There are days when submission is neither felt nor inspired. I am empty today. My sex drive is flat. My heart feels cut off. I just breathe and do. When that grey sea of nothing overtakes me, my submission exists only consciously. I am obedient. These words are a result of that. Anything He asked, requested, or demanded I would do. In some ways, I am the perfect toy in this mood as nothing touches me. There are no emotions to counter, no physical sensitivities, and no...morals or ethics. All of that is in a deep quiet sleep far, far away.
If He pushed Himself between my legs and shoved His hard dick through my dry folds, tearing into His tender cunt, I'd simply open wider. I would be His cock warmer. His cum dump. His rag doll to use. My body might get wet. It may even cum. But I'd feel nothing inside. I would lay there nearly unresponsive as He took what He desired. "Yes, Sir."
If He told me to spread my legs and bend over the counter as I did dishes, I would. I'd stand quiet and unmoving as my sadistic bastard defiled His holes however He chose. I'd arch my back, so He could watch whatever thing He chose to fuck His property with slide in and out of my flesh. I'd feel no embarassment. Meat feels nothing. It is only consumed.
If He asked me to crawl naked down NYC's busy Broadway leashed like a dog, I would. I would be oblivious to the humiliation and the rough scrapes of the pavement on my hands and knees. I'd follow His lead. I would take treats from His hand because He expected it. I would squat on command and piss on the sidewalk without a care. A good bitch obeys her owner.
If He tied me up and chose to beat me, I'd lay there and take each strike with a "Thank you Sir." The pain would barely register. His crop's lick. His flogger's kiss. His belt's blow. His hand's slap. His wooden spatula's sting. He could pound at me. He could paint His canvas in bruises and welts, but I would likely not flinch. No tears. No pleads. Mercy would be completely unnecessary. Then when he abandons me still bound on the floor, His piss drying on my skin, I would wait with unending patience for His return, entombed in my grey nothingness.
If He pulled out my fat, heavy tits in a crowded bar filled with men, I would sit silently uncaring as others licked me with their eyes. If he chose to let them grope, His whore would submit to the use without shame. If he laid me out on the table and shoved my dress to my waist and made me squirt in front of a rapt audience of strangers, I would neither resist nor feel any high. If he commanded me to lay there as a train ran between my thighs, I'd silently watch His face curious as to His reaction as anonymous men took their fill of a random, nameless gutter slut available for rutting. When He'd had His fill and finally decide it was time to leave, I'd walk quietly beside Him reeking of sex. An empty ghost unmoved from the sins committed in the previous hours.
Sometimes all I do is exist. When He is ready for all of me, He'll tug those strings, and I'll be whole once more. Until then...all that's left is for me to obey.