Altered Identity

At the end of May I had the opportunity to talk to the second therapist who is specialized in those gender matters. I was nervous again, but not as much as during the talk with the first doctor. Nevertheless it was a big help that John accompanied me. He asked me the same things, more or less, and he asked John to join in the conversation as well. In the end, he told me that he, too, would come to the conclusion that I had gender issues that can’t be specified. He told me that he thinks I should continue trauma therapy, but that he also thinks it might me helpful for me to stay on antidepressants and that he would recommend I get a treatment with hormones, if I want to. He said that it doesn’t happen only in rare cases that people who underwent severe abuse develop a certain kind of altered identity and he recommended finding a therapist who is specialized in gender stuff as well, because he thinks that it’s an important question when and why Ginny developed. He thinks Ginny must have developed during my childhood, even though I don’t recall it. Well, a lot of more work to do.

Next thing is an appointment with a doctor specialized in hormones. Before I can get blockers or estrogene, they have to make sure I’m genetically male as well. Both psychiatrist said that they don’t doubt it, but that’s how they do it here in Germany. Moreover, they have to make sure that everything’s alright with me, before they can give me hormones. During the process it might be that I have to increase my daily dose of antidepressants or change the substance again, because usually estrogene creates depressions. That sucks hard time, but we’ll see.

Ironically at the moment I enjoy both, being outside as Ginny and with my usual Blaubeermann self as well. Getting so much unexpected support just does me good. In the moment I have the feeling that my therapist might not be the ideal person to work with for me. He’s good in what he does, but I don’t feel like he’s supporting me in this gender thing. At the moment I’m trying to find someone else to work with as well (or instead).

With having now these two expertises that say I’m trans it would be possible in Germany to change my name and social status. That’s weird! And that’s a thing I certainly don’t want to do.

What else? To be honest, I enjoy my sexuality even more at the moment. John supports me with face slaps whenever, cute rape play and severe pain, which keeps me horny forever, because I’m still in the device. No cummies for me.


Treatment For Offenders

These days we can read a lot about a severe case of child abuse here in Germany. A mother and her boyfriend have abused her son for two years and sold him to other men. As usual the press can’t really express their disgust and even if everyone claims to be shocked and overwhelmed by such evil, they all hunger for more details.

It brought me to think about offenders again and even though I suffered for almost 21 years, I still believe that they are insane and need therapeutical and medical help. I don’t judge a person for being a pedophiliac, but I judge and hate them for what they do. I know very well that not every person who is pedophiliac carries their needs out on children, and especially those are in desperate need for therapy to teach them ways to deal with their nature. We need more programs for prevention. It’s too late to be shocked when a child was already harmed. In my opinion we should finally overcome that taboo and no longer shame people for their nature, but help them to find ways to cope with it.

Of course I wonder if my father would have had the balls to talk about his nature and change something about that. I wonder if he ever felt the need to talk about that and get help. For me, it’s too late.


At the moment we talk about what my father did to me when I see my therapist. My therapist wants me to take a deep look at what he did in order to understand that it’s over and to find out how and how much this has effected my wish to be impotent and more girlish. To tell you the truth, over the past 20 years I have talked so much about that crap that most times I don’t feel anything when listing all my injuries and all the things he did. I normally just don’t feel it, and most times I deny to feel any anger or pain or whatsoever.

That being said, I have to add that of course I understand that I’d be a totally different person today if I had not experienced this abuse. But that counts for everyone with this background. To be honest, I think I have come out of this hell quite sane. I didn’t need to have a stoma, for example, like others. I can still pee through my own urethra. Not all my broken bones healed up perfectly, but I can move without pain. Over the years most scars have turned white, some remain pinkish. The scars on my soul didn’t heal up too well. It’s not that I haven’t had enough talks with therapist (more than enough), but that I can’t fit it all together to feel unbroken, unabused or uninsane, if you want. But most day I’m alright.

I didn’t see it coming that Ginny would become such an important thing for me. I thought dressing up would be enough, just for kink. You know, men who wear ladys’ clothes are a bit ill-reputed among gays. I have always failed to understand why, but that’s a fact. I think some gays think of wearing ladys’ clothes as unmanly and the very opposite of being gay. I don’t know. Over the years I have developed another mindset when I’m Ginny. I feel more like whole, sane and capable. I like the feeling it creates in my body and in my mind. When I’m her, I’m able to be weak. To feel more. To feel things more intensely without switching off. When I’m her, I can see more beauty in this world. It just makes me happy. She didn’t get hurt, my father didn’t rape her.

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.