But If It’s Slavery That You Want…

The Old Pair of Shoes Story

BUT if it’s slavery you want, if it is to live under the yoke of a dominant woman that you crave, then don’t fool yourself. You have nothing to say, nothing to lose, nothing to negotiate, nothing to sign, nothing to trust, nothing to expect, nothing to demand, and nothing to give.

Naturally, this doesn’t suit your interpretation. See why you tackle this by the wrong angle? because you are putting yourself and your will as first and foremost, as the decisive factor. It’s alright if you want to choose a house, a watch or even possibly, a partner. If you want to state your demands, proclaim your interpretation of what servitude under a woman should be and then scan possible candidates to fit in with your scheme of things. But this can’t work if you want to be chosen, taken, enslaved. Then it’s simply not you who will be the decisive factor. And rest assured that, should you end up being chosen and enslaved, then nothing will suit you. Simply because nothing will be supposed to. Instead you will have only one paramount goal in life, that not only you but everything you do always perfectly suits Her. You will be spurred by a permanent urge to make sure every aspect of your Mistress’ life gives her perfect satisfaction — even the most mundane, minute details of her life. Including what should not be of your responsibility, as you will have realised rather painfully that you invariably end up being the victim of her displeasure, no matter the reason. Nothing will ever be more vital for you than her full contentment.

By then you won’t ever give a thought to what could possibly suit you or not.

Thinking of yourself as a pair of shoes sitting in a shop window could already be a great step forward to start grasping the situation. The situation as it is, and not as you wish it to be. Yes, as a possible slave, that’s about all the options you have, and all that your wishes can amount to. All you can do is be such a pair of shoes that it could attract the eye of a passing dominant woman. And that would be no small feat. Imagine, to be so outstanding that it would be enough to make her glance at you, make her stop and consider you, make her cross the threshold, demand to try you, step into you and stretch you to see how you fit, take a few steps in you looking casually at herself in the mirror, and even… even… maybe, make her feel like picking you up and take you home as loot. So instead of wondering why dominant women don’t fit in with your expectations, why not try your best to be the most attractive pair of shoes, and also, to be displayed in the right shopwindow. And beyond that… things are not, and will not ever be in your hands

And then, even if you are chosen and picked up, even if your owner is wonderfully beautiful, you will only be one more pair amongst her collection of shoes. In fact, the more ravishing and vainglorious she’ll be, and the harder and more frustrating it will be for you. Oh sure, she will probably have taken a fancy at you and she might try you as soon as she’s home. She will wear you, bend, stretch and soften you so that you mould yourself around her feet to become a supple and comfortable wear. She might slip into you and take you out quite often even, if you’re such a great pair of shoes, you could be one among her favourites. In the beginning. For a while. A whole season maybe. Yet, sooner or later, she’ll tire of you and you’ll find yourself increasingly spending endless time in some dark wardrobe, waiting with so many other shoes, anxiously hoping she might pick you up again, just one more time. But there will always be more shoes coming in, brand new shoes. Those will be the ones picked up and taken out now. Not you. In fact, after some time, never you anymore. And the realisation will settle ever so slowly on you, as implacably as thin dust. Until you’ll know you are forgotten, forsaken. Disgraced. And then, then you’ll start making yourself as discreet as can be. Then you’ll only hope for not being noticed. You’ll cringe with fear each time she opens the wardrobe. You will know your fate by then. Inescapable fate. And you will only hope to remain ignored in that dark cupboard, because there, there at least you will still be hers, you’ll still get those occasional glimpses of her, you’ll still be able to cling to that shred of slavery. You’ll be one of hers, in her stable.

The dreaded spring cleaning will have become your nightmare. That fatal day she will pick you up and exclaim lightheartedly ‘Ah yes, these ones, I remember. Ages I haven’t worn them. Don’t think I’ll ever wear them again either. Better get rid of them.’ If you’ve really been that very remarkable, exceptional pair of shoes for her maybe you’ll catch a shade of nostalgia on her smile. For a very brief instant. Before she dumps you. Most likely you’ll simply be discarded without a glance. Dropped in the dustbin. So long slave. You’ve had your time. Your day of glory. That ephemeral bright beautiful day she took you home as her last acquisition. When she was joyfully trying you in her bedroom, playfully wriggling her toes inside you, smiling at the thinness and softness of the leather.

If slavery is what you want. If without consensus, without gift, trust or expectation, only to be taken, used and abused, torn apart, exploited and dumped for the sole satisfaction of an egotistical mistress is your craving… nothing would stop you from craving it. Surely not the realisation this will be your fate. And you would not bother with your hopes, all your expectations and interpretations of Female Supremacy.