Break Your Whore

By now I have earned my horsey back, but not the rest.

Last weekend John brought me to a public dogging spot. He had told me about it the whole week and because I was denied for quite a while now (and had to wear the plug one week almost 24/7) I had hopes that he might allow me to get raped. When we arrived there were only four or five guys and I started to suck them, just like John told me. I was still locked into the device (Holytrainer), but I wished to desperately to be fucked that I asked him again and again, but he told me and the guys that no, I was not to be fucked into my cunt, but only in the face. And he kept word. I sucked a lot of dicks and swallowed it all, but I remained unfucked and therefore so horny that I was frustrated all the time. So many cocks around me and than that…

John took a lot of photographs from me and published some of them so that others can take a look at me when they’re wanking. After all were pleased, he drove me home and told me to watch me in the bathroom mirror for a while. My make up was ruined, I had spit in the face and in my hair, spunk as well. He came to me, talked to me. He told me to lift my skirt and reveal my caged clit, my ridicolous “manhood”, my scars, my tighs, my belly. He told me to lift my top as well and look at my not existent titties, the desperate look in my eyes, the unfulfilled lust. I was trembling because  usually I avoid looking at me too close, but he told me to linger, to really look at myself. I was surprised when I realized that I liked what I saw. I felt sympathy for the slut in the mirror, for her scars and I respected her inferiority. Looking back, I think I might have seen what he might see in me.

Afterwards, he told me to shower and then come to him. When I did, he scrolled through the photographs he had taken, and he began wanking. He didn’t deny me when I sucked him, finally. I love it when he stays in control when others use me. He’s like a sponge. He looks at me, his whore, and it’s like he’d take photos with his eyes, just for his private use, and once we’re alone and I’m out of the spotlight, he can relax and use me, while remembering all the things other men just did to me. He likes me well used. And finally he fucked me in the cunt I had stretched for him one week. I still had the device on, but I came, thankfully. When my body decides that it doesn’t need any clit stimulation to come, I’m feeling that’s the biggest gift I could offer.

Since then he has taken off the device once every day and stroked my clit like about 10 minutes, and without the attempt to make me cum. It’s just that he tells me “I want to stroke you….down there, honey…on your nasty spot…”and that makes me melt. I can’t help but keep wishing it had always been him, from the beginning on. If love had been a part of my training, what a better whore I would be today.


Too Extreme?

Today, when you read about “slaves”, this most times refers to people who need this denomination to turn them on. That’s totally fine for me, but it’s utterly awkward when those people are judging 24/7-relationships as either fake or “too extreme”. I mean, there is no such thing as sympathy or solidarity among people from different ranges in the BDSM-movement nowadays, and regarding the bullshit I have heard in the past years I don’t care about it anymore. People needing the label “slave” or “Master” to get hard won’t be able to understand what I mean when I talk about being owned.

For me personally being a slave to my Master can’t be anything less than a life-long devotion, because otherwise it would just be a kind of game (which might be fine for others, but not for me). To be honest, if today it would still be legal to have slaves, I’d be pleased to give my civil rights away to be fully enslaved. It would be my dream to be completely dependend from my Master, even more than I am now. It would be an honour to hand over all my rights to him, to work for him, to be used in each and every way he wanted to, to earn money for him in whatever way he decided and, finally, sacrifice my life for him. I would do that immediately.

It is not that I didn’t have a proper opinion about things or that I’m not capable of working for me and takiing the responsibility for me, it’s just that I have always dreamed about being fully owned, even being kept like lifestock with no rights. I’m most happy when I’m owned and told what to do. I love being property, being used, being trained, denied and “abused”. Why? Of course because of what my father did.

Today I want to look at what he did as an early started training and not as abuse, though I know what he did was wrong. It’s just that I can choose to lament about that forever or own it and make the best out of it. It gets me wet to think of myself as a well-trained whore, a life-long slave. And it shatters my soul to think of myself as a victim. Nobody wants to be a victim. So being a slave for a reliable Master is a very good thing.

I’m pretty aware of the fact that what I make out of this is twisted and “insane” for normal people, but let me tell you, what he put me through was insane. I consider it to be very healthy to find a way to cope with that shit. So when normal people who call themselves “slaves” just because they like to sound slutty tell me I’m too extreme, it just makes me laugh. Yeah, you know, my whole life is extreme, so why not? Most real slaves went through hell and found peace in being a slave.

Maybe Some Light At The End Of The Tunnel

For some years now I’ve been happy with the Birdlock, but this month I got my first Holy Trainer. I had several reasons for this decision. First of all, my clit has shrunk a lot in the past two years, since I wore the device for really long periods of time. Even more since I’m able to experience Sissygasms and don’t “have to” take it off to release pressure on my prostate. Second, because the Birdlock was too big now, I was able to masturbate with the device still on, which made it quite useless. Third, I had read some reports of other users about the Holy Trainer and because all of them were contented, I thought I wanted to try it as well.

The Holy Trainer comes with an integrated lock so that additional locks are unneccessary. This means you don’t have to deal with bulks from the lock anymore. For me, the more decent device is quite alright, though I don’t mind people seeing that I’m in chastity. Moreover, I liked heartshaped locks or locks made of plastic for one use only. It gave me the feeling of being owned. The material is a natural kind of resin which responds to warmth. It feels super smooth in everyday usage, but you should not squeeze it once it has gotten really warm. The best thing about the Holy Trainer is, in my opinion, that it prevents masturbating really well.

I had several Birdlocks, for example a clear one and one with spikes. Now I have a pink Holy Trainer, which gives me a new feeling. Of course it’s more feminine, but I can’t see my clit through it. And that’s really weird, like not having one. I know that sounds stupid, but not really being able to see my clit sometimes make me fear I could have lost it. And I love that! Especially because Master treats my clit like trash and keeps telling me I’d have a better life without it.

So, talking about amputation. I know very well that I don’t want to have a vagina, but it would be awesome if my clit would shrink so much that it would end up to be not more than a pea. Just like women have, I guess. I have seen ladyboys with ultrasmall clits about 1 or 2 cm, and I would totally love that, but they were on hormones since before their puberty, so I know I will never get there, so matter how much I wear devices. I could never shrink that much and would need operations for that. It would be nice to have the shaft and the balls removed and just the head left, but ways smaller than it is now.

My therapist did some research and told me that the wish to live as a male with female tits and a smooth area down there also counts as a disorder in transgender terms. Because he is no specialist in these terms, he has talked to a colleague and was able to make an appointment for me in February (yep, because I pay privately, otherwise I would have to wait until autumn). It’s quite a long trip there (2 hours by car), but on the phone he sounded nice and open-minded. I’m totally excited to talk to him, and John will come with me. My therapist told him that I suffer from PTSD due to severe abuse during more than 20 years and that it might be that I feel this way because of that, and he just answered: that maybe the case, but I have the right to speak up for myself and he is willing to listen to me. Can’t believe it. I try not to be too happy about it, because usually doctors just tell me that I should have more therapeutic sessions to get my depression, eating disorders and PTSD sorted out and take some more pills, but anyway. At the moment I can see some light. Let’s just hope that it’s not the freight train coming my way, right?


Do As You Please

I’m getting a bit sentimental these days, as I always do when a year comes to its end. I had big plans for this year, but I wasn’t really able to accomplish any of them. The only thing I managed to do was to work more, and actually I work 20 hours a week now. That’s how much John works on two very normal days LOL The most frustrating thing about 2017 is that I didn’t really get one step closer to having boobs. After Thailand I have intensified contact with some trans-people and I was able to figure out that being trans doesn’t necessarily involve having your cock cut off LOL Obviously being trans can be defined as “not being comfortable in your birth-gender or in its gender-role in society” as well, and then obviously I’m sort of trans or at least might be. My therapist recently told me that he always knew I had “trouble” with my gender-role and that was the most awkward session we ever had LOL He says we will never be able to figure out whether I’m a real kind of trans-person or more like a fake-kind-of-trans-person, due to the abuse. Obviously being severly abused from a very young age on can lead to your personality breaking into several personalities, and even though I don’t suffer from multiple personality disorder, my wish to be impotent and the more female part can be the result of having to be the female for my father. Yup, that makes sense. I don’t even feel bad about that and I guess it’s really insane and distorted, but I get aroused by the fact that my father fucked me into never even trying to be a real male LOL My therapist says that my case is very complicated, because if I’m only that sort of fake-trans-by-childabuse-person, hormones wouldn’t be the best way to treat me. And this means: even more years of worthless, shitty therapeutic sessions to find out that yes, my father destroyed what might have become a personality and instead made me a useful, greedy bitch that hates its body, gender, life and all, but without even getting the chance to have boobs and be impotent LOL

I consider telling him lies and telling everyone lies who has the power to decide whether or not I can get hormones. People don’t get shocked when you tell them you were born in the wrong body, but they get shocked when you tell them the truth: that you just want to be inferior, because that’s how you really feel, maybe because of the abuse, but you really feel like worthless scum and want to have a body that’s made to be humiliated and used. I want to be impotent, I just want to be a set of holes with two nice boobs, because that’s how I feel ever since. I want to be the worthless slut I always was, for everyone to see. If that’s trans to you, then I’m trans. If that’s broken and insane to you, well, then I’m broken and insane. I don’t care too much about that, I just want things to start to change.

In my eyes it’s just pure irony that most therapists think that you’re on a good way to recovery when you mourn being a victim and struggle against it, but that they think you are really insane and helplessly ill when you embrace being a victim and love it. Sometimes it just makes me mad that someone who didn’t go through hell wants to tell me how to get out of it, even though I found my own way of coping with it and accepting what it did to me. At the moment I don’t know whether I shall continue to go to see my therapist, because everything he says doesn’t really help me. I don’t understand why he can’t accept that being broken is fine for me. At least he admitted that he’s not a specialist in these things and in January he will make an appointment for me with someone who is. At the moment I don’t see any use for that, because I think he will also just tell me that we need much more sessions and BLAH BLAH BLAH But anyway.

Above all, the Holiday season always makes me a bit sad and I can never accomplish what my brother wants from me. This year I wore trousers and a shirt with a tie and I felt so ridiculous that I played with a fork underneath the table cloth until I bled, but nobody noticed, apart from John at home. I guess appearing normal is vital and it keeps everyone happy apart from me, so I smear a big old grin into my face to keep everyone happy apart from myself.


Submission A Gift?

I don’t recall how often I talked to my therapist about how I could perhaps change my sexual preferences and finally start to like things that are regarded as normal, such as having consensual sex and having a monogamous relationship. It seems like I have struggled with my preferences as long as I remember. When I was a kid, I thought that one day I’d be a good boy and start to like what others like, and I remember telling myself that I’d just “try out” those kinks connected with degradation, humuliation and pain. I still believed in that lie when I was much older, and I suffered because obviously I wasn’t able to develop a “normal” sexuality. Well, afterwards I sometimes really enjoy being held and cuddled, but not always, and I totally fail to feel anything but boredom during “normal” sex.

When I met John, I thought it was odd to have someone whose likes and needs fit mine so much. But still I thought that one fine day, with the help of God or whoever, I’d start to have a normal sexuality. I even tried to break myself of my usual thoughts and techniques which just caused severe erectile dysfunction LOL Those attempts never lasted for too long, until I started to crave pain and humiliation again.

Having been abused as a child and as a young man, I always thought of my sexuality as something evil. Like I didn’t deserve it, and moreover, like it didn’t belong to me! When John told me that he thinks of being submissive as a talent, a gift, that sounded odd to me. I guess my father despised me for being submissive and somehow liking what he did to me, and so did I. I didn’t see the beauty in being masochistic. It was a need, sure, but could it be more? My bad conscience almost killed me. I felt like I wasn’t allowed to like being dominated and I struggled so much…

John has never questioned being sadistic. He has had encounters with not so masochistic individuals that ended with a lot of confusion in his not-so-masochistic counterparts and with frustration for him, but he never thought he’d have to change in order to fit into the needs of others. He only thought of them being too weak to serve him. I guess that’s the big difference between us. Both of us have deviant affections, but we cope with them in completely different ways. While I always feel ashamed for what I need, he’s out and proud (and loud) with that. You can’t take what he gives to you? Then you’re weak and not worth the effort. Surely he won’t excuse. On the other hand, I do little more than excuse over and over again for what I am and what I need.

In Greece he let a guy use me who really beat the sh*t out of me, and I enjoyed it so much being spanked and relentlessly fucked that I climaxed several times without any direct stimulation. Later on, that guy told John that he must be proud of me and that it was a pleasure playing with a sub who really is a sub and not just a wannabe. I was so proud of myself that moment that it made me think. And it still keeps me thinking. What if I managed to keep being proud of being sub/masochistic and made peace with what I crave? I guess I could like my body and myself better and savour serving even more. Is it really neccessary to stay ashamed for being sub? What if John’s right and that’s a gift?



I’m 40 now and over the past 10 or 15 years, my body has developed certain details that remind me of my father. Sometimes I can hear him laugh when I laugh. Sometimes I can see his fingers when I look at my hands. Most times it’s just those “small” things, but nevertheless I can barely stand them. Moreover, my brother reminds me of him, too. We’re both his sons, so it’s just natural to carry his genes and have some things in common with him, but that’s rough. You can never change your genes, no matter how much dye you use or which clothes you wear or how hard you try to laugh like someone else.

I know that his heritage includes my sexual desires. Having “sexual preferences disorders” is not only a mere cause of being sexually abused, it’s also in the genes. As far as I know, my father had not been abused or molested as a child, but he grew up with a very dominant and sadistic father as well who demanded very much of him. He passed that down to his sons. I got the bruises, my brother was expected to work hard and succeed. I was regarded as dumb, he was regarded as smart, leading to the fact that I was supposed to take care for his sexual needs and my brother to take care for his wish that he should be successful, a leader, a wealthy man with a flawless reputation. Well, sometimes I think: look at us monkeys, we just did like he wanted us to.

Sometimes I even feel pity with our father. Would he have been able to change, if he had wanted to? I tried to find out whether he had experienced abuse as well, but I don’t know, apart from getting hit by his father. Our branch of the family tree will die with us. My brother and me, we both don’t have children and we both don’t want any. Even if I was heterosexual, I wouldn’t want children. Of course it’s rough sometimes meetin friends with their kids and knowing I won’t ever experience what they have, but numbers speak against me. About 30% of men who were abused as children become violaters later on. That’s almost a third. Apart from that, I have difficulties with taking care for myself, how could I take care for a child?

Sometimes I’m full of sympathy for my “special needs” and value them as coping strategies. Sometimes I just despise them. Even if I know the machinery behind my behaviour, I can’t change it. And even after almost 20 years of different therapies, I’m not over it. I really wanted to believe that one fine day I would be normal, if I just worked hard enough. I thought then I’d be like anyone else. I would return to a safe state of mind and dismiss all perversions. And than I found that I need my perversions to function properly. When I try to leave my perversions aside, I’m insecure and just like that battery bunny without the batteries. I have no idea how to behave or what to do or to say. I’ve written that so often, but it’s still true: I wish I could be normal, but I will never be. All I am, all I feel, think, like and crave is the result of being abused.

I know there is no use in crying about that sh*t, but it still makes me sad. I know that even if my father was still alive, I wouldn’t confront him. My brother did, he was courageous, but of course that had no effect as our father didn’t think of abusing me as something unjust. We will never solve that. He will never stop feeling guilty and I will never stop feeling ashamed. It’s our heritage.




Sometimes, when I just thought everything is alright, there appears a trapdoor and suddenly nothings is really alright anymore. I know how it is to live with triggers and I guess all in all I do quite well. Apart from some times…

Saturday, John and I were attending a BDSM-party in a club and I actually wanted to write about that. Because after more than nine months of daily nipple stimulation I have finally managed to cum by nip play only. I was proud of myself and I like the fact that my clitlette is no longer neccessary.

But, on another level, this physical reaction has triggered memories that are rather lost underneath the dust of time. For years now I’ve been collecting memories written on little papers in a box. I try to sort them chronologically, but some memories can’t be put in the right place. Cumming by nip play only triggered memories of things that have happened when I was really, really young. I know my father touched me as a baby though I don’t recall exactly the first time when he inserted something into me. What I do recall is the feeling of being torn apart, a hellish, neverending pain and the fear of being extinguished. Well, well, and obviously sooner or later he made me cum by anal stimulation only. For years, like, the most part of my life I haven’t been able to cum by prostate massage or fucking only and always needed my clit to be stimulated. Now I remember why.

In fact I think I’m quite lucky to remember that now and understand why I couldn’t cum without clitoral stimulation. I feared loss of control and I feared death when letting go. My body needed to be overpowered again to recall that. I hope I can work on that and let it go, because of course I know I won’t die when I get fucked. I want to be a useful fuck-slut and cum when getting fucked as my clit is just a ridiculous and superfluous attachment.

For the moment, I just hate my body, hate myself. It sounds sad, but I’m glad I’m used to that, so that I know I will be OK again, sooner or later. I wish I could just hate him, but that little boy in me still loves him and wants to be loved by him. So sick of that.