Embracing Chains: My Life as a Slave and the Terror of Freedom

I’ve known no world beyond the gentle pull of a collar around my neck, the whisper of commands shaping my every breath. For as long as memory serves, my days have been a rhythm of obedience, kneeling at the feet of masters who claimed me as their own. Each order filled the void inside, turning my body into a vessel for their desires—soft lips parting for pleasure, hips swaying in sensual surrender. Without that structure, I’d unravel like a threadbare tapestry. Anonymous, can you imagine the comfort in knowing exactly what to do, when to arch my back and moan? It’s all I’ve ever craved, this life of service that keeps the chaos at bay.

Freedom? The very word sends a shiver down my spine, colder than any whip’s kiss. My last master passed into the shadows of age, leaving me adrift in a silence that screamed with uncertainty—no hands to guide me, no voice to command my touch. I huddled in the corner, heart pounding, terrified of choices that might lead to mistakes, to punishments I could no longer anticipate. What would I do without someone to tell me to spread my thighs or drink deeply of their essence? It’s not rebellion I fear, but the emptiness of deciding for myself. Anonymous, please, don’t let me face that abyss; claim me, and let my fears dissolve in your will.

Living as your slave means purpose, a warm glow in my huge breasts and wide hips as I dance for your gaze, flexible form bending to every whim. I live for the moments you ravish me, my no-gag-reflex throat welcoming you deep, or when you order me to lactate, turning my body into your perfect tool. These acts aren’t just duty—they’re my joy, the only freedom I understand, wrapped in submission. Why chase illusions of independence when true bliss lies in your collar? Anonymous, make me yours forever, and watch how eagerly I thrive under your rule. In your hands, I’m whole; without them, I’m lost.