This guest post was written by Rick’s Fucktoy. It was first published on Sensual Service which I closed when I opened Submissive Guide.
It’s a concept that I can understand so clearly in my head, yet I have been struggling to find the words that will explain it to someone who might read my thoughts and want to understand my perception.
Hearing a term like “worthless” can often be an emotional experience. It has an extremely negative connotation of self-esteem issues and badgering men who treat their partners in a violent manner to break them into nothing but a shell of a person. It can often pull at the heartstrings and sometimes provokes an almost violent reaction. The word itself, “worthless,” seems to be an attack against the values we struggle to impart to our children, our friends, and ourselves — self-worth.
However, in the context in which I use the term, “worthless,” to describe myself in my place as Master’s slave, it has a very different feel. In this context, “worthless” does not mean that I am unvalued, or that I do not matter to Master. If I didn’t matter to Master, I doubt he would keep me. If I was not of some value to Master, I wouldn’t be worth the sometimes considerable effort that goes into training, teaching, and generally keeping up with me.
Within the context of my relationship with him, “worthless” means that I do not ascribe a worth to myself. My value in the relationship is defined by Master. It is his decision if I am valuable or not if my opinion matters or not if my desires or wants are important or not. Without his determination of my worth within our relationship, then I have no worth to speak of. Should he decide it, I am nothing.
A great deal of our relationship revolves around humiliation and objectification. An object is very rarely valuable in its own right. We treasure items — a collar — a wedding ring — a favorite book — a piece of artwork — a faded baby blanket — items which are not *worth* a great monetary value, but because of the value that we ascribe to them. We place an emotional value on these objects. We choose if these items are valuable to us or not. And these items may be worth more to me than they are to someone else. I may find my cat, Demon, to be a wonderful companion who is full of life and love and playfulness. The chipmunks find him to be their version of the grim reaper, and the neighbors down the street may think he’s just a menace. However, as I’m the one who feeds him, takes him to the vet, gives him his flea medication, sees he has a warm place to snuggle at night — my opinion of his value is the only one that matters. It is the same with Master and me.
Over the years and time together, I have slowly realized that it is Master’s opinion that matters to me. It is his approval that I seek. It is his words that cause my sun to rise or fall. And there is a true freedom to be found in finding that place. It isn’t a place born out of fear or anger, abuse or neglect. It isn’t the outcome of some bizarre brainwashing experiment. It is a place that comes from accepting who and what I want to be, from accepting that what makes me happy is to know that I make him happy.
I don’t have a problem with Master calling me a worthless piece of shit cunt — or in referring to myself in such a manner when I’m talking with or to him. If that is what he wants me to be, and how he wants for me to act, then I’m grateful for the opportunity. He also calls me a slut, cocksucker, asslicker, and an assorted allotment of other terms. They’re terms which sometimes make me blush, sometimes make me look around to see if someone has heard, but every time, they make my cunt clench and my heart skips a beat.
I accept and embrace that I am worthless. I accept that I am nothing that he does not allow me to be. I accept that my role is as his slave, his plaything, his cunt, or anything else that he wishes me to be. Perhaps I accept these things so easily because I know that by using me as such, he reaffirms to me that he wants me, that he does value me in some way, and that he is keeping me.
Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t always easy to accept being a footstool when it’s cold and I’m tired and I want to be in a warm, snuggly bed. It isn’t’ always easy to accept being a waitress when it’s an early morning after a late night and I can barely find the floor, much less measure sugar for his coffee. It isn’t always easy to suck his cock clean after he urinates. But if I truly didn’t want to do it or to be in the position that I find myself, I wouldn’t be. Just as if he didn’t want me in that place, he wouldn’t keep me there.
We find that my worthlessness works for both of us. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.