the experience of strangers, 15: being a sex slave

He places his hand flat against the middle of my back, pressing me down with considerable force, flattening my breasts against the cold marble.

A dom’s physicality is not just about his muscle but about how he uses objects and environments on you. Here, he has me in a kitchen of hard surfaces — marble slabs and steel appliances. To me, they all embody him, Master Z, his strength and bearing.

My breasts are flattened like rounds of bread dough. My head is sideways against the marble. My arms are stretched above my head, now gripping the lip of the countertop on either side. Below, I feel my pussy opened as my legs are extended into a wide V.

I hear him unzip his pants.

So this is going to happen.

---

I am cultivated as a sexual slave, and shared as such. Of course, many slaveries are not sexual, or else not primarily sexual. My slaveries are. When I am gifted to a dom, he knows and I know that my slavery to him will likely be sexual, in one way or other, as he wishes, and that it will be a foundation for my submission to him.

I did not at the beginning of my D/s journey think of myself as having this particular “specialty.” If anything, I was woefully unexperienced sexually. For me, I entered D/s just as a submissive in relationship to a dominant, at first episodic and occasional, later a lifestyle of submission 24/7. In that, it was sometimes sexual but not primarily so.

I don’t know when exactly I became “a sex slave.” It was perhaps a direction Master Michael had intended for me, I don’t know. When I came to Amanda and Kevin, Kevin used me extensively as a sexual toy, but I considered that more about his dominant preferences and less about my own nature. I think, though, Amanda had my sexual cultivation in mind from the beginning. She saw it in me. When she took me for herself, I believe she began in subtle ways to suss that out. That was when I started to be known — and to know myself — as a “sex slave.”

Nothing was forced upon me to become that, but neither did I formally choose it. It was how Amanda saw me, how she wanted me, and what I submitted to becoming. She would say this has come naturally to me, because this is who I am.

I don’t think there are particular qualifications required. You need to enjoy sex, of course, and possess a healthy libido, making you more likely than not to be at least receptive to sex at almost any time. I guess I am that. I find that submissiveness itself is erotic to me. Just the submissive act of, say, fetching a tonic water for my master becomes sexual for me in a way. So maybe this is what specifically equips me to be a sex slave — even the common non-sexual aspects of a submissive life excite me sexually.

Even so, in every slavery, there are times when you don’t want to be used sexually. You don’t always “feel like it.” Maybe better said, you don’t want to be used in just that way.

---

This is an intentional strategy on Master Z’s part — spreading me out face down on cold marble so that I’m unable to see him. He wants to make me feel used by him not engaged with him. I am to be warm female flesh spread out on a cold countertop, a shaven pussy, wet, gaping from behind. He does not want to have sex with Shae. He wants me to feel he is an anonymous everyman fucking an anonymous cunt.

In a sexual slavery, you cannot, of course, determine how someone will have you. You don’t really ever expect to be made love to in any traditional sense, although as you grow more connected to your master, you long for that. Mostly, you are used for sex, sometimes bound, usually in ways that degrade you. But this is still a kind of connectedness to the man, and in your submissive ingloriousness, you love this, the objectifying sex you are used for. But even in that, most of the time you can observe him, see his face, watch his dominant joy in fucking you.

Here I am made to be eyes down buried against the marble. He is taking me from the rear. I cannot watch his face. And this is what he wants as he presses the head of his cock between my labia.

---

I don’t want it in this way, yet, I feel some relief he is finally having me sexually. This is the middle of my week with him, and he has not until now had intercourse with me. You wonder after a while if you are not attractive to the man, if he has other preferences in a woman. You doubt yourself. Now I realize this is how he has played me, what he’s wanted me to feel. In his marbled military demeanor, he has used his abstinence from me as a power cudgel. And even now, as his shaft slides slowly into my vagina, he is mastering me in his way.

I moan from his presence filling me, then wince as his pants and belt push against my still-raw ass cheeks. In spanking me, he put me in my place. Now in fucking me he is putting me in my place. I am being thoroughly tamed.

He takes his time with me. His cock is relatively slender but long and pushes farther into me than usual. It doesn’t hurt, but is a deeper presence than I am used to. I grip the edges of the countertop. With his every stroke, my pussy yearns for his cock and sucks it in. At the same time, my ass screams as his pelvis slaps it each time.

This is not how I want him, not the submissive sex I long for. Tie me down if you wish, whip me as you fuck me if you wish, but let me see your face. Please. Yet., despite the impersonality of his sex with me, I am ridiculously wet, belying my inner protest. He knows from my juices I want him.

***

In time, he tenses, pushes himself into me until he is fully impaled.

He comes.

His warm ooze spurts deep inside me, another marking of me and another claiming of me as his.

---

I remain in place, my torso flattened out on the marble, my legs still in a V on the floor at the end of the island. I feel thoroughly used, spent.

I hear him take a paper towel and wipe his cock clean. He zips himself up.

He returns behind me, and I feel his hands under each of my thighs. With the strength of a gorilla, he lifts my legs up and slides me further along the countertop. He stretches my ankles further apart, hanging them off each side of the marble slab.

He leaves me there, now completely stretched over the kitchen island, face-down and spread-eagle.

He walks away.

---

Some ten minutes later, he returns to examine his handiwork. “I want you to stay here,” he says, “just like this.”

With his finger, he dabs some sort of ointment on each of my ass cheeks.

I realize soon that it’s not ointment but his cum that has oozed out of me onto the marble.

---

He walks out of the room again.

I pray that his brother is not returning.