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The Most Beautiful Nightmare You'll Never Have…
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Writings from Mistress Cara Sutra

Ambassadors and the Odour of a slave

slave-diaries

Each and every erotic trigger, each and every glimmer of arousal remind me of her. A certain feminine stance, a tight fitting dress, pants or leggings accentuating the female form, certain perfumes, kinky (and not so kinky) boots, high heels all draw my thoughts and worship towards her. They don’t have to be, and are often not, the type of clothes she would wear, the feminine form does not have to resemble her, it does not have to be a perfume she wears, it is sexual arousal itself that is the key.

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Sometimes I forget

slave-diaries

I have grown used to the constant reminder that is my cage.. It has become part of me and I hardly notice it. It’s familiarity and the fact that it has minimal effect on me, should merely serve to emphasise the truth it defines.

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Training

slave-diaries

By her definition we are not men. Our submission and weakness contradicts her definition of a man. So, the Mistress and woman to whom I have given myself, the woman I adore and respect, despises me for my weakness and does not regard me to be a man.

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The house invasion and the mind fuck

mind-fuck-mistress-cara-sutra

She would mind fuck him. An insult, a humiliation, another piece of his resistance and shell torn away. He would hate her and, in so doing, he would think disrespectful thoughts about her. He would sulk and choose to walk away. He couldn’t escape however. It should have been so easy for him to just close the book at those times and get on with the life in which sanity was far more certain.

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