I love being owned. I submit any time and any place to my lover. In return, I’m disciplined and banged hard with his hand throttling my neck, the way I like it. I was in service to S as his owned and collared pet. Nothing made me happier than to kneel down in front of him, forehead pressed against his taught stomach as he padlocked my collar around my neck. My buttocks stung as they rested on my heels, making me smile, because it reminded me of the bruises left by his riding crop and the power he had over me.
The collar signifies that one is property, a possession like a car or house. I had many with S and they looked damn sexy on me, like I was born to be collared. My every-day collar was black leather with a big O ring in the front for easy access so I could be locked up to a cage or torture device. I had a sleep collar made from a delicate but menacing-looking wire cable with a heart-shaped lock. I also had a fancy collar for show, black patent leather with gold trim, purchased at a big leather convention in Texas. I was pampered and well taken care of, as a good pet should be.
The electrifying appeal of completely submitting to a lover as his possession is something I can’t explain rationally but it allows me to worship and respect my lover for being able to conquer me. There’s a certain amount of objectification that goes along with it, where I become a walking fucktoy for him. As a feminist, I know in theory this is all politically incorrect and wrong on many levels, but that just makes it hotter. As S’s pet I was perpetually sexually charged and satisfied in a way I’ve rarely experienced in my many years.
By now you are doubtless wondering what kind of person I am and how I got to this point. You may know me and not realize it. In daily life I’m strong-willed and assertive; I bend to no one. I am a self-made business owner and former corporate executive, head of family, role model, trend-setter, mentor, good neighbor. I was respectably married once to a man we’ll call C. My ex-husband, a deeply brooding repressed intellectual, was controlling in some ways but acquiescent in others. I became increasingly sexually frustrated as his chronic melancholy snuffed his libido and we drifted apart. Eventually the power balance shifted to me and I came to resent him for it. He seemed less manly if I could call the shots.
It played out in this way: I got swept up into a madly passionate affair with H, a young, hot, sexually evolved man with a beautiful cock and many lovers. He reawakened my sluttiness and taught me the divine ecstasy of complete surrender. He owned my pussy and dictated who and when I could fuck or if I could even look at another guy, including my husband. I’d never been happier. H would greet me at his door showered, shaved, cock hard, ready to toss me over his shoulder and slam me on the bed and fuck me mercilessly. I always screamed loud and hard with orgasms that seemed to last for hours and nearly rattle the windows out of their frames. I’d return home giddy, cheeks flushed.
After about a half year of that the passion died down a bit and reality made it difficult to continue at that level. I went back to being the dutiful but sexually-repressed wife, living for the next tryst with H. Always wanting to be dominated, again–in that way.
I met S online
S came into my life nearly a decade later, long after my divorce. We met through a “vanilla” dating site, not a place for kinky people. He wrote me a very sweet note and I read his profile. Divorced, devoted dad. Scientist. Avid cyclist. Good cook. Tattooed. And a BDSM enthusiast. Wow! I hit the jackpot!
He romanced me slowly. I encouraged him to write me explicit emails detailing his plans for me and seducing me with his intimate knowledge of the BDSM lifestyle. On our third date, he wore leather pants and a tight shiny black t-shirt that made him look cruelly handsome. It was tight enough that I could make out the silhouette of his nipple piercings underneath. He chomped on my neck all night in such a way as to leave no mark but make biting sensations that lingered for days.
With those lingering bites, my pussy throbbed and I ached to have him throw me against a wall and penetrate me deeply. He fully owned me. I became his pet.
Being a Pet
My duties as a pet were to give him love, companionship, and serve him sexually in whatever ways he might want (all within the bounds of prior negotiation). I could be caged, chained up by the collar, lovingly tortured. The collar was my uniform signifying that I was “on duty” to him. Wearing it transformed me into what I believe was the embodiment of femininity–soft, sweet and surrendering with no hard edges. Once it was locked on, I shifted gears from being the one in charge to happily relinquishing all control.
I wore the collar at home with him at all times and also at kink events, where S liked to show me off on a leash (which made me feel humiliated, thrilled and turned on all at once). A few times I nearly wore it to a suburban supermarket or Target because he was gone for the day and I couldn’t find the key. Or I’d just forgotten I was wearing it. The collar signified our private world.
When S grabbed me by the ring on the collar and dragged me to the bedroom, I went limp with pleasure.
Our dynamic was one of bondage and discipline (B&D), not hard core sadomasochism. Some members of the BDSM community follow stringent rules in a master-slave relationship but we scoffed at such conformity. B&D is less about pain and more about the dominant/submissive relationship. It’s about restraining the submissive in some way, either physically or emotionally, and then ‘training’ them to behave in certain ways (to paraphrase Jay Wiseman in SM 101). There is some light S&M involved, but we consider it erotic torture.
I am not a masochist. I crave intense sensations. I love the rush of getting into a nearly scalding hot bath or biting into Thai food laced with super-hot chilies. S explored harnessing these intense sensations, as there are different kinds of pain to distinguish and much of it has to do with context. Our “torture sessions” were about pushing boundaries and embracing more creative forms of eroticism. S was calculated and thoughtful when giving me erotic pain.
Like any good master, S took good care of his possessions, including me. He often surprised me with creative gifts like fancy collars and nipple clamps. He ordered an electrical stimulation device made by a medical supply company and adhered the stimulating pads to the outside lips of my vagina to give me some loving torture. He loved fiddling with those controls like a mad scientist. With every whipping, there were interludes of tender caresses and kisses.
If I arrived at his house wearing panties I was punished. Of course, I loved the punishment so sometimes I would taunt him by wearing panties. Ouch! Our role-play sessions were our kinky foreplay, always culminating with hot sex. A spanking and whipping session made me my juices gush more than any tongue-to-clit action. Crazy love, that’s what it was for me. Cuffs, gags, ropes, nipple clamps were all instruments of pleasure. The brushing of his nipple piercings against mine with a clank of stainless steel, the flash of his pierced tongue as he fucked me–it made my nipples pop up even more erect and propelled me into intense shivering waves of ecstasy. My body continued to quake long after he had finished.
His Hobby is Building Dungeon Furniture
S prided himself in his woodwork. Sometimes the spanking horse was set up for me in his office when I came over. With my collar, hands and feet locked to it he could efficiently whack my behind with a paddle, cane, crop or his bare hand. Another advantage of his spanking horse design was that it positioned me at the right height for him to have his way with me as he pleased. He could stuff his cock in my mouth or walk around me and spank some more.
He called another homemade torture device of his own design “the trap.” It incorporated a set of medieval stocks with an upright v-shaped construction for the legs. He had this and many more devices, which he kept disassembled and hidden far in the back of his suburban garage.
My Screams Turned Him On
In me, S found an open-minded and willing subject for his experiments. I am quite vocal and he would get incredibly turned on by all the noises I made–the little whimpers, gasps, screams and louder cries. Part of my enjoyment was the glorious release of being able to scream and let everything go like that, whether I am getting tortured or fucked.
In being owned I found liberation because I could at last completely be myself. When I am in a safe place with him I could shut off the conscious mind and reach a realm of nirvana akin to Tantric sex. The spanking might hurt the physical body but it propels me into a mind space where I just want more. I’d arch my buttocks up to receive the strike of the riding crop sooner and focus all my being on its reverberations. I’d writhe around, digging the ropes deeper into the flesh of my wrists but I didn’t care. The rope marks look nice afterward.
And so I’d find myself there again, cleaning up his entire kitchen just for fun, wearing nothing but my collar, a little sheer apron and high heels. The act of service showed my devotion to him even if he never acknowledged it. And it made me wet. I never bother to ponder the question, “why does an intelligent, desirable woman like me revel in being owned like a slave?”
Why, indeed! To serve is the purest form of love.
Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. She’s currently unowned and uncollared. The image used in this post is from Daisy TralaLA.