ravenna
Posts: 121
Joined: 12/22/2004 Status: offline
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"Once or twice a month"? Good God. i would die. i would simply die. Or i would rather fucking die. (Sorry. See, i can't even talk about not getting fucked without the word fucking slipping into the conversation.) But basically, leaving the fucking frequency question aside, Lepidoptera, i totally agree with you. Sex and D/s and BDSM and slavery are utterly inseparable for me. If the original post were a multiple choice test, i would have to check the box for 100%. If sex were completely removed forever from my life as a slave, what remains would not be a life worth living to me, any more than being a field slave on a plantation in the antebellum South picking cotton till i drop dead would be a life worth living to me. My owners would still own me, i would still be their slave, but when i dropped dead from unrequited lust they would just have to shop for a replacement. What a bother. And what a waste of a good sex slave! Ahem. Having said all that, i also have to say that i serve my owners in a thousand ways that aren't obviously sexual, at least on the surface. Any given day i might spend all day and night working my butt off on some project that might earn me nothing more overtly sexual in the way of a reward than a smile and a "well done" or a "good girl" or a pat on the butt. But that smile and that butt-pat will carry a huge load of sexual subtext that will leave me warm and wet and glowing with pride for days. Sex underlies everything they do with me and everything i do for them; it's not the only thing down there in the foundation by far, there's love and devotion and surrender and authority and commitment and lots of other stuff, but sex is everywhere in my life, both above and below the surface. And i am blessed and/or cursed with a mind that's capable of sexualizing anything and everything, and just the act of submitting to my owners creates an enormous erotic buzz in my head and body and soul. So if they did order me to go out in the field and start picking cotton and maybe if i'm good they'll fuck me next month, i'd grab my cotton-pickin' bag and hope for the best. But honestly, they have much better uses for me than that, and sex is way up there on their list of What I'm Good For. (And as my master Michelangelo is fond of telling me, if it weren't for the sex, he'd swap me for a Labrador retriever: same dogged devotion, same glossy black coat, much cheaper to feed.)
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