whore

The other day I was called a whore.

I am called many things in my slave life, sometimes objectifying words and phrases that, when said in a certain tone, can actually be endearing. Master sometimes calls me his “fuck toy,” and in his delivery, it can be tender. In another context it is literally true. And then in other situations he and others use the same phrase with me in ways that are intentionally objectifying. And that’s OK with me too — I submit to it.

When you are a slave, when you live as the human property of another, verbal degradation is sometimes (often) part of the slave experience. You expect it and you accept it and you are objectified. It sparks your submissive feelings. Often I am aroused by such things. Sometimes I regret that I am aroused by such things.

So being called a whore by this man was not to me offensive per se, though it was somewhat unexpected given he was a stranger to me, raw as it was delivered, and harsh given some of the details and circumstances of the moment. But they really don’t matter.

I am also a writer, which means I am fascinated by words and their meanings. And being called a whore by this man prompted me to think about several things. Maybe this won’t seem interesting to you, but in any case, I shall ramble:

The word “whore” literally means a “promiscuous woman or prostitute.” The word “promiscuous” means “indiscriminate mingling or association, especially having sexual relations with a number of partners on a casual basis.” Those are the established meanings.

And here’s the thing: most of those definitions are actually true of me. I am shared sexually with others on “a casual basis.” My slavery  is social, through my Master, and involves something akin to “indiscriminate mingling.” I am used for lots of sex, quite frankly, giving truth to the word “promiscuous.” The part that isn’t quite true is “prostitute” — I do not take money for what I am and do.

I have at times assumed some self-justification in the fact that as a slave my sexual life is not my own, that in a sense I am made to be promiscuous. But more recently I have come to feel a bit guilty about that assumption. To say I am forced to have sex isn’t really true. Yes and no. My original agreement to become a slave was consent for everything that it requires of me. And there are always options for me to say no. But I don’t say no. And, in fact, I enjoy my life of slavery, my life of so-called promiscuity — not every situation or moment or order or sexual act, but most of it I like, if not truly adore.

I was flash-backing  about my life, the times before I got into active submission and before entering into the slave life. I was an independent professional woman who acted freely. I was never a social butterfly, but I did have relationships, and frankly slept with multiple people. So was I promiscuous? Is there a specific number of sexual experiences one is allowed before the term “whore” becomes appropriate? Is it four, ten, twenty? How do we calculate at what point I actually become a whore?

I went back to memories of high school and college: how we as girls created hierarchies of classmates, categorizing ourselves into groups — girls who were popular, girls who were pretty, girls who were fun, girls who weren’t virgins, and then girls who slept around. This became a social ladder, and we all spent obscene amounts of emotional energy obsessing over where we were on it, aware the worst thing would be the lowest rung, and to be called a “slut.”

So do we — do I — do the same thing now? After all, it’s a bit ridiculous for me as a real slave to put myself on a ladder above that of a prostitute. She sells her body, yes, but then I’ve given away my body. Is there really a moral difference there between a sex worker and a sex slave?

The interesting thing about the incident (and from my point of view there really was no incident) was what happened after.

The situation was a business meeting with a number of Master’s colleagues and an outside agency. Master brought me in as an assistant for the meeting because his usual assistant, Karyn, was ill with the flu. He brings me in sometimes. Now Master’s lifestyle, and my enslavement to him, are common knowledge among his colleagues, and to some extent to the outside partners and agencies he works with. He is a very public person about all of this. And some from this outside agency had this same knowledge. But I am there as his assistant. This is business.

The man who called me a whore was from the outside agency. He’s maybe 25 or so, and very bright, but clearly full of himself. I was in the meeting room placing reports at each seat around the table. Hardly anyone was there yet. This young businessman was trying to be jokey with one of his agency buddies. And he said loudly to his buddy, intentionally so I could hear, “She’s his little whore.”

So, again, I am used to be called things like that. I’ve been called a whore many times and will be called a whore many more times. And as I’ve said, maybe I really am, definitionally, a whore. That’s all OK. And I knew what the young man was trying to do — to present himself as included in the circle of Master’s friends who are in the know about me. It was narcissistic of him, but that’s pretty common.

In the back in the coffee area was Mr. Karras. I’ve written about him before. He’s a long-time close friend and associate of Master Michael. He’s at the Skyway house all the time and he’s had me at different times.

Mr. Karras heard the whole thing.

A moment later, with coffee in hand, Mr. Karras walked over to the young man and his associate, gently but firmly put his hand at the back of the young man’s neck, and said, “Son, she is Michael’s pride and joy. What Shea has chosen to be to him is no business of yours. You have not been included in his circle, and if I hear anything like that from you again, I’ll make sure you never will be.”

Right. He did that.

Like I say, I was not actually offended by being called a whore. But what Mr. Karras said was pretty amazing.

After all that transpired, I looked at Mr. Karras across the room and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

He nodded back with a crusty smile.

And for the rest of the day I was walking on sunshine.

3 thoughts on “whore

  1. Thank you, Sir. I agree… I realize it’s an ambiguous and confusing world to people outside of it. The very act of dominating a sub or slave is by definition diminishing and demeaning. And a submissive like me desires that. But I like what you say, and I think that within the context of a sub/slave’s life with others there should be respect for the slave’s submission, respect for who she is within the lifestyle. I think Mr. Karras defended me with that kind of respect. I appreciate your point, Sir.

    Liked by 1 person

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