“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words… can do soooo much more!”

      This weekend, I had an experience I never imagined I would have. This weekend, I was pushed down, mentally, lower than I have ever been before. I felt that someone had taken my identity and locked it in a little box, and replaced it with a number. After the imprisonment of my identity, I felt that the parts of me that were left were painfully, hopelessly, embarrassingly exposed. This weekend, I felt like a thing. I was a piece of numbered flesh and not a person…and I savored the sweet taste of it and drank in each intoxicating moment.

      I know that I am a worthwhile woman. I am strong, confident, intelligent, and talented. I have a career that I enjoy, and I truly believe that through my career I make a difference in people’s lives. I am funny, beautiful, adorable, engaging, young, and full of life. I am very likeable and I have many friends. Within the BDSM community, I have found people who accept me for who I am, and the people within the community have done wonders for my self-esteem. There is not piece of me that does not believe these things, but somewhere in the back of my mind, there is always that nagging, unyielding need to be shamed, shrunk, and humiliated, both verbally and physically.

      At first, this need was nothing more than a desire. It was exciting to be called a slut or a whore. It made me wet. About two years ago, however, this nagging-but-small desire grew into something much larger. I could not achieve orgasm without being called a name, or made to crawl on the floor, or made into an object, or forced to kiss my dominant’s feet. This weekend, I discovered that my desire for humiliation is much more than a desire. It is a need. As a submissive, I need humiliation to thrive. I need to be put in my place, to be reminded of where I belong, to be brought to my knees by the sheer power of his words to and about me. I need to have the identity that I cling to, to be stripped away from me, leaving only the beautiful submission that resides deep within me.
      When I agreed to be the “Demo dummy” for the humiliation seminar that Lord Prophett was teaching at Beat Me in St. Louis, I thought I was signing up for an hour and a half commitment on Saturday morning. What was more, I thought I would be experiencing more of what I had always experienced, a slap or two on the ass, perhaps a bit of crawling or boot licking, words like “slut,” “cunt,” “bitch,” and “whore” tossed about for me to hear, internalize, and eroticize. I had no perception of the reality of what I had agreed to…though as the date drew nearer, I began to get a clearer picture.

LP and I had engaged in some minor interactions in the past several years, at events like BMSL and Spanksgiving. My limited knowledge of him was that he played on the edge, more so than I have ever been comfortable with, and that he was a sadist for whom my mild masochism was no match. After initial conversations regarding limits and “turn-ons,” he began to work on me, tossing little things at me here and there...an assignment to masturbate in a certain spot like a parking lot or a public bathroom, an order to turn on my webcam, or, most memorably, being assigned a new name. I had been asked to be called by a number. I found the idea erotic and intriguing. I had seen it done in a porn movie and had fantasized about it in the following nights, and so really, the title of “#3” and all the psychological effects that went with it were really at my request, but, as I’ve already mentioned, I really didn’t know what I was getting into. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

      The more LP and I chatted online, the more he asked of me, teased me, spoke to me, investigated my mind and my reactions, the more I grew to realize that this was not, as I had originally thought, an hour and a half commitment on Saturday morning. From February all the way through mid-May, I spent a few minutes nearly every evening being called “#3,” being told to masturbate in this place, or slip that inside of my body, or wear this skirt to work. I do not belong to Lord Prophett. I did not have to do these things. Many times, I didn’t even want to do these things…but I did them. I did them because even though it might not have been enjoyable, it was exciting and arousing.

      The thing about humiliation in an online chat setting is that it is what I make it. I found that in these chats, I could easily discard things that he would say that I did not like or did not want to hear. I could place my focus on words, phrases, and ideas that I liked. I could twist whatever he said so that it excited me and served my needs. The very venue allowed me to be selfish with my perceptions and stingy with my submission. My online humiliation was purely and powerfully sexual because I could internalize and focus on what I found erotic about a particular instruction or comment, and easily discard what felt uncomfortable or unpleasant to me. When I got to BMSL on Friday night, however, a much different sort of headspace awaited me.
            I hadn’t even finished registering for the event itself when Anita came up to me, took me by the hand, and dragged me over to LP’s vending area. My first face to face conversation with him since agreeing to do the seminar was when I realized precisely what was going to be happening. The humiliation scene was not to last an hour and a half on Saturday morning. It was to last 48 hours. The realization was a shock to me, and I found myself unusually nervous about the entire weekend, which is very odd for me. Odder still, I was even more excited.

            The interesting thing about humiliation in a real-life context as opposed to online is that what I find uncomfortable, what was easy for me to discard and ignore during online conversations, is what my mind turns instantly toward, simply because of the fact that there are others around. The nagging thought of “What must they be thinking of me right now?” continually runs through my head. Because of this, humiliation in a public, real-life venue becomes less of an erotic high and more of an exercise in power exchange and submission to another human being on a level of intensity that I have never before experienced. I found, through the course of the weekend, that submitting to physical pain is infinitely easier than submitting to humiliation and allowing myself to be put in my place.
This may be a good time to mention that I do not identify as a slave, but rather as a submissive with a slave’s heart. I believe that I have the potential to be a slave, for the right man, but I have only ever been a submissive to those who have been dominant over me. That being said, the idea of my “place” had never really crossed my mind, except in the context of erotic humiliation. I can say “Yes, my place is on my knees,” or “Please put me in my place,” but it was never something I truly believed. It had always been just another part of the game I liked to play. It was what got me off. The weekend with LP set me in a headspace I had never been in before.

            Friday’s dungeon was uneventful for the most part, save one thing: LP got me to orgasm on command. I am not sure, even now, how this happened, but it was disconcerting in many ways, primarily in that while he did not and does not own me, he still was able to exert that much control over my body. I remember thinking that perhaps my “place” is not what I thought it was, and that perhaps I have not been completely honest with myself. I claim to be picky in who I act submissive towards, but on Friday night I remember thinking that my body responded so easily to someone I had not consciously and purposely offered my submission to. I respond more easily than I like to admit.

            The seminar itself was actually quite a lot of fun. I played “True confessions,” confessing all of the places I had masturbated under LP’s instructions and how many times a day I masturbate, among other things. As he talked about the different ways to humiliate someone, he pulled my hair, called me names, and spoke about me as though I was not there. At the end, a new “record” was set for me. I masturbated and came for a total of 33 people…and with a rope wrapped around my neck so that I couldn’t breathe. It was fantastic. I found this all incredibly erotic, and it all worked toward making me feel quiet, humiliated, objectified, and defeated.
It took Friday evening and the better part of Saturday for me to arrive in that headspace, but when I did, it was as though I not only knew, but accepted where I belonged: on my knees, underfoot, silent, and obedient…where normally I am outgoing, talkative, and flirty. Once I left LP’s presence, it was easy for me to slip back into my normal “mode,” but when I was around him, he wouldn’t allow it. My favorite portion of Saturday during the daytime was when I was made into a footstool. I could hear people talking around me, but I was on my stomach, LP’s feet on my back and on my head, so I could see nothing and I couldn’t really concentrate on anything other than the pain of the weight on my head and my body. I nearly came from it. Though some of the activities, such as hair pulling and verbal banter, were playful in nature and others were serious, it all was driven by that same strong force that pushed me, mentally, into that humbled, silent headspace.

            I think that it was that headspace and my understanding of my “place” that made Saturday’s dungeon scene seem like such a natural progression. Had I been given a choice, I would not have asked for what LP chose to do. I may have asked for a flogging, perhaps, or a spanking, but I would never have asked for what was given to me. But I was not given a choice. The scene was non-negotiated, and even that felt natural to me. I was, by that point in the day, so objectified that negotiation was not even an option. I was taken to the center of the dungeon almost immediately after it opened, the leash I was wearing was tied to the whipping post, but I was not even allowed up on the wooden platform. I was put in a little ball on the floor, where I tucked my head down between my arms. I was not sure what to expect. LP gave me safe words, after which I expected to feel a hand spanking me, or a flogger, a paddle, or some other such implement. What I did not expect was his boot crashing into my ass. I’d never felt anything quite like it before. It was a sensation that shook my core, reverberating through my body and my mind. I don’t think there is one part of my body that did not meet with his boot.

I cannot honestly recall many things, specifically, that were said during the course of that scene.  What I do know is that the physical pain is what brought tears to my eyes, but his words are what kept them flowing. I have never felt so lowered or so worthless…but neither have I ever felt so freed by the idea of my own inferiority. I did not understand, at the time, why this felt so right to me. I know I am not a piece of shit. I know I am not truly made only to be kicked around. I know I am not a stupid, worthless whore…but something about truly accepting what was being said about me made my spirit soar. Even the subspace was different for me. Normally, an adrenaline rush leaves me feeling giddy, happy, and affectionate. My headspace, once a scene is over, dissolves, and I am joy again, that cute, sweet, energetic, bubbly submissive who is friends with everyone. Saturday night, not only did the headspace remain, but it intensified. I was still silent, I still felt as though speaking without permission was not an option and as though my existence was solely for the pleasure of those around me.
Since arriving home on Sunday night, I’ve contemplated how it could possibly be that I could be subjected to such things, love it so very much, and be left still craving more. It doesn’t seem possible, really. I know, after all, that I am a strong, confident, beautiful, intelligent, engaging, funny, talented young woman with much to share with the world. I sometimes, however, feel trapped by the restrictive expectations that society places on me as a “proper” woman who simply does not do certain things. The explanation I feel best describes why I need humiliation to the extent that I do is that it is a way for that unladylike, sinful, reprehensible, slutty woman who hides inside of me to break free of societal bounds and be who she truly is. The imprisonment of my self-imposed “identity,” who is dictated by what is “acceptable” in my eyes and in the eyes of others, can only inevitably lead to one thing. I have discovered that through humiliation, I can experience the freedom that comes with being stripped of my defenses, no longer allowed to hide behind my intelligence, my wittiness, my looks, my talent, or my confidence. There is no freedom greater than the freedom to be who I truly am.