It seems like a coat of many contradictions.
Humiliation seems to be woven into the fabric of my life. Maybe it is part of the definition of the submissive life? I don’t know. But I wear it every day.
It is multiple experiences painted onto my body and existence, of being objectified, sexualized, and diminished — daily and weekly events that leave me blushing, embarrassed, even shamed.
I have to bear these crossing stripes of humiliation, like marks of a whip, and yet, here’s the thing — I desire it oh so very much. I actually want to be humiliated. Can I say that? Is it wrong for me to feel that way?
In my humiliations I feel my submissiveness, that I will do “even this” to please the One who owns me. It is a measure of my slaveness, and as I measure up, I actually experience a kind of joy for what I am.
Master introduces me to someone: “This is my slave, Shae.” It is bold, outrageous, objectifying. My identity to someone else now fixed as a slave, immediately amended as “sex slave,” their gaze reflecting judgment. I blush, embarrassed.
And yet Inside I thrill at his words, “my slave,” the reality of my belonging to this Master, of being possessed by him. I suppose the feeling of being possessed requires me to be the object of possession.
Maybe the joy of submission comes from the agony of humiliation.
Perhaps it really does “hurt so good.”