My Ideal Person:
I am looking for a TRUE STRONG Master, Danna , Dom, someone who don't play around with just the idea of this lifestyle, someone serious in what they want , I am not looking for games or any kind of one night stands besides other things i am still a lady on the outside even tho on the inside i would be your hot steaming submissive/slave. I deal every day which i am sure most of us do in the vanilla world i have not known the world in which i was born to be in yet and i am beginning to wonder if i ever will.. i have yet to talk to very many true to whom they say they are .. if your here looking for just play time i am not in the least interested.. i am looking for someone who wants a real true submissive/(slave) who can be a lady on the outside and be whatever he wishes in the privacy of our own domain..

The hardest thing i ever had to do was submit to my heart. The sweetest thing i will ever do is submit to Him.

I am special and I am someone who deserves the best. If you can not understand how life works please pass me by. thank you for reading my profile and good luck to all in your ventures.



I'm more into the beautiful relationship
of the D/s part of the BDSM not the S&M .. I'm glad I'm a strong lady on the inside .. I am a submissive/(slave).. before i ever knew of this lifestyle i called it loving HIM and wanting to make sure all HIS needs were fulfilled and then some.

The books of John Norman hold my interest.Totally a love slave. That would be who i would wish to be, but then that isn't up to me. Is it?
on a harder note: At this time, i am truly trying to stop smoking. And making headway.. Maybe i need someone to control that part of my life as well. Here is something that I will learn someday.. slave dancing..
i am merely a slave, i have no choices in life on that regard, i am who and what i am.a slave girl, yet unowned therefore i have to make my own choice's in life.
" A Dance of Beauty"

Those at the table paid us little attention. All eyes were on the dark-haired dancer, the skirt of diaphanous scarlet dancing silk low upon her hips. Her hands moved as though she might be, starved with desire, picking flowers from a wall in a garden. One saw almost the vines from which she plucked them, and how she held them to her lips, and, at times, seemed to press herself against the wall which confined her. Then she turned and, as though alone, danced her need before the men.

I idly observed the dancer. Her eyes were on me. It seemed, in her hands, she held ripe fruits for me, lush larma, fresh picked. Her wrists were close together, as though confined by the links of slave bracelets. She touched the imaginary larma to her body, caressing her swaying beauty with it, and then, eyes piteous, held her hands forth, as though begging me to accept the lush fruit. Men at the table clapped their hands on the wood, and looked at me. Others smote their left shoulders. I smiled. On Gor, the female slave, desiring her master, yet sometimes fearing to speak to him, frightened that she may be struck, has recourse upon occasion to certain devices, the meaning of which is generally established and culturally well understood...to kneel before the master and put her head down and lift her arms, offering him fruit, usually a larma, or a yellow Gorean peach, ripe and fresh. These devices, incidentally, may be used even by a slave girl who hates her master but whose body, trained to love, cannot endure the absence of the masculine caress. Such girls, even with hatred, may offer the larma, furious with themselves, yet helpless, the captive of their slave needs, forced to beg on their knees for the touch of a harsh master, who revels in the sport of their plight. They are slaves.

The girl now knelt before me, her body obedient still trembling, throbbing, to the melodious, sensual command of the music.

I looked into the cupped hands, held toward me. They might have been linked in slave bracelets. They might have held lush larma. I reached across the table and took her in my arms, and dragged her, turning her, and threw her on her back on the table before me. I lifted her to me, and thrust my lips to hers, crushing her slave lips beneath mine. Her eyes shone. I held her from me. She lifted her lips to mine. I did not permit her to touch me. I jerked her to her feet and, half turning her, ripping her silk from her, hurled her to the map floor, where she half lay, half crouched, one leg beneath her, looking at me, stripped save for her collar, the brand, the armlets, bells, the anklets, with fury. "Please us more," I told her. Her eyes blazed. "And do not rise from the floor, Slave," I told her. The music, which had stopped, began again.

She turned furiously, yet gracefully, extending a leg, touching an ankle, moving her hands up her leg, looking at me over her shoulder, and then rolled, and writhed, as though beneath the lash of master.

"You discipline her well," said Samos, smiling.

I grinned.

The girl now, on her belly, yet subtly to the music, crawled toward us, lifted her hand piteously to us.

I heard a cry of dismay, of protest, from the horrified, once Miss Blake-Allen.

Samos reguarded her. He was not pleased. "Free her legs of the harness," said Samos to one of the guards.

The guard took the straps which hand bound her ankles together, and, untying them, slipped them through the metal ring, glinting, sewn into the back of the leather collar of the harness, worn over the simple curved collar of iron which marked her, even should she be clothed, and her brand not visible, as slave. The straps had run from the back of the collar to her ankles, holding her in a kneeling position. Her legs were now free. The ankle straps then, sewn to the sides of the collar, and now circled about the collar and crossing in the back, and now run through the ring on the front of the collar, served as a leash. The harness is designed to provide a large number of ties. The girl, her legs now freed, looked at Samos with horror. But he was no longer reguarding her.

The dancer now lay on her back and the music was visible in her breathing, and in small movements of her head, and hands. Her hands were small and lovely.

She lay on the map floor, her head turned toward us. She was covered with sweat.

I snapped my fingers and her legs turned under her, and she was kneeling, head back, dark hair on the tiles. Her hands moved, delicate, lovely. Slowly, if permitted, she would rise to an erect kneeling position; her hands, as she lifted herself, extended toward us. Four times said I "No," each time my command forcing her head back, her body bent, to the floor, and each time, again, to the music, she lifted her body. The fifth time I let her rise to an erect kneeling position. The last portion of her body to rise was her beautiful head. The collar was at her throat. Her dark eyes, smoldering, vulnerable, reproachful, regarded me. Still did she move to the music, which had not yet released her.

With a gesture I permitted her to rise to her feet. "Dance your body, Slave," I told her, "to the guests of Samos."

Angrily the girl, man by man, slowly, meaningfully, danced her beauty to each guest. They struck the tables, and cried out. More than one reached to clutch her but each time, swiftly, she moved back.

Samos rose from behind the table and stronde to the map floor. I went with him.

He stopped at a point on the smooth, mosaiced floor. I looked at him. "Yes," he said, "somewhere here."

I looked down at the intricately wrought mosaiced floor. Beneath our feet, smooth, polished, were hundreds of tiny, fitted bits of tile, mostly here, in this area, tan and brown. The bits of tile seemed soft, lustrous, under the torchlight. The dancer, now behind us, continued to move before the low tables. The eyes of the men gleamed. Before each man, for moments seemingly his alone, she danced her beauty.

The dancer turned from the tables and, hands high over her head, approached me. She swayed to the music before me. "You commanded me to dance my beauty for the guests of Samos," said she, "Master. You, too, are such a guest."

I looked upon her, narrow lidded, as she strove to please me.

Then she moaned and turned away, and, as the music swirled to its maddened, frenzied climax, she spun, whirling, in a jangle of bells and clashing barbaric ornaments before the guests of Samos. then, as the music suddenly stopped, she fell to the floor, helpless, vulnerable, a female slave. Her body, under the torchlight, shone with a sheen of sweat. She gasped for breath; her body was beautiful, her breasts lifting and falling, as she drank deeply of the air. Her lips were parted. Now that her dance was finished she could scarcely move. We had not been gentle with her. She looked up at me, and lifted her hand. It was at my feet she lay.

Tribesman of Gor
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