She is still there – i can see her, feel her. she who loves to serve, who wants to kneel, who longs for rules and discipline, she who would like nothing better than to worship his cock all day long…
He loves the grandmother in me, the writer, the feminist. He enjoys the traveller, the dreamer, the poet. The scholar, the adventurer, the lazy-lay-around-and-read-all-day girl, He loves them all.
the little slut is not required. the slave is not called for.
Unused, unwanted, unclaimed.
It was not the nipple clamps, the ropes, not even the spankings that she needed, although she loved them. It was knowing that he valued that part of her, that He liked His power over her, that He wanted to command, to take, that he enjoyed her submission, her obedience, her eagerness to give…
the slave doesn’t know how she lost that, how she displeased Him so much to be banished this way, the slut is so dry she can’t remember the slick wetness and the burning heat – she thinks she will dry up and blow away and no one will know that she’s gone.
But she is still here now.