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Even The First - PART ONE
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START Even The First - PART ONE
[quote]
Even the first interview importantly establishes the fact of objectification in the slave mind. To be interrogated, to be inspected, to be candidly assessed is a humiliation which widens a vulnerability in its sense of self. Its sense of autonomy and self-regarding confidence is gradually reduced and shackled. Such willpower as it has is dilated, loses precision and location in order to be re-focused inside the will of the Owner.
The candidate makes its attributes available upon enslavement in a process of surrender that is controlled by the attributes of suggestibility, vulnerability and other mental weakness. It is motivated by a hormonally generated desire for and insatiable identification with its own sexual objectification.
The consciousness of the slave is like a hive - each mental function a cell independently accessed and manipulated by the Owner. In a way that the slave is unaware of, it has surrendered even the unitary aspect of its own identity. It is no longer a sum of its parts, it is merely a collection of parts unified under the canopy of ownership.
[end quote]
When I first read this I was shocked. I had realised something: This had happened. This had actually happened to me!
I'll never forget that feeling of cold horror flowing like a vicious stream throughout my quivering body. Let me tell you this: The sage says, 'Know thyself', but the moment you realise who and what you truly are can be one of the most horrible experiences of your entire life, exceeded only, I imagine, by the feeling of realisation you get in the final seconds immediately prior to your being dead, this feeling of dumb unvarnished stupidity, of the waste of time, of the missed opportunities, of that vast unconquerable territory of the past unvisited, unexplored except through long marching hours of aching regret.
"I am not the person I thought I was." In all those years I was not even a person at all. I was a property. I was a... a thing, an object like a table, like a washing machine like a carpet like a sofa like a ... nothing at all.
I closed the book and replaced it carefully in the drawer beside Paul's bed. He mustn't know, obviously. I had to keep this secret. I didn't feel liberated; I felt trapped. I didn't feel energised to do something; I wanted to go to bed, to sleep, forever. I couldn't tell Paul how I felt; he was the one who had done it to me, but he was the one I always turned to, but he was the one who had stolen my life with restraint, and all the time he had calculated my needs in terms of his own completely personal satisfaction, and all the time I had trusted him to let me know what was best. I yearned for the comfort of his touch but that yearning was something he had deliberately bred onto me. Could I ever again feel anything other than disgusted?
"Foundations of Enslavement", the gold letters of the title of the book glimmered into darkness as I closed the drawer upon them. I knelt for a while like that, my naked hairless body hot from emotion and my heart beating fast like I had been chased by wild animals across a field. My skin pricked with sweat but my frozen muscles hardened in cold tension. My face was dripping as if from exertion but my core shivered as if I was kneeling in the rain. As these conflicting temperatures swept in waves through the parts of my body I recalled how he had used each for his own satisfaction.
Staring at that closed drawer, fixating on that manual shut inside, visualising its sordid recommendations, the uses to which I had been put: time passed, for, scorching my muscular shoulders, neck, and across my spine; the sun had moved - but I had not.
He had never thought about me at all, only the use he might make of me and extending the limits of that use, eating always into me, like a maggot eating into my soul! And, at his insistence, used by other men - I thought it must be right - and how he must have bragged and always how utterly, bovinely unaware had I been, happy to... not exist!
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Unable to resist and hard in one fist, though I knew not to, I reached forward and once more, removing the book from its place, opened it at random:
[quote]
Chapter Title : "Don't you trust me?" and "You have to be punished."
Punishment and Trust are but two sides of the same coin.
By assuming the right to administer punishment you are announcing your moral and practical superiority. Simultaneously, the more punishment you enforce against the man you are enslaving the greater the establishment of trust, because by submitting to escalating punishment your slave is manoeuvred into increasing assent to the proposition that his owner has the right and ability to decide what is best in all possible situations. Punishment removes a slaves trust in its own decisions and transfers it to the owner. Trust is not "earned" by the owner proving his trustworthiness! Rather it is a natural outcome arising out of constant punishment. Punishment builds trust in the slave who then craves increased punishment and humiliation as evidence of safety.
For this reason you must impose some form of light punishment, typically in the form of an admonishment, or rough handling, from the very outset. Obviously you must appear friendly, but the candidate will respond to assertiveness with respect and immediately his consciousness of his own dignity will begin draining.
[end quote]
This is what had happened to me precisely, upon our first meeting! Paul had stood. He had grabbed my hand and held it tight and in a firm voice, said, "Stand up straight." Now I remembered with horror that I even attempted to stand up straighter than I was already, I tensed and allowed his grip on my palm to grow painfully whilst he grabbed my shoulder hard and shook it with his other hand. Then he said the words I have craved to hear ever since in everything I have ever done: "Good boy." He said it with a gentle understated smile and immediately I felt a relief and a blessed sense like an enormous weight had been lifted from me, and a desire to please him occupied my thoughts from then on. To be a good boy and to merit that accolade became the motivation of my soul.
I was an idiot.
I was not a child but I was engaged by his infantilising treatment of me.
It had happened at a train station.
There was a café and I had gone in with my bag, a heavy military canvas carry-all which I slung over my arm with misleading ease, its weight felt good on my flexed arm. I was wearing a khaki sports singlet, the kind I liked because it showed off my development: The neck scooped low enough to display the jagged taut line between my pecs; they pressed the fabric ostentatiously, poking my nipples out sharply. I loved the feeling that I was displaying my body and the effect it had on people: they stole glances at me; they got out of my way; they apologised unnecessarily; they froze in speech or laughed without reason. I liked to be admired and make an impression. I was so well developed and fit - I still am; the narrowness of my waist emphasised the way I could twist my upper body, still supporting my heavy bag. I could feel my buttocks rotate slightly within my pants whilst keeping my legs locked straight and my feet stationary in their boots on the shiny black and lemony Lino tiles of the restaurant floor. I was searching for a seat, over a crowd of chattering heads towards one lone chair vacant at a table-share with one other man, large and dark-bearded. That would be Paul.
"Seat free, Sir?" I asked (I'm ex-army and use 'Sir' with anybody I don't know).
I had practically stepped over the rows of bobbing heads and brushed my bulging trews against the hair of unsuspecting diners to get to him. I was wading leg deep in the other seated customers, like a giant in the ocean.
I noticed the chest hair growing from beneath the collar of his check shirt which stretched with his ribcage. I saw from the movement of his boots that he spread his legs, crotch unseen beneath the pale Formica top, and smiled like he was expecting me. I waited for an answer but he didn't speak. Just as I was about to throw my bag on the floor and squeeze myself down between the backs of neighbouring chairs, lifting a broad leg doglike to bridge the nearest plywood stool, he held up his palm to stop me; stood, impressing me both with his size - he was somehow bigger, seated, bulging against the furniture - and his charm. He smiled without showing his teeth. His eyes looked into mine directly, seeming to summon me from the distractions of the moment into a clearing between us where his mind was the only thing that mattered. His eyes communicated something concentrated on his own desires; the assumption - I recognise it now - of my immediate subordination.
That's when he stood. He took my hand in his own and, equally unexpected, pulled it, squeezed it so hard it crushed. Surprised, I winced. He put his other hand roughly on my shoulder and pushed it saying, "Stand up straight." I let my bag fall from my back, bending only a little to rest it beside my chair, and stood stock upright like a soldier and he said, "Good boy," and he was looking into my eyes, locking them.
And I felt good, and I said, "Do you mind if I sit here, please Sir?" And he said, "Sure. Feel free!" and I did feel free. As if I ever would be free again from that moment until this! And I said, Thanks!
That was the way he was with me: I never felt less than free. In chains I felt free. Trapped, naked, cleaning his house I felt free. Locked in the cage in the basement I felt free. Pigslut to his cum I felt free, most free of all in blind cowering obedience to his humiliating demands. Though he punished me daily to maintain my attitude, I never felt anything other than free to accept his correction and guidance and orders. And always it was my will to resist that he had shackled and my desire to please him that he had by a leash!
"That's a good boy. Come for your reward," and he would let me suck him off, kneeling, banging the shaft of his nob against the back of my throat until he came in thick jets pushed down into my neck, my red face staring up at his over the broad mound of his abdomen, the look of orgasm in his eyes and his hand on the back of my head holding me suffocating onto it, stretched over his cock flesh, struggling to contain his massive flood until, spent, I was released and sank coughing to the ground, to lick his feet and toes which I did, in gratitude.
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END OF Even The First - PART ONE