Strictly speaking, I don’t need to do D/s.

Strictly speaking, I don’t need to eat, either.

Through Slave Eyes

Just how much control do I have? How much control do you want me to have? What is it like, in that space?

As you go about your day, think about doing so under control. Not rigid control, like a movie, or like pop culture’s idea of a `slave’.

As a most independent person, a strong individual…who is “given, taken…and stolen.” Think about having given control to me, told me that I may make claims on your time. Think, too, that I’ve made use of that power, that I don’t hesitate to take chunks of your life for my own. And that I knew, however you felt about it, happy or reluctant or blissful or terrified—ultimately, I knew you’d do as I asked. I spoke earlier of being “stolen”. If you look up just once from your day, and realize that, without knowing it, you had stopped belonging to yourself for a little while…that unconsciously, you belonged to me…

Then you’ll know what I mean.

If you’re already under that control, take a half-step back, be more conscious of what is going on around you. Use this exercise to think about where you are, what you are doing, and where you might be.

As your day goes on, think about controls I might take, and their ramifications.

There are many traditional examples—like asking my permission to go to the bathroom., forcing my control over the basic functioning of your body. There is controlling what you wear, which is especially popular in our fiction— particularly wearing the slutty clothes for me, having men stare all day…or dressing conservatively on the outside, and underneath, like a whore, my secret fucktoy. There is controlling what you eat, perhaps. Giving or denying you things you enjoy. Helping you adhere to a special diet, perhaps. Even fasting, depending on your health and my mood.

There is controlling how you eat it, in public or in private. I’ve played some very interesting games at table. I don’t have to be there to remind you of my presence in your life. You may have run across many rules, either in fiction or in lifestyle households. Slaves may not use the furniture without permission, but must use the floor. Slaves may not sit at the table, butbeg underneath, like dogs. Slaves may not eat using their hands, but must dip faces into bowls, like pets… Controlling if and when you masturbate or come… obvious enough. And for whom you come, and to whom you give `your’ erotic favors…

And I expect your mind and imagination to come up with ample other thoughts. Whether or not you do, be awake, be aware, understand what you are doing.

Look through slave eyes for a while.


I kiss soft, I bite hard, I love the intimacy of invasion. I remember when I first tied a woman to her bed and cut the clothes from her body. Her clothes were nonessential; it was her comfort zone that I was slicing apart, a space which, she realized, was no longer personal. I love that realization, I love to confront you. When I take sex from you, I am giving you tangible proof that your exchange of power is real. We are hardwired to perceive reality as stimulus; I am challenging you to ignore the pleasure I might give you, and every time you beg to come, I have won. Every time you want my touch to be brutal, I have won. Every time you beg me to make the pleasure stop, I have won.

For the next few days, be very conscious of your sexuality. Touch a part of your body, sometimes, when you otherwise might not. Deny yourself a caress, a kiss, an act you might otherwise enjoy. Seek out something erotic, avoid something sensual. Play with your ability to be aroused.

Go further.

A question: why does our art breed physical masochists? Because pain, like pleasure, has a closeness to our consciousness; it pushes us to acknowledge its reality. And because pain is a deep invasion. Our laws create barriers between our bodies and a thousand types of pain. Our bodies know pain and will twist away from it, move unnaturally; we will go up on our toes or down to our knees to avoid pressure in the proper areas. Assaults of violence or sex have this in common: both destroy the barriers that our minds use to be confident in our flesh.

Find pain for me.

Whether or not you translate pain into pleasure, play with the basics of that stimulus. Twist your nipples, carefully, but firmly, until you feel the hurting. Pull on your pubic hair, apply pressure to sensitive parts of your body. Be careful. Don’t go to extremes, don’t damage yourself. You are not permitted to push your barriers for this assignment, only to test them.

For the next few days, every time you consciously choose pain or pleasure, stop a moment.

And thank me for the invasion.

A different journal

Keep a different journal for me, today. Keep me a journal of stolen moments.

Don’t write it in words. Keep it, silently, in your head. Carry with you something that reminds you of what you are. At intervals, find a little space of time, seconds, minutes, to reflect on it. Touch it if you want, look at it, use it—or simply remember that you carry it, and remember why.

Find a private place, play one of our games. Take a risk, push yourself. Jot it all down behind your eyes, record it in the flashes of current between your synapses.

Draw me a day with your actions, make what you are, and what we do, the fringe of your consciousness.

Tonight, before you sleep, read this journal, play it over in your head, try to feel its aftertaste.

Now you know how I feel.

You are my journal.