Disclaimer: This post mentions topics involving consensual sexual violence. Not suitable for individuals under eighteen years of age. Reader discretion is advised.
“They’re on about doing away with Cabot’s name now” Wolfie said, I sighed.
“It’s getting ridiculous, we can’t keep appeasing. I understand that people are aggrieved by our slave trade past, but you can’t just erase history because you don’t like it. It happened and we need to learn from our history. How much more of this are we going to take? It’s going to lead to boycotts and even more protests. Protests are mass gatherings, the very thing I thought we’re supposed to be avoiding?” I was frustrated, most people are anticipating a second wave after this, more lockdowns and more times without our families, all because of a select few thousand who seemingly lacked any common sense.
” ‘Bristol’ comes from the Saxon ‘Brigstowe’, the River Avon gets part of it’s name from ‘Abona’, the Celtic word for river. Both the Celts and the Saxons had slaves long before Colston and Cabot did, shall we just rename ourselves entirely or are we going to get over ourselves and stop eliminating our past now? Bristol was built on slavery. That’s tragic and bad, yes, but that’s the truth. Colston’s statue is not a celebration of the past, it’s just about recognising his contributions to Bristol and now, also recognising that slavery happened. If we hide it, we risk repeating it”. Having stepped down from my podium, I decided to do some research of my own. Did the Saxons have black slaves, too?
The post that particularly took my attention was this one, which relates more specifically to Bristol. The more I read, the more flustered I felt.
Not black and white, but men and women, women from across the nation like me. Women were captured and kept as slaves, forced to serve and kept as concubines. Sure, I wasn’t so keen on being burned to death or mutilated but then what is a slave if she doesn’t aim to please? What use is she if she fails to serve her Master? What good would she be to him? She is worthless.
Still high on the glow on what had been only hours before, it felt shameful to feel aroused by this darkened part of our past. It felt shameful when so many women in third world countries are still fighting for their freedoms, it felt shameful to to want to surrender control after so many brave women fought so hard for me to have a voice and it felt shameful to want anything more after earlier. I’m a strong, capable woman with rights and liberties afforded to me, so why would I want these things? The mind works in strange ways sometimes, it seems.
“I love how fucking far gone you are” he growled. Some part of me inside smiled. Gone, given up and beyond caring. The beauty of submission is that it doesn’t involve any decision making at all. I’d surrendered my will to him completely. His, to do with as he pleases.
It seems like only yesterday that he was a Master of his own. Those days still spring into my memory along with the most difficult days they helped contain. The beltings and canings were a relief from the pain and helplessness that I felt inside, and a prevention and protection from the other the other methods of ‘relief’ that the devil suggested I do. He was my Master then, and I’d given up my will to him for fear of what would become of me if I didn’t. I had no privacy at home and there was little warmth either. Giving up my body for attention and affection in return seemed like a mere token exchange. That was, until my giving to him and his caring for me led us to a lasting connection that people called love.
Back in the moment, I stared at the back of him for a minute. Could I encourage him back there again? Could I encourage him away from his softly-softly approach and back to Bristol’s roots? Would he own me again, make me his slave to use and abuse as it pleases him again? Would he call me his slut and disregard of me so coldly when he was done with me, until he needed me again?
Oh, those were the days. Use and service. No choice, no say. His submissive slave, completely.
My world felt still for a moment and my breathing softened. Those were the days. Those were the days I felt alive, still and complete. I had pride in my chest, I had purpose, I had use. I had longed to serve him, to be obedient to him. He made my world still and put reward in my existing once again.
“I belong to Master Levi” I’d tell the others as I lifted my chin to show off the simplistic but beautiful leather collar around my neck. Levi, the Hebrew version of his name. Our eyes would meet and I’d blush. I was unworthy to even look at him. Hr’d been Master Deviant for a spell, but we both agreed that it was corny, and so he ditched it. He was Master Levi once again.
“You have to admit, it’s wrong, but it’s kind of hot. Masters and slaves and castles and knights and stuff” I began.
“Castles and knights? I didn’t think that was your thing, Mrs S?” Wolfie teased. I pouted.
“Well no, but…”
“So the Masters and slaves holds more appeal?”
I bit my lip and thought for a moment.
“Kinda?” I offered, Wolfie looked at me, waiting a more truthful answer. I sighed.
“Okay, fine.. Maybe.” If I was going down, then I was going down swinging. I threw down the gauntlet, and Wolfie picked it up once again.
“So tell me, Mrs S,” he began as he coursed kisses from my ear to my collarbone, “if. you were a slave in my castle, would you want a knight in shining armour to come and rescue you?”. I gasped and groaned. Damn him and his twisting my words!
“Okay! Okay! No.”
I felt him smirk against my skin, “then you’d want to be kept as my slave?”
“Yes” I whispered, he bit my flesh softly and I gasped.
“Yes, Sir.” I mewled.