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Bobkgin -> Speaking on behalf of a dead slave ... (9/7/2007 9:37:27 AM)
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My wife was my slave.
I was the only one with whom she shared an LTR, and the only one to have owned her.
We were together for over ten years, married for most of them, parents for the last 4.5 years of them.
And then we discovered she had cancer, and that it had spread, and that her prognosis was not good.
And then she died.
My wife was an amazing slave. When we met she'd been experimenting with bdsm for a year: essentially casual hook-ups.
She'd discovered she was a "painslut". She loved pain. She explained that when she was receiving a great deal of pain, it was like a high. I told her about endorphins, and she would encourage me to use her in such a way as to generate as much endorphin as was possible within the limits of safety I adhered to.
And she could take a beating. From fishing rod to crop to cats to paddles, all in one session. She told me she loved the feeling of sitting down and experiencing the pain and recalling what she felt when she was beaten.
We did a lot of that before she was pregnant. But between her pregnancy and recovery, and the baying of our dogs the first time we went downstairs to do it again, we never got back to it.
We both missed it, but we thought this was something we could get back to eventually. Unfortunately, that time never came.
She had an ultimate fantasy involving pain. She wanted nails driven through her breasts. I explained why that was not possible without a trip to the hospital, and she could see why we couldn't do that. However, I was able to give her an alternative. With rubbing alcohol and 1" common nails, I could lay her breasts (she had huge breasts) on a board, take a small pinch of skin, stretch it out, and nail it into the board.
We did this twice over the years: the first time using eight nails a breast and the second time six.
She had to ask for each nail she got. I explained that I would not do this unless she specifically asked me to, for each nail. She found that quite challenging, but was so proud of herself when she'd asked for the final nail to complete the process of stretching her breasts out as if we were stretching raw leather. She'd watch everything that occurred closely.
We never nailed her nipples. It was something we spoke of, but not until after we'd given birth to the family we wanted. We wanted her to breast feed, and we were not sure how much damage a nipple could take and still be used for lactation. So we left it alone.
She loved oral sex, giving more than receiving. She told me she was great at it, but a little experimentation showed she had difficulty with deep throat. So we started a process that took about a year so that she might learn.
She would be extensively bound to the wooden frame of a box spring she'd brought to me. It was being discarded and she thought I might be able to turn it into a rack of some kind (which I did by removing the staples and reinforcing the corners).
She'd sit down, leaning her back against it, and I would bind her to it: wrists, arms, neck and head, her mouth agape and difficult to close, her tongue clipped and stretched out. And then I would straddle her tongue and slowly move my hips back and forth.
I remember the day she asked to do it without all the bondage. I was so proud of how far she'd come, and she was proud of how much she'd learned.
She loved breath control. Whether it was a plastic bag, a rope about her neck, my hands, or extended deep throat, she loved the feeling of helplessness she felt when she realized it was entirely up to me to let her breathe.
I recall using tape on one occassion. Taped her mouth and placed a piece of tape on the bridge of her nose such that I could pinch it and block her nose. When she was ready, I did so. Didn't take her long to need another breath, as she was in a such a state of excitement.
We didn't do it again, not because she was frightened of it, but, as she said, because it was over too quickly. She liked breath play that crept up on her.
Extended deep throat satisfied that need for her. To not be allowed to breathe except between plunges, and only permitted so many breaths per minute, she'd gradually feel the oxygen deprivation. And there were so many ways to control this. More breaths per minute, shallower plunges would restore the balance, so that this activity could be kept going almost indefinitely.
And more than a few nights it lasted an hour or more.
And after each such experience, she'd fetch a warm wet cloth and clean her drool off of me.
Sometimes, the cloth was not so warm. In fact, it was freezing. She'd look at me mischieviously and apologize when I'd jump.
We called it "Slave's Revenge". [:D]
I've many good memories of our time together, as I have good memories of our son learning to sit up, to walk, to throw a ball for the dogs, to enjoy being in a pool, to learning his shapes and colours and numbers and alphabet, to learning to talk.
He was a master with the VCR by the age of three, and loved Barney (and you really haven't lived until you've been visited by Barney every day to your young child's utter delight). We had a special "goodnight" ceremony for him. Either my wife or I were to disappear behind the curtain of his closet, while the other would say "Where's Mommy/Daddy gone?" and we'd pretend to look under books, and in drawers. Our son would laugh and then run to the closet and pull back the drape.
"There he/she is!" we'd say, and he'd laugh. Then whomever was in the closet would pick him up and bring him to the other and we'd all hug together while my wife and I would give him a kiss "mmmmmmmmmmWAAAAA" which he'd imitate. Then we'd put him in bed with Teddy and flip one cover over him "oooooBOOP" as it landed on him, covering all of him, then the next blanket and the next, and then we'd flip back the part over his face and there he'd be, smiling up with his beautiful sparkling blue eyes.
All tucked in, I'd put a kiss on my fingertips and touch his forehead and wish him sweet dreams, and tell him I love him, and as we'd walk out I'd pull the drawstring for his little music box that would play him a lullabye. We'd close the door and walk softly away.
I never knew a child who was so happy so much of the time.
Now the reason I talk about this here is because there are a few who have claimed it is "disgusting" and an "abuse of their memory" that I should talk about them at all. Indeed, some have even claimed my wife and son never existed, and that I have invented them.
I wish it were so, as I wouldn't miss them if that were the case.
But it seems to me that as I am the one who knew both of them best, the one to love them, and the one to remember them, I am in a better position to decide what is right and wrong for their memories better than any stranger who isn't even sure they existed.
Now, no one forces anyone to read what I write. If there are those who are offended by anyone mentioning their dead loved ones, they can choose not to read any further. But to claim that there is only "one true way" to discuss the dead, and that is not to discuss them at all, I am curious to see how many others subscribe to that belief.
Is a husband not to talk about his dead wife? A father not to talk of his dead son? A master not to talk of his dead slave?
When the grief was fresh, I could not talk about them at all. But now I find I am recalling all the good times, and feeling grateful to have known them and to have had the time with them I had, whereas before all I could think of was how painful it was to have lost them.
So personally I see this as a step forward for me, a step towards embracing the new life I must build for myself.
So I open the floor to opinions. I don't expect I'll have much to say in this thread, having said so much already. But if I need clarification, I'll ask.
Thank you in advance for your thoughts on this matter.
Robert
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