The Trophy Collector

I have a bad habit of attracting trophy collectors into my life. In the past, I’ve been proud to be a trophy, albeit, I prefer to be part of the collection of a man, a “real man,” such as I define it and continue to adjust such a sacred concept in my own mind.

In the BDSM world, one of the more glamorous trophies is a pony girl. The equipment can easily amount to a small fortune. Such a creature, when displayed in public, brings great pride to her owner, who, may easily degrade into the sort of person who uses her to make other men jealous of his wealth and possessions. Just as easily she may be a royal narcissist herself and take to catfighting when she notes that some other pony has a prettier collar or is younger.

Giving a precious little pet everything her little heart desires is a form of abuse.

Even if what precious little pet desires is to be abused or to collect trophies herself.

It is a difficult concept for the casual observer to note on one hand, trophies and finery, and shackles and chains on the other. in the scheme of things however, there’s not a lot of difference. Obsession or lack thereof is probably key.

I think it is important for a pet, slave, ragdoll, fuck puppet, etc., to be able to show appreciation for all the energy required to keep her (or him) in props, orgasms, jewels, or pets of her own—whatever works—the chance to display that appreciation is also a privilege.

For a trophy, self-maintenance becomes that service.

(I have got to get myself back to the gym.)

Meanwhile, it would seem that many of the sort of trophy collectors being drawn to me these days are female. Many hold out inducements to that relationship such as security, empowerment, money, sex, along with the implication of acceptance and love. Some of them send their men to me in order to draw me into their pyramids so that I, in my misery, can be drained of blood and then mounted on the wall for all visitors to admire.

“Such a lovely widow she was. Too bad she doesn’t like to starve, imprison, and abuse men [and women] herself using love as an inducement. Stupid woman.”

Insecurity, weakness, poverty, and celibacy are looking better and better to me all the time. Meanwhile, a part of me wants to be simply thrown into the dungeon with the wolves. I like them better than cats. For I am a dog, bird, spider, or goat—whatever I need to be—in order to earn the love and appreciation of whoever is brave enough to trust a chameleon.

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