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 as a ‘conscious cunt’— a woman working intentionally 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.
I am J is doing very badly at this.
I am J is trying. Just. it is … it is hard. Today, though, I’m J is going to start getting better.
First, holes— this cunt’s holes, in use. What all this is about. Having this happen more.
J realises she hasn’t said what this ‘Conscious Cunt’ thing really is. Because it sort of is a ‘thing’— even though there is nothing official. He showed J it; asked if she would like to do it.
She— J— (me, only I’m trying not to be me, any more) read it— it’s very short— you’ll see— and looked up at him, horrified, tears in her eyes, lips quivering, almost cringing. And He. He just leaned back a little, smiling softly, and watched her.
I mean, we both knew.
It had gone the same way when he had asked me if I would let him decide how all my hair should be managed.
(It was ‘me’, back then— a real girlfriend, with dates, and flowers, and cuddles, and cute little sexy foreplay games, and going to lunch with other couples, and shopping trips. It really was. Only … only that just sort of wore off, after a while, and he showed me why; showed me that really it was the way he fucked me that I wanted. That we could ditch all the other stuff and it would get better. And he was right. Only … only … But this is not that story. And anyway, all that has been thrown in the trash, now.)
My reaction to him being in charge of my hair was more surprise, confusion and nervousness than horror, but it went just the same way. A simple suggestion from him, an outsize reaction from me; negative, fearful, horrified, expressing affront— and at the same time, fascinated, flattered— and then, quite soon, amazement.
What amazed me was the realisation that I was going to say ‘Yes’; ‘Yes, please!’, in fact. That I was flooding with pleasure at the idea that he wanted to make it easier for me to please him. It took about half an hour before I said it out loud. He said; ‘What? Yes, to what?’ — then made me explain.
‘Oh, that!’ he said; ‘That was decided when I asked you, wasn’t it? I mean, I saw it in your eyes; aren’t I right?’ I think I threw something at him, then, but I didn’t argue— because he was right and we both knew it. I have shaved my pussy every day since, changing the shape of the little patch of curls he favours according to his whim. My hair is now a very labour intensive long bob. Everything else has been removed by laser.
Then, only a few weeks later, it was clothes, make-up, jewellery, shoes. When I was not at work, I would be presented according to his wishes; exactly, if he could be bothered to specify. Again, the idea appalled me. Again, all my upset was basically ignored, and again, it seemed to have been decided before I— willingly, gratefully, blushingly— said my little ‘yes’.
So, when he asked me to read the Conscious Cunt principles, to think it over, it felt like fate.
But it was more, so much more, than hair, clothes, than the when and where and how of sex (for that had been the next challenge— would I accept that our sex was about him, not me; that since I was the needy one, it made sense that I would be happy doing it as he wanted it— exactly as he wanted it— that I’d get more fucking that way, since that was what I wanted; it had taken longer, but I had accepted shamefully quickly), more even than the acceptance that sex and pain were indistinguishable, really (given how hard he had been fucking my poor ass, and how hard I came when he did), so that I should be controlled as to slaps in the face just as much as I was to throatfucking.
It was a simple website— the plainest I had ever seen.
But it was devastating in its blunt cruelty, its matter-of-fact condemnation of me, should I choose to accept, to commit myself. Clearly impossible to accept.
Except that, within a week, I J had said yes. Yes to all of it.
I J can’t do any more now, sorry.
