The slave is the sweetest of things…blonde, petit, fit, young, smiling….men inevitably turning their heads when we walk down the street, me proudly grabbing her. But all that does not matter. What matters is the soul deep sparkle in the slave’s eyes when she is put in her place. When she is forced into her darkest abyss, mentally tortured, in the deepest of slave modes her eyes explode in light and colors, A firework of life in its rawest form. That matters. A lot.

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