"Daily sweat mingled with her own sweat, she sensed herself to be, literally, the vessel of impurity, the foul depths of which the Scriptures make mention. And yet those parts of her body which were the most continually offended, having become sensitive, seemed to her to have become, at the same time, more beautiful, and as though it were ennobled: her mouth closed on anonymous members, the tips of her breasts that hands were forever fondling, and between her wide-flung thighs, the twin ways leading into her belly, paths wantonly trod. However astonishing it might seem, that she might be ennobled, that she might gain dignity from being prostituted, continued to amaze her. It illuminated her as if from within, and one could see a new calmness in her bearing, on her countenance the serenity and imperceptible inner smile one rather guesses at than perceives in the eyes of a recluse."
It ennobled her; she found dignity.
How is it, that some may find freedom in such behavior, and some such terrible captivity? Or is it the difference between telling yourself it's wrong, viruses allowing for such terrible and confused pleasure? I feel it must be a combination of the two. The struggle of Nurture and Nature.
Similarly, I continuously approach to other people my relationship with my M very delicately. it is something I strive to protect, and (especially lately) am so absolutely proud of.
Today I wore my collar with the buckle in the front and my hair up, prancing about and looking for some reaction, though I got very few. Maybe it was the obnoxious fox fur collared coat. Maybe the jutting of my chin or the bounce in my walk gave way to make for no need for excuses.
Even though He is not with me, I have no desire for it to not be known that I am His, that I am owned, that I am proud of Him, my collar and enslavement.
I was on a long road trip today, with someone I barely know, carpooling. I was sitting there, in the passengers seat, wanting to be entertaining for him but having my desire to read this book - Story of O - overpower that. The whole first third part of the book (which I read on and off during the ride) is of her getting lesson after lesson on slavery; a break, a beating. Being used to mens desires, when and how they want, humiliation. During reading these things, part of my mind is always on Him and us. At one point during which O is getting particularly nailed, a fantasy so vivid and sudden of my M slamming into me from behind overtook my thoughts and an audible surprised gasp burst out of me.
"What?" asks my car-partner.
"uhh, nothing..." I reply. Beautifully awkward and I stared out the window savoring the fire.