Show everyone your cunt.

It's all I can focus on, even though the sounds of them talking amongst themselves are coming through the curtain, I can't bring myself to shift focus long enough to listen. 

All I can think about is that I *feel* wet. 

I hate feeling wet. It's not the arousal that is the subject of my objection, it's the physical sensation of being slippery between my legs that makes me uncomfortable. It makes me feel less than a slave. I don't mean that as a general position, but personally, I like the coldness and detachment of my own slavery. I like, in some sick way, that it makes me feel constantly like a victim. From my vantage point it seems easy to laud my rectitude in front of him, based solely on the fact that he does horrible things to me and I bear them. There is no bodily pleasure to it, there is suffering and there is a physical form of service that manifests in obedience and protocol, but I have little emotion as his slave, and I have almost no autonomous physical being at all. Everything I enjoy about it takes place in my head, in thought not reaction, the use of my body to the end of enslavement is entirely functional; I exist in the parts he needs, and for the things he wants to do to them. My body exists only in the ways he wants to use it and there is no conception of physical pleasure myself, because I don't take cognisance of a *myself*. 

While pain is a physical pleasure that I do enjoy, I don't see my masochism as subject to the ownership of anyone. I am *my* masochist. This relationship with pain, it's mine. I suffer for him, because it seems an integral condition of slavery, but I hurt for myself, because it is an integral condition for my pleasure, and they are different things. I feel no shame in the pleasure of pain even though it's not suffering to hurt, it's an indulgence, like when I see blood gushing out of my skin, no matter how much pleasure anyone around me derives from that, in my mind, I own that pleasure. No one could possibly feel it as intensely as I do, not even the one inflicting it, because it's *mine*. There is instantaneous physical and emotional pleasure to hurting. For him, I like to suffer, beyond reason and past humanity, well past my ability to relish it in the way of a knife cutting my flesh. There is no thrill in suffering, only resignation; there isn't even any growth in it, only acceptable. To suffer you have to play in spaces that couldn't possibly be pleasurable, not  blood-splattered dungeons, but gilded cages. I enjoy our relationship most in those spaces, ones that make me function like the Room of Requirment but feel like a vast empty sterile space. It is the closest I can come to not being human. 

When I'm wet I feel a lot more human than I ever want to feel. It's not pain that brings it out in me, it's not suffering either, it's this. This makes me wet. Lying here on the floor, in nothing but a tank top, half my body separated from the other by a curtain, my face wrapped up in a sack. This makes me wet. My legs, lifted upwards, spread wide open and tied up to the ends of two tables, for everyone to be able to see my cunt so clearly, and talk about as if there isn't a person attached to it. This makes me wet, but even that, is only half an explanation. This doesn't *have to* be degrading, and I am sure there are many people to whom it is not, and some to whom it may even be a radical expression of body positivity, but the thing with degradation, and why it feels so uncomfortable, is that it's the most microscopic of personalised lenses.  This wouldn't feel the same to anyone else, it wouldn't even mean the same thing. When I was young*er*, I used to feel an inexplicable need to take off my panties and display my cunt. I didn't understand it, nor did I know what exactly about it made me feel pleasured but sometimes when I was alone in my room, sitting at my desk, I would lower my underwear to my ankles and just stay like that. Sometimes I would pull down my pants, and put myself in a corner. I had no idea what I was trying to accomplish, I was just acting out of helpless arousal. 

I told him about it, and he saw it, he saw my *shame*. Shame makes me wet. There are layers to the shame as well. I lie here with an unshaven, messy cunt. There's nothing wrong with not removing hair from your cunt, but I do it because it enables the sterility and service of being his slave. It's unnatural to be hairless, un-human, and on top of that, it's an impossible expectation to have from a person you fuck every day, and that's where I feel most comfortable as his slave. In that nexus of service, unfairness and lack of humanity. I don't feel like that right now. Right now, I feel demoted from my position to one where I am relegated to being visibly human. Forced to listen to the derogatory laughter of strangers and endure the exclamations of repulsion towards this piece of flesh that I am all too eager to thrust into the faces of the entire world. I'm forced to expose myself, and be attacked for it. 

But he is not forcing me. 

It's me. I hate being wet because I am the instigator of it. It happens because I am helpless against my response to shame and humiliation. There is physical pleasure to it. To being reduced to a hole and be made to show people how it leaks. To have him know exactly how this makes me feel, and share that with people within earshot. To have them snigger with understanding at a pornographic mockery of my entire life, and everything I have ever been through. I feel an overwhelming urge to cover my face, even though it is already draped in scratchy fabric that will leave red blotches on my face. I feel an unbearable urge to moan even though no one is touching me, or seemingly, paying any attention to me at all. I am reeling, and no one seems to notice. I am crumbling on the inside from having no place left to hide and it doesn't seem to register to anyone. No one is here with me, in this space, I lie here alone. 

It seems like he is showing people my cunt, but it is not so simple, he is showing everyone my shame. 

And it's wet.