What follows is an account of a recent slave training session in which I participated. All subjects involved were of legal age at the time of the event. If you are underage, be patient. If you are an adult, and it is illegal for you to consume homoerotic content where you live, fight for your right to live a life in line with your authentic self. Comments and criticism are welcome.
- Michael Schultz
I am afraid of words. I am afraid of interpretation. Most of all, I am afraid of myself. I have been tasked to write an account about my ongoing transformation from a deluded, self-serving simulacrum of a man into a submissive pussyboy and faggot fucktoy for superior men, specifically well-endowed, dominant men. Yet, as the French psychoanalyst, Jacques Lacan, once stated, "Truth is structured like a fiction." Any account of facts I attempt to give will be overshadowed by my own phantasy, subject to internal censor, and, inevitably, incomplete. Nevertheless, an objective has been given me, and I intend to fulfill it to the best of my ability. I am currently writing from the apartment of a black daddy who has been kind enough to train me to let go of my inhibitions, and refocus my attention to worshipping cock. I am 35 years old, and this session has been 18 years in the making.
When I was in high school, I was dealt a terrible blow. I was hoping to continue my education in Germany, but the means and the motivation were not there. This was partly because I spent an inordinate amount of time working my tight pussy down on the bulbous posters of my bed. With the advent of Internet porn, my desire to serve big, burly men only intensified. Growing up in the rough-and-tumble culture of rural, central Pennsylvania, it was made very clear by all the men and boys around me that I was not, nor ever would be, one the of the guys. It has been suggested by that same aforementioned student of the unconscious that femininity is defined by that which masculinity is not. Needless to say, I did not fit into the masculine mold of my culture, and was emasculated accordingly. Men were interested in sports, worked with their hands, smoke, drank, and discussed the women they either fucked or would like to. I listened to opera, was interested in the theater, read, wrote, and wanted to effict European high culture.
Even though I had no direct access to this community of men, I was happy to live on its periphery, to listen to the real men speak, take pleasure in their chiding, and, sometimes, downright contempt towards me for not being a man. When I was able to surf porn from the comfort of my own room, it was the stories and pictures of muscular, hairy, aggressive tops taking advantage of weaker, younger boys to which I gravitated. The Internet provided me a language and a symbolism to understand, and to come to terms with, the feelings of inferiority I felt since adolescence that were propagated by the world around me. Leather, submission, uncaring men who stretched out their faggots' cunts to maximize their pleasure were so ingrained in my mind, I was convinced that living a life of bonded servitude was my calling, my raison d'être.
The signs had been there throughout my short life. As a child, I would constantly raid my father's extensive collection of Hustler magazines to ogle to the powerful men which modeled for the sleazy rag. How I wanted to please the blue-collar men who sat around the bar in our basement after they got off work. How I wanted to seduce my father into robbing me of any prospects except that of being a submissive slut for his laborers for the rest of my life. I became obsessed with taking huge objects up my cunt. The bedposts were always a favorite, but as my need to stretch my cunt grew, pizza cutter handles, and shampoo bottles were added to my arsenal. When I was 14, I managed to stuff my entire hand inside my pussy. I was so proud of myself. I was going to make certain I was ready to take whatever my future master wanted to cram up my faghole no matter how big.
Yet, I also was painfully aware that good boys like myself, boys who were intelligent, and had potential, were to be so much more than a pair of mindless holes swinging in a sling. Being openly gay in the conservative, ignorant county where I was born was difficult. How was I to let people know that beyond liking guys, I wanted to be tied up, fucked relentlessly, fisted, and collared as sex slave? It would be as if I were outing myself from yet another closet, and the first outing was exhausting enough. I attempted to disavow these desires as best I could. Then came the news that I was unable to continue my studies in Germany.
On one hand, this rejection potentially would allow me to pursue another path, one that would lead me to live an alternatively alternative lifestyle. On the other, it seemed like a waste of my intellectual potential to lead a life of sexual depravity, devoted to the needs of another. This dilemma would confront me daily for the next 18 years. At first, I tried, and quite successfully too, to develop my academic acumen by throwing myself into my work. However, by the time I was in graduate school, the sacrifices I made to secure my position of prestige had left me burnt out, and unsure of what I truly wanted out of life. I began by engaging in erotic Dom/sub chat with other men I met online. Soon I had an online master and a small chest of toys to feed that inner craving which was now barely containable. The pendulum of my life swung madly between wanting to be a respectable professor, and a shameless fuckslave.
The difficulties of leading a double life, tenuous as it was, began to cause strain on my academic performance. I doubted why I was in school in the first place. I feared I was losing precious time learning how to be a good slave. As the years trundled on, my life at the university began to falter, and I slowly became aware that living a normal life, with a normal job, with a normal husband was not what I wanted. Yet, the lifestyle about which I dreamt required a level of honesty I could not face at the time, even when my unconscious mind would make plain to me my own desires within the academic discourse to which I presently had committed myself. A philosophy professor once posited this question to our class: "If it was not a matter of skill and training, of time and effort, of money or prestige what would you want to do with your life?" Without hesitation my answer was sex slave, a life dedicated to the service of men I found superior to me, and the stretching and pounding of my tight pussy.
As a student of languages and literature, I was an avid reader, which soon came to encompass explicit hardcore erotica. To this day, an erotic story can resonate with me far more, and cause greater waves of lust to sweep over me than even the most depraved sex acts caught on film or video. The stories which resonated with me most were written by a particular author one can still find on certain websites dedicated to homoerotica. His stories, one could argue, were uninspired, derivative, and lacking in nuance, and yet no other fiction spoke to me in a more direct and clearer voice. It wasn't necessarily the content of his stories that drew me back to the online smut rags on study breaks, or when my roommate wasn't around, but their basic structure. It articulated my own truth which I was too ashamed, or simply too unready, to embrace. Almost the entirety of his oeuvre followed a predictable pattern that I was happy to relive again and again through the words displayed on my computer monitor. The pattern was this: a sexually repressed, often intelligent (young) man would have an encounter with a ruthless dominant top who would take advantage of the man's vulnerability. By the end of the story, the young man would be broken, exposed, and unable, and certainly unwilling, to live any other life, except that of living, breathing sex toy for his master. The master, although cruel and seemingly uncaring of his new fag's descent into ruin, was quite conscience of the fact that he was not destroying or humiliating the bitch simply to get his rocks off; that was simply a side benefit. What he did to the now desperate cockslave, he did because he knew that it was the best possible life the young man could live. In essence, the master was, through relentless fucking and punishment, allowing his slave to accept his true self, to work through his desires, and find contentment following what was best for him, unmediated by the demands of society at large.
So, my life continued throughout college and into graduate school, doing my best to displace my desires to be enslaved by mastering academic discourse. I was deeply unhappy. It was getting to the point that erotic fiction, pornography, chatting, camming, and dildoing myself were no longer able to mediate my deepest wish, and my darkest secret. By the time I had completed my Ph.D., I was in the middle of a full-blown existential crisis. I did not want to continue the unending grind and tedium of literary research, nor did I feel as if I were young enough anymore to find that seemingly selfish dark stranger who would provide me the space to become the slave to sex I so desperately longed to be. I was 31. Paralyzed by the fear I would never be able to move forward, nor make up for the lost opportunities of the past, I moved back home in utter defeat. I needed time to regroup, to work on myself, prepare for my second act.
Even though the confidence destroying process of writing and defending my dissertation was behind me, other issues that began to manifest themselves during my academic career still needed to be addressed. I had become extremely anxious, and developed what I later learned was irritable bowel syndrome. Believe me when I say there is nothing more anxiety producing for an individual who wants to dedicate his life to taking cock, fists, and toys up his ass than the immanent possibility that the stimulation will trigger explosive diarrhea. This horrible turn of events seemed to bar me from the life of a faggot fuckslave which had preoccupied my thinking for so many years. Living out my days as an academic was equally unattainable by this point since much of the time I spent in grad school was focused more on playing out my sexual phantasies online than putting in the legwork to become a viable candidate for an eventual professorship. The heavy clouds of depression spread over the horizon, and life stood still as I choked on the thick air of regret. For the next four years I lived at home with my homophobic and prudish mother, barely working, and hoping still that my ruthless alpha would come through my bedroom door, remove my discontent, and set me to work on his monstrous phallus and bulging forearms.
There had been online dalliances, and promises to meet men which never panned out for one reason or another. When I wasn't the one who flaked out, I would be relieved to some extent, since I then was protected from possibly embarrassing myself by failing to perform, or unleashing a muddy river of shit on his dick or fists once he penetrated my second ring. I grew lazy, and fat. I denigrated myself for letting my naturally twinky body to flab out, and berated myself for wasting my youth following a path I would have easily forgone travelling had I only been brave enough to accept myself for who I authentically was. I locked myself away in my room, so no one could see me as a failure, where I tenuously could live out my ideal lifestyle through virtual reality.
Was this really how I wanted to spend the prime years of my life, living in my mother's house in the conservative wasteland I once tried so ardently to escape? In a moment of panicked desperation, I began to fill out profiles on various fetish websites, Recon, Asspig, Black Man's Reign. Unfortunately for me, the age of computer-based dating was waning, and those in the know used cellular apps to find their flavors. I still had a flip-phone. Nevertheless, nothing ventured, nothing gained. In the most graphic, pathetic language possible, I appealed to those online to mold me into a true faggot, a worthy pussyboy, a bitch who recognized the only dick with worth was the one in my mouth or in my ass.
It was hard going. Once again, I was living in the middle of a rural no man's land. Nobody I found, or who found me, were within driving distance. Not that it mattered much, since I didn't own a car, nor did I have any money to travel. I also wasn't looking for a hookup, but for real dominant men who could train me for 24-7, live-in ownership. And in the off chance I could meet someone, it was always compromised by the fact that it took me hours to thoroughly clean myself out. Had I lived alone, the meticulous prep of my guts and the stretching of my tight hole on hefty dildos would have been less of an issue, but it is near impossible when living with a judgmental, and sexually frigid parent. Spending three hours in the bathroom irrigating my colon only to spend the rest of my day grunting on some big rubber cock was not only be unfeasible, but it would shatter the brittle peace between my unsupportive mother and me.
Even though breaking free of this prison of my own making seemed an insurmountable task, there were a few men I met online who were willing to help me make my escape. One was an older black gentleman from New York, with whom I had chatted intermittently over the past five years. He was dominant, kinky, and possessed that quality I appreciated above all others in a man, namely a huge, thick cock. I had come close to meeting him on several occasions, but my lack of intestinal control made me wary to take a chance. Yet, for the past ten years my hesitation to take chances held me back from moving forward. I could not keep wasting away in a room in my mother's house in backwoods Pennsyltucky.
He liked smoothly shaven, submissive, white pussyboys, and like me, believed some males were born to serve others. He enjoyed mild humiliation, and I had pranced around wearing lacy panties while he watched on his webcam. He was patient, and experienced, and was willing to train me despite the many times I avoided meeting him in the past. It was September 2017 when I finally was ready to take action, and become the slavehole I was meant to be. The date was set for the end of November, which gave me time to prepare mentally for what was in store for me. The old anxieties still loomed large, but with my life at a veritable standstill, there was little to lose one way or another. Two weeks before we were to meet, I completely covered my body in depilatory cream. I am not particularly hairy, but I didn't have enough razors left to do it all by hand. The cream worked like a charm, and I was delighted to feel how smooth and soft my body had become. This, I thought, is how an inferior faggot should look and feel. I was happy. I planned to meet him on a day after my mother would be out of the house long enough for me to give myself a deep colon cleansing. I was still nervous that no matter how painstakingly I cleaned my cunt, I would not be able to maintain an acceptable level of cleanliness for the 24-hour wait in between douching and meeting him. But I thought to myself, "The worst thing that could happen is that he will send me packing on the next bus back to PA after I paint his fat dick with a vibrant shade of nervous shit." I had made my plans and preparations. The readiness was all.
The day before I left, I spent three hours irrigating my colon. Stress! No matter how many times I shot water into my guts, it wouldn't run clean! My mother would soon be back, and there was no time left for further preparation. It was going to be what it was going to be. After completing my less than satisfactory enema, I turned to removing every hair from my body. Just like two weeks prior, I covered my body with Nair, and waited for the cream to do its magic. Again, stress! When the cream was removed, I had minor chemical burns around my armpits, and, worse still, on the top of my ass. To me, it looked as if I had a severe case of chicken pox, and it felt just as painful. By this point, I was sorely tempted not to go. What was the point of showing up looking like a plague victim with diarrhea when this man was expecting to be presented with a clean, smooth pussyboy? Despite my hesitation, I thought, "I owe it to him and to myself to follow through with the commitment I made, and to take that important first step towards exploring a side of myself which had been suppressed for so long." I screwed my courage to the sticking place, and, on the following morning, got on the bus to New York City. I can't say that I was nervous. I was on the bus. There was no turning back. It was going to be what it was going to be.
The bus made good time, and by quarter after twelve, I was on the streets of Manhattan. Daddy told me to meet him on the corner of 42nd and 9th, and there I waited, watching all the handsome men pass me by. It felt so liberating to be in a cultural mecca again. Before long, Daddy pulled up, and I jumped in his car. The seat warmer was cranked up, and within minutes of our drive, he ordered me to pull my pants and underwear down to my ankles, so he could inspect my body. "Let's see how those legs look. They're fine. They don't look near as bad as you said they did. You have some thick ass thighs." "Thank you, Daddy," I replied. My slave dick was hard as I realized I was driving through one of the most populated places in the world half-naked. And nothing felt more natural. I was at ease. It felt normal. It felt good because a real man told me to do it, and I did it without hesitation. Daddy broke my musing by reminding me that this was only a first session, and that it would take several visits before I became a through and through fuckboy. At that moment, I couldn't be more excited to be able to do this all over again.
We soon drove into the parking lot of a strip mall, and Daddy ordered me to pull up my pants. He wanted to have my hair cut. We went into the salon where we chatted for a while until the stylist was ready for me. We talked about politics, gay culture, and pornography, and I addressed him as Daddy as we waited in the busy salon. "How would you like your hair cut?" Daddy asked. "However you want it cut, Daddy," was my reply. When I sat in the stylist's chair, Daddy came with me to show how he wanted my hair cut. It was clear to the stylist, and to the salon's patrons, that there was something different about the dynamic between the two of us. I took note, but didn't care. I went from having a beard and long hair to being clean shaven with a crop top. I looked considerably younger. I looked like the faggot I had wanted to be ten years ago.
We then went to have dinner at a local Chinese place where Daddy told me one of the women at the salon asked him about the nature of our relationship. "I told her I was your foster Daddy, and I wanted to get my boy's hair cut so he looked sharp. I also told her that your real mom was a crackhead." "I wish she were, Daddy," I retorted. I was a bit nervous about eating. I was afraid it would either lead to me barfing on his dick when I was gagging on his shaft, or it would stimulate my intestines and release all the shit I was unable to expel yesterday. I was conscious of what I ate, but also grateful for all the attention Daddy had shown me in the first few hours of meeting.
When we got back to his place, I was immediately ordered to strip. Except for the leather slave collar locked around my neck, I would not wear a stitch of clothing for the next four days. He bent me over to inspect my ass to see just how bad the chemical burn from the Nair was. He slapped my cracker cakes a few times then said, "I can definitely work with this." He gave me one more playful slap on the behind before pulling down his own pants, and ordering me to suck his mammoth cock. It truly was impressive. I knew from the pictures he sent me that he was big, but nothing could prepare me for just how big and black it was. It was easily ten inches, and became increasingly thicker towards the base. The base was so thick my fingers couldn't touch each other when I wrapped my hand around his daddydick. It was doubtless one of the largest slabs of meat I ever encountered, and I was about to take it on stone sober.
Despite my complicated relationship to my own sexuality, I did, nevertheless, have sex from time to time. I even had some dominant boyfriends, and some rather piggy encounters, but almost all of them were under the influence of drugs and alcohol, or at the very least with the help of poppers. Here I was, nothing to numb or take away the anxiety. Here I was totally exposed. Here I was in between the legs of a superior black man with a mammoth cock, working his shaft the best I could.
I opened my mouth wide. I stuck out my tongue. I swallowed deep, but nothing I did could make my fuckskull take him balls deep. It was so unbelievably thick that my jaw ached in no time. Nevertheless, I continued to work his meat to the best of my ability. I bobbed back and forth, worked up a copious amount of slobber and showed his dick the respect it deserved. Time ceased to exist, and despite the acute aching in my jaw, I simply focused on the task at hand, worshipping Daddy's big black cock. Before I knew it, he needed to leave for work. I was given a brief reprieve. "Do whatever you want while I'm gone," he said. "The only thing I ask is that you are naked when I come back." When he returned that evening, he found me naked and supine on his bed. He immediately stripped down, and pounced on top of me. My legs straddled his shoulders as his massive torso loomed close to my body. He began shoving his tongue into my mouth, and I massaged his tongue with mine. He rumbled, and I could feel his massive cock heavy between my legs. He straightened his back, grabbed a bottle of lube from the window sill, and greased up his daddydick and my practically virginal hole. The pain was unbearable. Without hesitation he shoved the head into my cunt, and the rest of the shaft soon followed. He was steady in his fucking, and I was overwhelmed with fear, anxiety, and the feeling that my pussy was about to collapse. "Look at me," he said. "Concentrate on me. That pain that your feeling is the pleasure you're giving your Daddy." He pushed deep trying to get into my second ring, and I began repeating, "This feels good to Daddy!" through sobs, sighs, and moans as he stretched my cunt, moving his dick from side to side, opening me up. He fucked me several times, pushing deep into my guts, my pussy was warm, and was welcoming him in, but my mind was still deeply conflicted. Part of me wanted to run away, but another part knew this is exactly what I needed. This man was fucking me, taking pleasure from my body, and I refused to deny him that pleasure. Never once did I say stop, try to back off his cock, or stroke my own inferior dick to ameliorate the pain radiating from my guts. I spread my legs wide with my arms, and let him take control of pussy. By the end of the first night, my ass was wet and loose. I cannot say that it was an enjoyable feeling for me, but when he withdrew, I could feel that empty throbbing between my legs. It turned me on, and I soon found myself pawing at his dick, wanting him inside me again. "You really like that dick, don't you?" he asked. "Yes, Daddy I really do," I answered, his bullmeat growing in my hands. Soon I was thrown onto my back again, with that mancock invading my most vulnerable of parts. There was nervous laughter as I knew what I was in for, but I wanted to give him pleasure, and I could only do that by letting him train my cunt to take his dick. By the time we fell asleep, me cuddled up next to this big bear of a man, I was physically and emotionally drained.
When I woke up the next morning, I hurried to the kitchen, naked, and made him breakfast before he left for work. He would be gone for most of the day, which would give me plenty of time to give myself another deep colon cleanse, and to serve him in a non-sexual capacity. I was to restock and organize the new vanity in his bathroom, and clean out his refrigerator. Afterwards, I was to begin writing an account of my first time being his bitch, and how I came to this pivotal moment. We discussed the mental disjunct between my pussy which, from the way it opened for him, wanted to be used, and the cerebral part of me that was ultimately disallowing me from fully giving into Daddy's sexual demands on my body.
I had no problem completing my chores, and writing out the narrative, of how I ended up naked, collared, and offering myself up for his use. I had fallen asleep by the time he got home, but was happy to see him. I was meticulous in my douche, and, confident that my pussy was clean as a whistle, began begging him to take his pleasure from me. We cuddled, but soon enough, I had my legs in the air with that black anaconda relentlessly pounding away inside my faggot fuckhole. The rut was less painful than the night before, but it was still very uncomfortable. I was moaning, sobbing, and chanting my mantras "This feels good for Daddy," "Thank you Daddy," and "I love the way it feels," even though my mind was not completely convinced that it did. The longer he fucked, the faster, the deeper, and more aggressive he became. As my cunt submitted to his piston fucking, my voice dropped an octave, and the mantras took on a nasty, dirty, slutty tone. The part of my mind which felt this is where I belonged slowly started to emerge.
The following day, Daddy and I spent a long morning in bed. I was nestled in the crux of his arm, and my hand explored his big belly and impressive girth. He slowly pushed my head to his crotch where I began to suck his cock for all I was worth. My jaw still ached from the past two days of worshipping his massive member with my faggot mouth, but I tried my damnedest to deep throat that monster. It was near impossible, but I continued to suck, slurp, and gag with complete abandon. Daddy reached for his camera, and began to take pictures of me fagging out on his cock. My face glistened with precum and thick slobber; I looked up at him with the eyes of a wanton bitch. I wanted to appear like a complete whore when he viewed the pictures later at his leisure. Being kept naked, and performing in front of his camera was as natural as breathing. It simply was, and I was glad for it.
Eventually he had to pry me off his cock, so he could go to work. As I laid back in his bed, I perused his back issues of HX magazine. The rag was crammed with all the LGBT events that were occurring at the time of their publications. Circuit parties, sex parties, and escorts were advertised alongside reviews and times for Broadway musicals, opera performances, and art exhibits. For the first time in a long time, I remembered how great being gay could be, and how wonderful, fluid, and encompassing the community is for queers living in cosmopolitan areas. I had forgotten about the many gifts that my sexuality bestowed. How great it was to be here, collared, naked, serving a Dom, and reveling in my faggotry!
As the day progressed, Daddy would periodically pop in between meetings, and I would be allowed to further worship his cock with my aching mouth, but it was my pussy I feared he would fuck. So long as my second ring isn't penetrated, my pussy can remain spotless for up to 72 hours, depending on what, and how much I eat. However, Daddy's dick was so long that penetrating my pussy deeply was an inevitability. I was gripped by the fear I would shit all over his beautiful beast, my biggest nightmare, and one of the main reasons I fear giving into my inner pussyboy. But the situation was out of my control. I didn't have three hours to properly clean out my cunt, and Daddy fucked on his terms, not mine. Soon enough I found myself flipped over, a pillow underneath my ass, and Daddy plowing deep inside me. It was much easier this time to take his dick, and I could feel him plunging deep with little resistance from my slutslot. My cunt felt so loose and juicy, but when he pulled his dick out of my gaping hole, and grabbed for a washrag, I knew he had mined my pussy too deeply. I was mortified, but Daddy just cleaned of his dick, wiped my ass, then plunged right back inside me. When he withdrew again, I shoved my fingers in my pussy, nervous to find out just how clean I was. When I pulled out my fingers, there on the tip was a small dab of brown gut snot. He handed me the rag to clean off my finger. I asked him if he wanted me to go and clean myself out, but he assured me it was just residual from having stuck me deep, and that it was fine. "You know," he said, "you worry about how clean you are. You worry about your razor burn. What you should be thinking instead is, `How lucky I am that Daddy chose me to use. Of all the boys out there, he chose me.' And you know what else I think?" he continued, "You have no idea just how attractive you are." What he said was true. I had very low self-esteem. Until recently, I wasn't even sure I had a Self. I heeded what Daddy told me. I was in his bed to be used and fucked. He wanted my pussy, and I was there to give it to him. That pussy, I reasoned, was no longer mine. It was his, and like any property, it was his responsibility, and his to use as he saw fit.
Resigned to the fact that I had no control over the situation, nor any control over my own body, I let him take what he wanted. He started to pound me deep, and hard. There was no break, and he fucked me in every position he could. My pussy opened up. He drilled me deeply, and my mouth soon was curling into a wicked sneer as I snarled all types of obscenities. I was a faggot, a pussyboy, a slut for a superior black man. I was a cock whore. After three days of training my ass, I at last began to take pleasure from Daddy taking pleasure from me. Nothing felt so right, and there was no other place I would have been at that moment. When he was finished plowing his slut, he collapsed next to me, and I hugged his sweaty body close to mine.
When he awoke the next morning, I waited for him to send me to the kitchen to make him breakfast. I was leaving that evening. After performing my morning duties, Daddy left for work, and I had the afternoon to reflect on what had occurred over the past four days. I'm still very self-conscious about my irritable bowel syndrome, and so as soon as he was gone, I was in the bathroom cleaning out my colon. I then washed the dishes and took a shower. I packed up the few items I had taken out of my suitcase over the past few days. I brought so much clothing, unsure how Daddy would like me to dress. In the end, all I would have needed to bring was an overnight bag since my leather slave collar was the only apparel Daddy allowed me to wear. "Travel light next time," I thought. "Collar, showershot, toiletries. No muss, no fuss." I really was enjoying being naked and collared. I would not mind if this is all I ever wore on a daily basis. Well, in addition to a cock cage, perhaps.
So here I am, lying in Daddy's bed, completing the narrative of my first encounter with Daddy, vintage 90's porn playing in the background. Soon Daddy will return and take advantage of his faggot before driving him to the Port Authority where he will return to the wasteland whence he came four days earlier. The return to Nowhere, Pennsylvania is something I dread, but as I look at myself in the mirror, leather collar around my neck, face clean shaven, my blond hair cut short, I resembled one of the models from the porno playing on Daddy's T.V. Gay culture would follow me back to the countryside. There is a dull, pleasurable ache in my pussy, which Daddy will fill, which will make the ache even more delicious on the ride home. I have been Daddy's domestic and sexual slave. I have served him without question, and to the best of my ability. I have been reacquainted with that primal side of myself which has been denied expression for far too long. I have a feeling that, going forward, that primal side will find more opportunities to manifest itself. The journey of accepting my desires, and appreciating my identity as a submissive slut has just begun. I may no longer be in my 20's, but, as people often say, "better late than never."