Imagine... As I wait for the meeting to start I can't help but look about the room, even though it is considered rude. The Progressive Democrats are in the White House and I am simply fascinated by the endless variety of submission that is imposed on women. One woman, my Technical Assistant, is feigning composure as she eases herself into her chair, slowly working an impossibly thick dildo into her ass. It is so thick that I wonder if that particular act of submission is training or punishment. No one notices for it is not at all unusual for a woman to be in training, some even 24 hours a day.
Of course, there are worse things. Occasionally a woman is punished for failure even if she has done her best. Last night was particularly memorable as network TV was preempted for the First Lady's public humiliation for failure with health care reform. Bill sure has a devilish imagination! She was staked out naked in the rose garden with a cardboard Newt Gingrich for all the tourists to take pictures of. Poor Hillary!
Of course, all women are branded in some fashion. As I consider that fact my hand moves to my man's mark: a beautiful gold chain about my neck that is deceptively strong for it's thickness. A collar, really. But simple and discrete, unlike some other hapless slaves who trundle about wearing any imaginable contraption, or even a tattoo. It's a wonder some of them can still work!
Tattoos, thankfully, are going out of style since the FemiNazis won that Court case. I don't know what they are so happy about, though. Women are just as subservient as ever. It wasn't even the tattooing that got Him in trouble, but the language of it. He should have known better than to threaten another man.
I am happy to be owned. Most slaves are. The alternative is to be a Free, a terrible thing in this world. Free women are everywhere, and it's getting to be quite a problem. I don't know how the men can stand being propositioned like that. The constant staring, wolf whistles, groping, and lewd offers of easy sex is hardly submissive behavior, but, of course, these women are desperate...
I can't wait for this meeting to be over. Shortly I will be home. The cares and responsibilities of work will be forgotten as soon as I fasten the leash to my collar. What heaven it is to be with my man, nothing to do or consider except how my body is to be used. I wish it were now...
...Lately he has been intrigued with my gag reflex. Something to be tamed, that is what my throat is to him. And so there is *my* training: as I listen to my subordinates make their reports and recommendations I slowly work a tickler to the back of my throat, careful to relax everything, to train my body to be pliant.
Pliant. I don't do very well at that, I must admit. I am lucky to have been claimed by a man who enjoys my struggles. I blush at the slightest hint of sex, but that is not why he calls me Pinkie. It is because he enjoys pinking my ass constantly. And that is something I can never bring myself to acquiesce to, and so I struggle. My struggles, I think, incite the frequent spankings, which is to my liking. I enjoy feeling his strength on me, pinning me, holding me vulnerable to the spanking.
Of course this state of affairs will not last forever. Someday the Reactionary Republicans will again control the White House, and then the dark ages will once more be upon us: women will dominate men.