Beautiful When Objectified

He called me beautiful.

My Dom called me — his slut, his fucktoy, the person he uses when he needs to… beautiful.

Beautiful.

I knelt before him, worshipping his cock as best I know how, enjoying the sensation of his skin on my lips, and under my gently teasing teeth. I kissed his cock, nuzzling the head and adoring it.

And he called me beautiful.

He took a hank of my hair in his hand, but he didn’t pull. He grabbed it, and then, with his thumb, he stroked the side of my face.

“Sapphire the Fucktoy is beautiful. Beautiful when objectified. So very beautiful.”

I was unable to respond. It was a moot point anyway, I am not permitted to speak without permission.

I know his definition and perception of beautiful is very different to mine, mine being based on appearance as well as what’s in a person’s soul, and his having its foundation in how a woman submits, and twists and turns in order to please her master — but it was, without a doubt, one of the few times when i felt that the epithet handed me was done so with the utmost sincerity… and it touched my heart.
 
I’m fairly sure that my soul is beautiful, even if intermittently, but from an external perspective, it’s rare that I am so complimented.
 
I’m still more than a little shaken at the events of the evening, as you’ll understand when you read about when i cried, but it was wonderful. 
 
I don’t know where this thing is taking me. My head says I should walk away — actually, it’s less “saying” than screaming out loud. Or, to put it another way, were this a sign, it would be in foot-high neon letters. Flashing, no less.

But how could I ever walk away from him?

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Deprived, depraved, fucked and satisfied

Deprived of what? I hear you ask.

It’s not unusual for a Dom to withhold the thing most essential to the being of his servant, slave or sub — wherever they slot in along the sub-o-meter, and whatever the agreement between they and their master — the concept of denial is one of the basic tools of torture that a master has at his or her disposal.

My master deprived me of my words. The essence of my being. Not my written words — thank god, that would have been a safeword-inducing occurrence — but my spoken words. It was a highly unusual situation for me. But, as ever, I was happy to fulfill his wishes — happy to please him. My goal was — is — to make him happy. ‘Nuff said.

It did not change, help or hinder the outcome. Never before have i been simultaneously satisfied, denied, spaced-out, focused, aroused, in pain, and utterly, totally fucked. I tingle all over, still, inside and out. I couldn’t do enough for him — I’m not sure that I even did.

At one point, i lay supine — at his behest, of course — while his hand explored my cunt, and his mouth nuzzled and nibbled at my breast… not the traditional position for a sub, although god knows I am not complaining. It was wonderful. I was owned. Possessed. His fucktoy. His slut. And yet I felt — how should I phrase it? Cherished? Kinda. Needed? Maybe. Wanted? Definitely. As though I could lie there under his hand forever?

Hell, yeah.

He once told me that his eventual goal was to have me adore, worship and love him. It’s not as distant a goal as it once may have seemed. I worshipped him tonight, with my tactile lips, tongue, fingers on his body, and my body wherever he wanted it to be.

I came i don’t know how many times. I know i asked permission every time, except for the g-spot orgasm gushing moment — I’m still unable to control that orgasmic urge, love it though i do. Fortunately, he’d already told me to come, so the issue was neatly avoided.

At first I was deprived of my words by his command. By the end of the evening, when he permitted me to speak freely, I was hard pushed to find words to express myself. How did he manage to be so brutal and yet so tender? So dominant, and yet so sensual…

I reflected on this as we lay there recovering. I love the controlling part of him, even, to a certain extent, the cruelty that accompanies it — else why would I become his slut? — but i was unaware of and therefore all the more surprised and delighted by his sensuous and tender inclinations.

So intense an experience that I was actually speechless. He’d caused me to perpetuate the effect that he had initially ordered… if that isn’t adoration, then I don’t know what is….

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