|
 Love BeingHere are relevant references from the Books where Love Being is mentioned. I make no pronouncements on these matters, but report them as I find them. Arrive at your own conclusions. I wish you well, Fogaban Click a heading to jump down to that listing. Main Headings Love Being a Possession Love Being a Same Love Being a Slave Love Being a Woman Love Being Able To Be Whipped Love Being At The Mercy of Masters Love Being Braceleted Love Being Captured Love Being Chained Love Being Forced To Obey Men Love Being Forced To Yield Love Being Kept Powerless Love Being Owned Love Being Property Love Being Subject To Punishment Love Being Subject to the Whip Love Being Treated Strict Love Being Under The Total Domination of A Male Love Being Used As a Slave
She loved being a possession, but, rather clearly, if I am not mistaken, she wished to remain the possession of a particular master, wished to remain my possession.
"You will love being a Same," said another. "It is the only thing to be," said another.
The sixth week of the training was spent, as several of the former, before the mirror, but this time repeating over and over, aloud, "I love being a slave girl. I love being a slave girl." "I love being a slave," said the girl, looking up at me. "I think I will love being a slave girl," she said. She laughed. Then she said, soberly, "I love being a slave, Master." "Do you still love being a slave girl?" I asked. "Yes, Master," she said. "You love your collar?" I asked. "Yes," she said, "I love it." She looked up at me. "I love being a slave," she said. "I love being enslaved. I love being forced to yield, and to obey men." "You have ruined me for freedom," she said. "Do you object?" I asked. "No," she said. "I want to be a slave. I love being a slave." She obeyed immediately, unquestioningly. "I love being a slave," she said, "and serving!" "You love being a slave!" she said. "It can be terrifying to be a slave!" I said. "You love being a slave!" she said. "Yes," I said. "I love being a slave!" "It is more than that," I wept. "I am a slave inwardly, in my need, and in my love, and in my nature! It is what I am! Despise me for it, if you wish! I am a natural slave, a rightful slave, and here, on this world, in my collar, I have found myself at last! Hate me! Hold me in contempt! But I am a slave, and I love being a slave! I love it! I love it! Do not try to force me to be what you want me to be! Rather accept me for what I want to be, and am! - one who knows she belongs at the feet of men! - and desires to be at the feet of men! - their slave! - their loving slave!" I am a slave, and I love being a slave, but surely I dare not admit that to any man. "Yes," she admitted to herself, "I am a vain slave. And I am exquisite, I think, and I am beautiful, I think. Or perhaps so! And in any event I love being owned and I love being a slave!" I am a slave, and that is what I want to be. I would not be otherwise. I love being a slave, she whispered to herself. I love being a slave. And I love my master. "I love being a slave," said the brunette. "We all do," said Corinna. "Your name is Lita, is it not?" "It was," said the brunette. "But the master has named me anew. I am now 'Cecily'." "I want to be a slave," she said, "and love being a slave. I am a slave. I desire to be what I am. How can I be happy otherwise? To be sure, I am terrified, too, to be a slave. For I know what may be done with me, and how I may be treated. But I am content in a collar, for it is that in which I belong." "I love my collar," she said. "I love being a slave."
"I love being a woman," she said. "I am happy I am a woman, Tarl Cabot, I am happy." "You are no longer competing with men," said Hassan. "You are now something different." "Yes, yes!" suddenly whispered Tarna. "I see! I am different! I am not the same!" She looked at us. "Suddenly," she said, "for the first time I love the thought of not being the same." "I am not the same as a man," she said, looking up. "Obviously," I said, looking on her stripped slave beauty. "I am different," she said. She looked up. "I love being different," she whispered. Too, I certainly would not wish to be whipped. I laughed to myself. For the first time in my life, I, a slave, felt free to be a woman. I then loved my sex. "I love being a woman, Master," she said. She held the chain against her bared beauty. "I love being a woman," said the girl. "I love being a woman." She kissed me. "You are a slave," I told her. She kissed me again. "They are the same," she whispered. "Yes, Master," she said. "I learned that I was a woman, and a slave." "And?" inquired Policrates. "And, Master," she said, keeping her head down, "that I loved being a woman, and a slave." I had not really, in spite of strong feelings and intuitions on Earth, begun to understand my sex until I was imbonded, until I found myself in my place in nature, subservient to men. I now loved my sex. I now loved being a woman. It was marvelous, and wonderful! "I did not know being a woman could be anything like that," she said. "How precious is my sex! How wonderful it is! I love it! Now I never want to be anything else!" Within this woman, revealing itself in the dance, in its rhythm, its joy, its spontaneity, its wonders, were untold depths of femaleness, a deep and radical femininity, unabashed and unapologetic, a rejoicing in her sex, a respect of it, a love of it, an acceptance of it and a celebration of it, a wanting of it, and of what she was, a woman, a slave, in all of its marvelousness. "I love being a woman," I said. It is a bit late for such things then. It is one thing never to acknowledge oneself; it is one thing to pretend and hide; it is one thing to avoid meeting oneself; but it is quite another to forget oneself once one has met oneself; one cannot, so to speak, then unmeet oneself; one may hide from the truth; one may attempt to avoid it; one may even arrange one's life in such a way as to minimize the possibilities of learning it, at least explicitly, face to face, in its fully glory; but once one has seen it, one cannot simply unsee it; one cannot unlearn it; it can no longer be repudiated; incantations can restore neither virginity nor ignorance. And, too, I loved my sex, my truth. I would cling to it forever. No one could force it out of me. I was not discontent to be a woman. I love strong sensations, she thought. And I now know that they can exist. I love being a woman, she thought. I want to be owned, and dominated, she thought. Only here, on this beautiful, natural world have I understood, for the first time, my body, my mind, my feelings, my deepest being, my very soul, my sex. She stood straighter, but did not dare smile, for fear one of the riders might, on an impulse, loosening his rope, spur toward her and in a moment, as she fled, have his cast, tightening loop upon her. But she did stand straight, and beautifully. She was no longer ashamed of her body, or embarrassed by it, now that it was owned. She loved it, and prized it, and was proud of it.
Suddenly, angrily, I lashed her with the whip. She shuddered, struck. "Do you like that?" I asked. "No, Master," she said, "but I love it that you can do it to me, and will, if I am not pleasing to you."
"Does it amuse you to have me so in your arms?" she asked. "How?" I asked. "Helpless, and needful," she said, "begging, if you wish." "It pleases me," I said. "We are so at the mercy of our masters," she whispered. "Men will have it so," I said. "Yes, Master," she said. "I love it," she whispered. "I love it!"
I am braceleted, she thought. Even in the house of Mirus, long ago, she could not help but respond to her braceleting. Even then, however reluctantly, she had found the bracelets stimulatory. How delicious it was, how exciting it was, that feeling of being braceleted, of being helpless, utterly helpless, of having her small wrists fastened together, locked together, particularly behind her back, her beauty then so exposed, so unguarded and defenseless, in those linked, obdurate, sturdy, uncompromising bracelets - slave bracelets. It spoke to her of her vulnerability, her helplessness, of her subjection to men, of her condition, slave, of her nature, female. I love being braceleted, she thought.
"I awakened in my bed," she said, "as I was being gagged. I could not cry out. It was a young, blond raider of Treve who captured me. I was stripped and bound, and put to his pleasure, in my own bed! Then he hooded me and carried me to the roof where his tarn was waiting. Later I served him nude in his camp, as though I might be a slave. I knelt, serving him his food. I poured his wine." "And how did you feel about this?" I asked. I saw she was struggling to speak. Then she whispered, "I loved it."
She lay beside me. She fingered the chain depending from her collar. "I love being chained," she said. "Chains are useful in impressing her slavery on a woman," I said. She had then turned to face me, on all fours, the chain dangling down from her collar. "I love being chained to your slave ring," she had said. At night she was attached to the ring, by neck or ankle, so that she would always be at hand. She loved being so chained. She was slave, she was his.
"What do you think now of your collar?" I asked. "I hate it," she said. "And I love it!" "You love your collar?" I asked. "Yes," she said, "I love it." She looked up at me. "I love being a slave," she said. "I love being enslaved. I love being forced to yield, and to obey men."
"What do you think now of your collar?" I asked. "I hate it," she said. "And I love it!" "You love your collar?" I asked. "Yes," she said, "I love it." She looked up at me. "I love being a slave," she said. "I love being enslaved. I love being forced to yield, and to obey men."
"But men keep women such as I powerless," she said, touching her thigh. "Yes," I said, "and you love it." "Yes," she whispered, frightened, looking down, trembling with emotion.
"I am owned," she said. "He commands perfect obedience in me. I have no choice but to give it. I am his slave." "And how do you feel about this?" I asked. She looked at me. Then she said, "I love it." The dominant male is thus selected for in mate competition; the undominant male tends, statistically, to lose out to his stronger, more intelligent foe; correspondingly, evolution selected for the female who responds to the dominant male; she who fled such men either mated with weaker men, her children then being less well adapted for survival, or, perhaps, fled away, and her genes were lost, for better or for worse, to the struggling human groups; the female who was excited by such men, and longed to belong to them, to masters, and keep by them and serve them, had the best chance of survival; she was the best protected; her children would be the best protected; further, her children would be more intelligent and stronger, being the offspring of more intelligent and stronger men; her lusts, and her love of being owned by such men, "I love being owned," she said, suddenly. "Of course," I said, "you are a woman." "If a woman loves being owned," she said, "must she not be a natural slave?" "Answer your own question," I told her. "You are the woman." "I dare not answer it," she whispered. "Do so," I said. "Yes," she whispered, frightened, "she must be a natural slave." "And you are a woman," I said. "Yes, Master," she said. "Draw your conclusion," I told her, "out loud." "I am a natural slave, Master," she said. "I love being owned by men," she said. "I do not find it degrading or debasing. I find it exalting and fulfilling. Do not despise me for what I am." "And what are you?" I asked. "A woman," she said. "And a slave," I said. "Yes," she said, "a woman, and a slave." If some women were slaves, and wished to be slaves, and loved being owned, and wanted to be at the feet of masters, why should she object? What was it to her? She had a security, and an identity, in the collar. In its way it defined her, and governed her behavior, how she should act, how and when she might speak, what she might do, and not do, and so on. She wanted to be owned, and loved being owned. I wanted to be owned. I was owned. I loved being owned.
She loved being property, and knowing herself property, but I did not think she was eager to be bestowed or vended.
Ellen did not wish to be punished. But she loved being subject to punishment. If I am not pleasing, she thought, I will be punished. How appropriate for a slave! How different from a free woman, she thought. No matter what they do they are never punished. But I must be pleasing, and perfectly, or I will be punished. I am a slave. Men will have what they want of me. Men will have me as they want me! "How do you feel about being subject to the whip?" I asked. "I fear the whip," she said. "I am terrified of its stroke." "Of course," I said. This is common with high-grade slaves, delicate, well-formed, finely featured women, women of high intelligence, profound emotion, and active imagination, irremediably sensate, tactually enlivened women, women keenly alive, women profoundly stirred by the floor beneath their knees, by leather thrust to their lips, profoundly responsive to the fingers of a man's hand on an ear lobe or thigh, women with helplessly sensitive bodies. Such women, being so desirable, and alive, bring by far the highest prices off the block. "I dread it," she said. "I will do anything to avoid its stroke." "But," I said, "how do you feel about being subject to it?" "Must I speak?" she asked. "Yes," I said. "I love it," she whispered. "So, I gather," I said, "you love being subject to the whip." "Yes," she said, "being subject to it. I do not want to feel it, of course, and will strive to keep it on its peg. But, knowing that it will be used on me, if I am not pleasing, thrills me. It reminds me that I am a slave, and must obey, and strive to please. It informs me that consequences will attend any laxity or slovenliness on my part, any imperfection in my service, any dissatisfaction on the part of my master. Is it not the symbol of the mastery? Does it not tell me I am an animal, that I am owned, and a slave? Perhaps my master will often have me kiss the whip, that I may thusly be reminded of my bondage."
"I fear the whip, terribly," I said. "But I love being subject to it." "I love being subject to the whip," she said. "I respond to my domination. I love being dominated, wholly, helplessly."
The stricter I was with her the more she loved it. When I would cuff her from me she would crawl back to my feet, kissing them.
"I love being under the total domination of a male," she said. The slave responds well to restraints, and the uncompromising dominance which she yearns for with all her heart. Obviously she does not wish to be hurt, nor, generally, should she be hurt, unless she has been in some respect displeasing, and punishment is in order, but she does want to know herself slave, owned, and mastered. Accordingly she loves to be in the master's power, whether merely heeding his word, obeying, or realizing, in frustration, that no matter how much she might wish to do so, she is not permitted to speak, or writhing in his bonds, helplessly exposed to his mercy, and caresses, should he choose to bestow them upon her, such things. She responds well to blindfolds, hoods, gags, ropes, straps, collars, slave bracelets, chains, and such. "Thank you for giving me no choice, for making me do what you will have me do," she said. "Thank you for your command, your power, your uncompromised, unqualified domination! Be ruthless with me, be severe. It is what I want! I respond in a thousand ways! I revel in it. I need it, I am a woman, I am incomplete without it! Yes, make me serve men naked, or as you wish! I love it! It is what I am for!"
"So," I asked, "Free Woman, what do you think?" She turned about and looked up at me, through her hair. "It is thus that a slave may be used," I said. She looked up at me. In her eyes there were tears. "How did you like it?" I laughed. She went to her belly and reached for my foot. She put her lips over it and kissed it, tenderly. Then she looked up at me, again, her hair about her face. "I loved it," she said. |       
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