Expressing My Id: An Update

Someone pointed out to me that my silence here since my last post suggested that perhaps I’d given up on the idea of slaves or was otherwise disappointed in the responses I received.

That’s the furthest thing from the truth. (And, for what it’s worth, I’ve been tweeting plenty!)

The response to my post, “An Unfettered Expression of My Id,” was  fascinating. While there were plenty of “Oh, I wish I could” nonstarters, there were actually some genuine replies (unlike the previous time I posted about wanting a slave).  As I started talking with the different men who contacted me about what my expectations were as well as theirs, all the specifics from my original post started to take a background position to a fundamental premise: Your (i.e. the slave’s) purpose is to contribute to and facilitate my general happiness and well being. And, if we start with that primary directive, then we can go anywhere.

And THAT conclusion made me realize that, much as I did with my domination practice, I could define “slave” however I wanted. The role of slave wasn’t static, it was dynamic and how it manifested in each would be determined by me and how I wanted to make use of him.

At the moment, I have three slaves, and our arrangements couldn’t be more different. With one, tasked primarily with weekly service, I just concluded a week of forced chastity, begun unexpectedly when I summoned him to Salon d’Orleans to clean last Monday. We chatted (well, I did most of the talking) for a bit and then, just as I was about to leave him to clean, I ordered him to drop his pants. The CB-6000 went on with a combination lock. “I’ll text you the code when I decide it’s time for you to come out,” I told him. Some travel plans meant that he could conceivably wear the device for 11 days without it interfering at home: he’d never spent longer than 36 hours in a belt before. I gave him various assignments during his chastity and quietly thrilled with his every report of his emotional and physical state. “Look what I’m doing to you.” The psychological sadism was intoxicating.

Another was summoned to visit for 24 hours from his Midwestern home after being assigned with equipment maintenance of my electrical gear. He scheduled an early arriving flight without considering my schedule and I chastised him for his inconsiderateness. Not to worry, he said, he’d use the time to get some work done. “Not so fast, slaveboy. Your time is MY time now,” I emailed him back. Soon he was off to Soho with specific instructions for buying a present for me, another for the studio, and to get a mani-pedi to make himself more presentable. During his service I used him to practice some areas of play I love but rarely get to do: fire cupping, intense  corporal, abandonment, copious piss play and humiliation (if he had an orifice, it got pee in it).

He wrote me afterwards, noting that I was like a cat, marking my territory: “Pissing on me, all over me, not allowing time for a shower … leaving no option other than putting my clothes over my piss soaked body. Marking me in another way, with your scent.” (I made him board the plane covered in me.) I am already fantasizing about what I want to use him for next.

My third slave says he emailed only to congratulate me on “evolution.” In my reply, I gave him a bit of credit for starting me on this journey when we discussed his fantasy of being caged for an indeterminate amount of time when I last saw him two years ago. I followed that with: “I could well and easily see a “slave” arrangement with you that simply involved me summoning you to New York to take residence in my cage for however long I saw fit. Because I wanted it. (Oh, fuck, that’s hot. Right? Come. In. Lock. Endure. Release.)”

He arrives Wednesday night.

I am still accepting applications.