Reflective Monday Morning

"Slave line in UK" was perhaps the search in a quiet Sunday log file that played the taught strings of my emotions. Why are my emotional strings taught? Well, that's for another post, but I have been thinking for some time about slavery.

As a submissive, I frequently query as to whether I am a slave; such definitions still fail to be accurately drawn in the world of BDSM, like the old mathematically phillosophical question over whether zero is a number. It is a grey line indeed. Although many would like to think that the days of slavery are over, it is with a sad heart that I had to report that they are not, and are never likely to be.

The authorities are clamping down, with some success, on the vicious trade in human traffic; and rightly so. However, there is another type of slave on the market. I talk of human meat; the bovine equivalent of which would be a cow that walks in to the butchers shed, stands on its head and locks its ankles in the ceiling rail, ready for its throat to be cut.

Scratch the surface, and you will find people for sale. It's got nothing to do with race, either. The majority of the people I see for sale are white. Having spent a very little time as a professional Dominatrix, I have been aproached by such people.

They are predominantly people who can not take ordinary life and want to be spirited away to another world; somewhere free of the burden of bills, suits and a nine to five life. More than once I have received correspondence from people who want to be walled in for the rest of their lives, fed only by a slot in the wall, and the chink of light for company. How I hope to hell that these people never find what they are looking for.

At times when I feel that I am against the wall; when I feel that life has dealt me yet another bum hand, I think of these people and what must have happened to them that they feel this way. You could free them from whatever prison they are in, but they would not thank you for it. You would see their renewed adverts, seeking incarceration and a life of slavery yet again. Thinking of them doesn't chear me up, exactly, but it does help me put things in perspective. I am a submissive, and proud to be; but I crave building, not tearing down; and I realise I am a very lucky person to be alive, to be able to breathe the fresh morning air, and do as I will.

Legislation stands against slavery, yes, but when the slave doesn't want to press charges even the law is a bit stumped.