BOOBS!

I still exist. Probably nobody still follows me here after such a long time without posting, but that’s alright. I have decided to start to write again to keep track of my life and all. Moreover, I found out that I miss postings and that I really like reading earlier entries πŸ™‚

So, where do I start? Some things have changed, others haven’t.

Over the pasts months my relationship with John has grown even closer, if that’s possible. Coming from an abusive family, I tend to question a person’s decision to stay with me, again and again. I tend to ask him: can you bare my pain? Do you really want to be with me, if there are so many nice guys out there who are a lot less complicated than I am? Do you really love me? Really? REALLY? It’s a bit ironic to know that my questions get him on the nerves but that I can’t stop asking them anyway.

Almost a year ago I was diagnosed with an unspecific gender disorder and I was given the opportunity to decide whether or not I wanted a hormone treatment. I wanted it so badly, I really did. After testing my genetics, I started testosterone blockers and female hormones. To put it short, it was a disaster. My body didn’t get along with estrogen and I developed severe mental issues like dissociation, confusion, forgetfulness and dizziness. But the worst thing was the depression. The doctors told me that my body just needs time to adjust to that treatment, but when I finally wanted to attempt suicide, it was clear that it didn’t work. I was glad to be so alert to tell John when I felt it got out of hand. He immediately told me to stop the hormones and within only three weeks or so I was back to myself. Three weeks he spent home with me, most of the time, because I was in such a mental pain and always on the edge to end this life. Fucked up stuff, those hormones.

So, I had to learn that wishful thinking and reality are two different things. Painful lesson, but I got it. Fantasizing about getting a chemical castration and actually having female hormones in your brain and body are two things. It doesn’t work for me. I was devastated. I had wanted natural boobs so badly I felt like I would never be happy that way, but again my sweet husband took the matter into his own hands. In November I had surgery in the Czech Republic. The doctors were not really sure about all of it, because I had been very clear about how bad things were for me. I still was severely depressed, thinking of myself as the last freak on Mother Earth, but they decided to do the surgery because I obviously was able to tell them I would not get better if I could not have it. We agreed on relatively small implants. Once they said they would do it, I wanted to go mad on boobs, but they convinced me that starting with a C-cup would be too dangerous because I had no implants beforehand and there wasn’t enough space between my skin and the rib cage. Choosing an implant that would be too big might have caused problems with the healing and all. I could relate to that and finally we went for a small B-cup. They told me that once the implants were in place, it all would look bigger than in my hand, and they were right.

I knew there were a lot of shapes for those implants like more ball-like and more treardrop-like. I chose the teardrop-option to make them look more natural. Even though I feared the operation, I was so happy to finally get it done. I would always do it again! No complications at all. Of course it was a tiny bit painful, but not as much as I had feared. Removing the straps was actually more painful than the rest. With silicone implants you have to follow certain rules like not sleeping on them for a while, until the scars are fully healed and so on, but today I can use my boobs as if they were grown and not implanted.

I needed some time to get myself used to the changed feeling I have in the ribcage and in my entire body. Boobs change how you move, how you sit or lay down, how you see yourself and all. Getting used to them is connected with back pain as well. In the first weeks, I only saw them when I looked at myself. What was a game until then, now really is a thing: wearing a bra. I was told to wear a bra for some weeks to support the issue. Now I don’t have to wear a bra, but I do it daily (if not told otherwise). The feeling of actually filling a cup is amazing πŸ™‚ The sensitivity of my nipples has changed, too. Due to the training they already were very sensitive, but pumping them and wearing snake bites during hours made them bigger and softer.

The first time I gave John a boob-job was so intense that I came in the cage. Do I need to say more?

The doctors told my that it would be possible to get larger implants once the tissue has “stretched” a bit, but I don’t think I would want to change them (only if I have to). They are perfect. I can still hide them under my clothes if I want to (especially with wider shirts), but I can also show them off in slinky shirts πŸ™‚ I could not be happier. Well, only if I could give milk πŸ™‚

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The most beautiful moments during our vacation:

  • sipping John’s piss from the toilet bowl
  • spending the night in the car while he fucks a guy in our hotel room
  • being covered in cum and spending the day like that
  • being presented with a stainless steel collar and a Pandora pearl for my birthday

I didn’t get to cum. John says whores are there for other’s pleasure and he’s right.

I’m back to work and my normal pace of life. Taking care for my Master’s needs, cleaning the house, cooking and serving.

Hope you’re all having a pleasurable summer as well πŸ™‚

Vacations!

After one week of prostituting myself I had been given 85 euros. Though I asked all men for money, most of them refused to give me money (perhaps a dogging spot isn’t ideal for making money). Some just laughed, others were offended. One elderly guy gave me 20 euros, but that was very generous. The normal amount, if any, were 5-10 euros. In week one I’ve had 17 guys and had no orgasm myself. To be honest, I deeply questioned this task Master gave to me. When I showed him the money I had made, he drew the conclusion that the spot wasn’t ideal or that I’m too ugly or not good enough as a whore. He sent me to prostitute myself one more week and do better.

I decided to do two things: change the location and offer sex for a tip online as well. During week two I had sex with 22 men. They presented me with 270 euros. I found that web-thing really worked well. Last Wednesday I have met five guys in a row and they were all generous.

On Sunday evening I handed all the money to John and he was pleased. He asked me whether I had had an orgasm, but I had not had. He told me that obviously I’m a good whore: focussing on the pleasure of the guest without getting pleasure myself. When he said that, I melted in lust. I know my task here on earth is to serve, and I love how humiliated I feel when my needs are overseen…

I asked him what he wanted to do with the money, 355 euros in total. He smiled and said that he had thought about going on a vacation with one of his other guys while I had to stay at home (I thought that was cruel and beautiful at the same time). But he actually had decided to spend the money on a vacation with me. I know I haven’t made enough money to pay for much, but I’m happy and proud that he thinks I did good πŸ™‚

So now John has booked a nice last minute trip for us: on Thursday we’ll be driving to Lake Wolfgang in Austria again and go hiking a lot. I’m very contented πŸ™‚

Whore In Training

Since the last weekend I was not allowed in the bed, neither on a sofa, so I slept on the floor. Thankfully I was allowed to use a piece of carpet underneath, so the hurting was well tolerable, even after some days. John said fuckpigs need to be uncomfortable as a constant reminder of their worthlessness, so I took it like a good whore without complaining. At the moment I experience constant arousal, though I’m still in chastity without relief. Sometimes he allows me to touch myself for a minute or so, but I can’t cum in this short period of time.

It’s summertime, which means that we have a lot of nettles in the backyard, and yesterday he made me insert a stalk of nettle into my pee hole. That was extremely painful and I had to struggle not to cum. Today I put nettles in my panty, just for fun. I love the feeling of being already hurt when he starts beating or fucking my meat.

For the next week, starting tomorrow, ending next Sunday, I have to fulfil an extraordinary task: earning as much money as I can by selling myself and offering sex. This means I will be on a dogging spot every evening in the following week, trying to sell myself to strangers. John said, I’m not allowed to ask them for a certain amount of money, but I only may tell them that they may pay me what they think I’m worth. Blowjobs without protection, fucking with, swallowing and facials included. No cumming for me though. John told me that next Sunday he’ll let me know the purpose I will have made money for, but I will have to work hard in order to make as much money as possible. I hope we’ll do something nice with the money πŸ™‚ I love the thought of being a whore and earning my money by offering sex services, just like I did before.

Do I Really Believe It?

When talking to people who are not into BDSM, one of the question they mostly ask is whether I really believe all these things like being inferiour to John and other Alphas, that pain is nice, that rape play is really a game and does not affect my already broken soul and stuff like that. I try to be a kind person, so I normally take those questions serious and try to answer them, but obviously I fail most times with my explainnations. I’m not vanilla enough LOL

Yes, I truly believe that I’m an inferiour being. But that being said I want to add that I don’t consider that to be a bad thing. What’s most important is that you have a Dom or owner or however you like to call your counterpart who is appreciative of what and who you are. If you’re into being a fuckpig, but nobody appreciates that and nurtures your natural desire to be a fuckpig, well, that’s just sad. So when you really feel like you’re inferiour but nobody appreciates you for that or tells you all the time to “man up”, gather more self-confidence and become a superiour person yourself, that’s just useless and painful. I deeply believe that you should be able to live out what you feel inside. If you’re a painwhore, find someone who adores you for your ability to suffer a lot of pain. If you’re a little, find yourself a caregiver to put you into diapers. See, I’m an inferiour sub, an obedient whore and painslut for my Master and I can’t think of anything more fulfilling. It’s just not everyone’s cup of tea.

Yes, I find pain very sweet and seductive. Usually I can differentiate between pain that is meant to be nice and “just pain”. But I have to admit that the borders are a bit fluid. When I broke my arm, I didn’t get wet. When my dentist does things to me, I fear the pain extraordinarily. On the other hand I enjoyed it quite a lot when I had a bladder infection LOL All the pain John inflicts on me (and lets other inflict on me) is consensual. I could tell him to stop each and every moment. Usually people use safewords, but nowadays we do no longer. Why? Because we know each other very well and trust each other. I trust him with my life. He’s more carefully with me that I am myself.

No, I can’t always understand John’s reaction to my reaction. When he hurts or humiliates me and I witness he gets aroused I don’t understand why. I just know what he likes. I’m a masochist, he’s a sadist. We fit perfectly well, but he has no submissive feelings and I have no dominant feelings.

Yes, probably you can explain why I am the way I am. I was abused and hurt a lot during the first 21 years of my life and at some point my damaged brain decided to like it to cope with it. It’s that simple. Obviously there are other reasons for being sub, probably genetics. John is dominant because one day he found out that hitting a boy was better than kissing him. It’s not very complicated. You are what you are.

No, I don’t fear to harm my already broken soul with my sexuality. I tried to get along without sex and without BDSM. It just built up unbearable pressure. It’s a huge part of my personality. I feel good when I feel pain. I love being used, humiliated and tortured. John knows my borders (actually I don’t really have borders apart from scat, kids, animals, vomit and severe burns) and he moves within them. He stretched them and I’m alright with that. If you don’t evolve, why then play at all?

 

It’s Not Torture When You Cum

Last weekend John and I had so much fun. It started on Friday night when he told me I was not allowed to sit down to eat. Standing straight is one of his favourite treatments for me, and in the past two years especially when I wear heels. I’m not really able to properly walk in those, but I have learned to stand straight while wearing them. They make my feet hurt and then turn numb after a while. So I was eating my dinner standing, which really sucks when you’re not allowed to put the plate down and your hand gets burned as well. I like that πŸ™‚

Later he inserted a whole can of fruit salad into my cunt (without the can itself). The sugar caused cramps of course and I felt full to the brim when he fucked me. Later he made me eat up the fruit and his spunk while taking photographs of me.

Saturday we had to do the groceries and I was plugged meanwhile. He told me that he wanted to use hot glue on me. Because my father liked to burn me with cigars, I don’t really tolerante burns, but I wanted to please John and agreed. He burned my legs and my clit as well and the intense pain made me cum. So I guess using hot glue is quite alright for me. As a punishment for having this spontaneous orgasm he beat me until I bled with his leather strip, which almost made me cum again LOL

On Sunday he slapped me in the face all day, whenever he thought of it. It’s so humiliating to be slapped and then be told to smile, but I did, because I enjoyed every second. Later he put my head inside a plastic back and choked me until I passed out, while he relentlessly fucked me.

When I returned to work on Monday I felt bruised, used, hurt, degraded and wounded and this feeling lingers. I wish he would torture me more often like this, like really hurt and destroy me. Since Sunday evening I’m wearing a device with a catheter, so when I want to pee I have to open the catheter and I can’t control the flow. I think that’s nice, because it makes me feel helpless and under control. On the next weekend we will clean it up and insert it again. I think cleaning it once a week should be fine, as catheters usually stay in for four weeks or more.

To be honest, I didn’t expect that egg throwing thing to be that bad. Although John doesn’t throw eggs at my face (that would be downright dangerous and I could lose a tooth, an eye or break my nose), they really hurt a lot. It’s just like throwing stones at me. He loves that I hate it and quite often only pretends to throw them at me. I’m not allowed to shy away and I don’t, but that fucks my mind. They leave round, deep red bruises and and I quite a lot of them on me now. The bad thing is that most eggs don’t just fall apart after they hit me, so he throws them several times.

In the meanwhile I have found out why he gave me the rule with the breakfast. Each day I get the smashed eggs from the day before to eat. I am allowed to pick out the shells, but that’s it. And because the eggs were smashed before and landed on the floor, it’s disgusting as well because they have dust and bits stick to them. But sure, I do eat trash, so I try to just eat them and not think about it. Eating so much eggs makes me feel somehow bad. I’m not used to do so, but he keeps telling me that so much eggs will just make me horny due to all the protein. I guess it works as I’m horny all the time (but that might as well be the result of being so beautifully abused).

I have to wear an egg without the shell up my cunt all day. Usually I oly feel it for about an hour, then it obviously vanishes so deep inside my body, that I don’t really feel it any longer. When he fucks me, I think I can feel it somehow, but that sensation is blurry. Pretending that everything is just fine while having lunch with my family, knowing what a whore I am, makes me tickle with lust.