My name is Piglet.
Well, at least that’s what everyone calls me who knows about my “situation”. The name comes from one of the humiliating pictures that Miss uses to keep me in line; one that she is most fond of, with me in a pink sissy dress and a glued-on pig nose. Unlike the nose which finally came unglued a few days later, the nickname wound up being permanent.
It took me over a year to find Miss. Personal ads, meetups, anywhere I could continue searching for the right balance of sadism, creativity, extremism and sanity in a woman who wanted to own and break a man… I mean truly own him in a way he could not escape. We hit it off immediately, she knew exactly how to press that humiliation button I craved so deeply.
And then two months ago, in a moment of sheer stupidity I agreed to let this man-hating, sadistic bitch enslave me for three years. A week later I laid in my crate at night, tears pooling between my cheeks and the leather hood strapped tight around my head, running my hands over the bruises on my body to sooth them. And I realized at that moment, this was the worst mistake of my life. It wasn’t BDSM anymore, it was flat out abuse. And now it’s too late.
This is my diary.
Well, at least that’s what everyone calls me who knows about my “situation”. The name comes from one of the humiliating pictures that Miss uses to keep me in line; one that she is most fond of, with me in a pink sissy dress and a glued-on pig nose. Unlike the nose which finally came unglued a few days later, the nickname wound up being permanent.
It took me over a year to find Miss. Personal ads, meetups, anywhere I could continue searching for the right balance of sadism, creativity, extremism and sanity in a woman who wanted to own and break a man… I mean truly own him in a way he could not escape. We hit it off immediately, she knew exactly how to press that humiliation button I craved so deeply.
And then two months ago, in a moment of sheer stupidity I agreed to let this man-hating, sadistic bitch enslave me for three years. A week later I laid in my crate at night, tears pooling between my cheeks and the leather hood strapped tight around my head, running my hands over the bruises on my body to sooth them. And I realized at that moment, this was the worst mistake of my life. It wasn’t BDSM anymore, it was flat out abuse. And now it’s too late.
This is my diary.
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