and the nipples standing sentry there. You will not look up at my face, my breasts, or even my bottom unless I give you permission to; you are not worthy to gaze upon them without my will. I am a goddess, and you will show your devotion to me in the manner that pleases me best.
I want every inch of your body cleaned when you present yourself like a gift to me, scrubbed from head to foot, including behind the ears and between the toes. If I want you to wear cologne or perfume, I will let you know, but I do *not* want to smell your sweat until you’re bound and chained, and writhing in the ecstasy of the pain I can and will bestow upon you. I do not want to smell that stale cornchip odor on your feet, and I don’t want to smell stale urine on your cock—no, on *my* cock. If you are kneeling before me, submissive, then everything that was yours is now mine, and your penis is the most personal gift you can make. It will be mine.
Your armpits are to be shaved. This goes right along with the command that you must smell sweet and clean. So must your testicles. If I want hair on your ballsack, I will let you know, and give it time to grow. I want you to worship me.
I want, when I extend my foot, the lowliest part of my goddess-like body, for you to bend over and kiss it. To lave my foot, whether it is in a tennis shoe, a sandal, a boot, or barefoot, with your tongue. To worship it, to show that you willingly place yourself under my heel, conquered by your own devotion to me, so that I do not have to exert myself if I do not want to. I’m tired of fighting all the chauvanistic assholes out in the real world, just to claim my rightful place, career, and paycheck out in the real world. When I come home, when I come into your home, I want my birthright as a living incarnation of Mother Earth, the Goddess, to be acknowledged the moment I open that door.
When you lick my bare foot, you will not neglect to suck on my toes. I want to feel your tongue working the tender skin between the joints, and a soft, reverent kiss placed on my instep. I want to feel your lips worshipping my ankles, and if I’m in a good mood, the muscles of my calves. Especially if I’m wearing heels. I do not wear heels for my own enjoyment, slave—remember that! If I wear heels, it is for two reasons; to make my already shapely legs look fantastic, and to grind the heel into whatever part of your body I’m displeased with. High heels hurt my feet, and they make my calves tense with the need to balance, so when I give you permission to salute my feet and lower legs when I’m wearing heels, I want you to show how much you appreciate the time and effort I’ve taken to wear them in the first place.
My knees are another point of worship; if I give you permission to rise as high as them in your devotions to my beauty, do not assume I will let you move on to my thighs. My knees are weapons against the dick-headed jerks of the world who think they can grab a woman’s ass in the workplace and get away with it. Many a woman’s knee has slammed into the groin of a man who thought he was better than her, simply by virtue of his genes. My knees can be used against you, if you displease me, so I want you to kiss them. I also want you to offer to do anything that requires kneeling, so that I do not have to bruise or otherwise sully them with menial labor. Scrubbing the floor, the toilet, wiping down the cabinets, mopping up spilled drinks, picking up broken glass, weeding in the garden, putting dishes away in the lower cupboards—anything that would cause me to have to bend down on my knees should be your job, and your place in the world. Remember to keep your own knees spread. Your thighs aren’t allowed to touch your cock, except maybe when you’re lying down, or you have to walk.
My hands must be worshipped, for they wield the whips that are your punishment and your reward. From my hands comes your damnation and your salvation. I can slap you, or I can caress you. Most of the time I want you to behave; I would much rather have you do my every bidding…but if you like, or sometimes, just sometimes if I like, I will use them to hurt you. To take out my frustrations on, when you disobey me beyond reason. Never more than you can take; that is our bond, that I will test and find your limits, and work within them. But if I am interested in expanding those limits, then that is the task to which I will set my goddess’s hand.
I want you to fetch my toys, when I’m ready to play.
I want you to know exactly what tools and toys I can use on you, at any time, according to my whims. I want you to know exactly where I keep my flogger, my paddle, my red and black whip, my cat’o’nine, and my horsewhip. I want you to keep them cleaned and oiled, and lined up neatly in their special place. I want you to keep the handcuffs polished, the chains free from rust, and the dildos sanitized and squeaky-clean. You will be responsible to making sure my favorite vibrators have fresh batteries, and that the tubes and jars of lubricants haven’t run out. The collars and cuffs will be kept ready for your disciplining, and the weights, clips, and clothespins will be kept dusted and oiled, unless I’m in the mood to hear the little springs squeak as I pinch them open, right before applying them to your flesh. That flesh had better be willing, too. I will not waste my time for long on someone who will not do as I say.
If I’m in a good mood, you might be allowed to bring what I want on your feet, carrying them in your hands. If I’m not, you may have to carry them in your mouth, on all fours like the dog you males often are. If I want them brought to me like a dog fetching the paper for his mistress, then you are not allowed to drool on the floor. If I want to suffer that kind of housekeeping aggravation, I’ll buy a real dog. You will not be allowed to leave teethmarks on my favorite toys, either. That will get you a whipping; these things are expensive to replace, and are my favorite toys to play with, too. Keep your knees apart whenever you stop! Just because you are shuffling around like the dog you are doesn’t mean you’re allowed to hide my penis from me!
You are not allowed to struggle until after you’ve been bound. I will give you a safeword, one that is all your own, because I am a kind Mistress, and what we do is mutually consentual—I will even be generous, and allow you a non-verbal safeword, shaking your head with vigour in case I’ve got the ballgag strapped in your mouth too tight for you to get the regular safeword out. But do not use it unless you feel you’re absolutely in danger, because if you need punishing, I will punish you, and if you need your horizons expanded, I will expand them for you. That is the job of a Goddess, to take Her servant outside of himself, until he reaches that place that is outside all of us, that nirvana where pain becomes ecstasy, and self merges with the power and the glory of the Other.
I want you to be grateful, whatever I do.
Every time I whip you, I expect you to be grateful, even if I am punishing you for a serious transgression. I do not have to wield my whip against you; I can walk away. It is because I care about you, because I want you to be good, and to know the place the universe has slated for you, that I will discipline you, for your sake. “Yes, Mistress,” “Please, Mistress,” and “Thank you, Mistress,” are the three most important things for you to say. “I adore/love you, Mistress,” can be the fourth one, but only if you mean it. I hear enough lies from the idiot I have to deal with outside these doors; I don’t want to hear any from you.
If you commit a crime against me, if you disobey my commands, or deliberately ignore my orders in favor of some other, lesser chore, then I would far rather you admit your transgressions and take your punishments, which will be reasonable, than lie to me and have me later find out what you have done. If I find out you lied to me, disobeyed me, made a mockery of your service and worship to me, I will have only two choices: to punish you as you have never been punished before—and as you know, I can be very cruel and inventive when I am angered…or I can walk out on you, and leave you alone. Worthless, shameful, unowned and unloved.
No other Mistress will cherish you as much as I do.
Oh, yes, I do this, all of this, out of love for you. If you went looking for another Mistress, I cannot guarantee that they would know and love you as I do. They might not care that you don’t like certain fetish practices, or that you think scatophagia (shit-eating) is as repulsive as I do. Another Mistress might beat you so hard, you’ll be permanently damaged from her brutality. I alone can guarantee the control I have over my own actions, and the concern I have for your ultimate safety and well-being.
Other Mistresses might not know that you like cumming on yourself, that you like it when I encourage you to try and hit your face with your spunk. They will not know just how long you can go between orgasms, or the way you like having the extra-fast vibrating bullet strapped to my favorite cock, especially when you’re wearing the leather ball-separator and the tip of the vibrator is nestled between them, in that special little spot that makes your eyes roll back in your head as your reward for being very, very good.
No other Mistress will understand you as I do. Nor understand the dynamic between pain and pleasure. You were supposed to keep your knees apart. Fetch me the horsewhip, so I can teach your inner thighs a red-welted lesson. They will stay apart, and you will not be allowed to cum, no matter how sweet the pain and the pleasure may become. That is my will. After all…
I want you
I want to own you completely.
If this has opened your eyes to a possible relationship within the boundries of Professional BDSM then email Me Mmistress-Beth@aol.com