This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.
The fictional blog posts of a young woman who has accepted the suggestion of the man who uses her that she should record her journey to becoming a ‘Conscious Cunt’— a woman working intentionally, submitting to a set of ‘Principles’ to continuously deepen her servitude, and at the same time ruthlessly to repress her sense of self and agency over her body, in particular its use and abuse.
So. I have no idea how to do this.
I can hardly use this old computer.
But since the point is that what matters about me is my body, not what’s in my head, here is my body. Well, the body that is known as J.
It exists to be fucked, used and abused. I know this. I have accepted this.
But, I wasn’t brought up knowing this; Until only a few months ago, I was pretty ordinary. An ordinary upbringing, ordinary hopes and dreams, ordinary troubles. A more or less ordinary attitude to sex, and an ordinary understanding of what it meant to me.
But now everything is different. I’m not going to tell you how that happened, because that’s His story— how He did what He did to me, how He changed me. I was just the girl He chose.
But the fact is that He did change me, and now— now I am cunt.
At least, I have accepted that I need to become cunt. That I am going to be cunt, and nothing more.
Only, even if acceptance was like a switch tripping (and it was) it turns out that actually becoming cunt; transforming myself, boxing away every part of me that thinks it should have a say in what this body is for, what should happen with it, how it should present itself— all that; boxing all that away inside me so that it can get out of the way of becoming cunt, that can’t be achieved so swiftly.
That is hard. And slow. And, of course, immensely sad.
The J that was— that grew up, was a little girl, a young woman, had friends, pets, ambitions, likes and dislikes, thoughtlessly took her inalienable human rights for granted— that J is heart-broken to realise that all of that is over. That she is ended.
Not by dying— nothing as easy as that— but by giving up; giving herself over.
Voluntarily accepting that she is finished, that she should play no further part in the determination of what happens to this body; that she needs to learn how to put it ever more completely to use in the service of satisfying the desire of others.
That J now ‘exists to have its holes fucked by cock’, that ‘Nothing else matters.’
Sad it is; desperately sad. J cries herself to sleep most nights (unless she is with Him, in which case she works to keep her needy little half smile in play— at least when her little tongue tip isn’t flickering out to wet her lips and hopefully remind him that there is a warm hole eager to serve him).
She is sad writing this. But it doesn’t change anything. She knows that she has made this choice.
This blog, at His suggestion, is to serve as a documentary of her self-directed progress towards becoming nothing.
Nothing but entertaining cunt.
I have .
No; J has overwhelmed herself, writing this. There is more— much more, that she needs to explain, but, putting these pictures of the body here, writing this, is all she can manage for today.
J wrote already that this transition was hard; that it was terribly sad, that it would take time. Right now, writing this, J is not even sure that she can.
That she can, what?
J doesn’t even know.
Please; fuck me, Sir. Fuck me hard.
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