The first thing I read this morning was a post by a good friend of mine about how her owner likes to make her strip and just stare at her various parts. Usually while masturbating. And usually with her spread every which way so that he can see all of her.
It got me thinking about the requirement I have of always being naked (Unless M wants me wearing lingerie. Or something equally skimpy.), and how it started. And made me suddenly feel a bit like I imagine Eve felt in the Garden of Eden when she ate the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge and realized she was naked and God could see her nakedness.
Wait! It wasn’t a patriarchal society that promoted sex negativity, after all! It was the Tree of Knowledge! Maybe if we find the Garden of Eden, and cut down the Tree of Knowledge, the world will forget that the Tree of Knowledge taught them that nudity and sexuality were bad. What? It could happen! Who’s got the flaming sword retardant?
So about a hundred years ago, when this being-a-slave thing could finally become a being-a-slave thing (read: we had our own place), M was getting more comfortable with his right to give me whatever orders he wanted to give, and I was getting better at following them. I still hesitated. I still questioned. I still got embarrassed, threw tantrums, begged not to have to… But in the end, I always did whatever it was M wanted me to do. Usually with little to no coercion. Just a lot of discussion.
Most of my embarrassment, at this point in our life together, stemmed from low self esteem. I was uncomfortable sleeping naked next to this man. Having sex with him without a shirt on was damn near the end of the world. Dressing in short skirts and tight, low-cut shirts was a lot to ask for. No matter how many heads turned, I still thought I looked horrible.
So this one day, he sends me to the shower. I came back with the towel wrapped around me. He told me to take the towel off, and I did, but I immediately started looking for my clothes.
“What’re you doing?”
“We’ve got plenty of time.”
“So? I want to get dressed.”
“No.” he said, soft and firm.
I sat down on the bed and crossed my legs and arms.
“Stop that. Put your arms down.”
I’m getting all fluttery, just like back then. You think you grow out of these things, but they have a way of keeping those feelings alive. A way of fostering the discomfort while making it perfectly comfortable for you to feel that way in their presence. My god, these alpha males. ~fans herself~
That day, he made me sit with my legs slightly open and my arms to my sides right up until I had just enough time to throw some clothes on and run out the door. It was the first time he’d ever done that. I was completely uncomfortable. He knew all it would take to make me uncomfortable would be to make me sit naked, so he took it further by refusing me the right to cover myself in any way. Just slightly more than I would have given willingly, but less than was too much for me to handle. Always toeing the line, this man.
The next day, when I reached for a t-shirt to throw on, M shoved me out of bed and told me to make breakfast naked. And kept me naked the rest of the day. After that, I was only allowed to wear clothes when he was at work. And only then because he often had the webcam on and was watching me from the office. A fact that left me completely on edge every day, which he loved. And if I’m to be honest, I’d have to say that I loved it, too. There was something about being watched, and being unable to see him, that made me feel like a commodity. A prisoner. Prey.
In winter, I’d wrap up in a blanket, and M would come over and push it down to my waist. When he was finished groping me, I’d pull it back around my shoulders while his back was turned. He always knew. And always told me to leave it where he left it.
Somewhere along the line, it became more comfortable to be naked than to wear clothes. Physically, not mentally. So I don’t put clothes on unless we’re going somewhere, or someone’s coming over, or M tells me to. I try to put clothes on when I get upset, or he gets upset with me, or we argue, but that usually ends with M standing between me and my clothes, and me finding curling up in a ball on the couch a better way to cover my nakedness than getting dressed.
M’s sitting three feet away, and, while he’s not fully dressed, he is wearing boxers, which is more than I’m allowed to wear. And in a few minutes, he’ll get up, walk over, and grope and fondle me as if I am nothing more than a toy here for his amusement. And I’ll feel equally defiled and loved and objectified.
Right now, I’m laughing at my own jokes, and pretending my friend’s post didn’t make me feel a little bit like I imagine Eve felt. I’m sort of curled in a ball with my back to The Man. And I’m remembering what it used to feel like sitting next to him in all my naked glory while he sat in jeans and a t-shirt, usually with his shoes on, till I started pretending it didn’t make me feel uncomfortable. Feel like a prisoner. Kept naked and without unobstructed access to clothing as one more way to prevent the possibility of escape.
It’s hard to pretend it doesn’t still make one feel that way when one is writing about it.