I wasn’t alone. Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi, Oscar Wilde, Paris Hilton, I shared their determination to suffer the agonies of prison, and like them, I refused to compromise my values and beliefs. I seek no praise. I’m not brave. I’m just a Slave with a heart.

I’ve been to the dungeon before. I’ve stood in the face of adversity and cruelty and survived. I’ve endured the degradation of unhelpful, taunting messages from Doms and Subs, and yes, I have all your names. I’ve seen the misery, the suffering, inhaled the peculiar smells and wondered why I had been left alone in the darkness. Abandoned.

However, I now know the truth. It’s not about targets. It’s not about failure. I am regularly and unceremoniously thrown into the musty place of screams and terror because of my beguiling, incomparable and irresistible body.

Each night I was made to stare at images of the magnificent Masterzal. I was made to admire other bulges, flexings and gym pictures taken and ‘professionally enhanced’ by many Masters over many years. Each day I was made to clean the indescribable slop buckets left by lazy subs with worrying bowel issues, whilst wearing HighViz’s discarded luminous gear, rich with rubber rot. As I wept, I glanced at the graffiti scratched desperately into the walls by the ripped nails of former punishmentd dungeon dwellers.

“One day I will be Number One.” Desperate words from Fagof2Sirs who now steals my money to enhance his fraudulent service.

“I hope to be Sub of the Day FOREVER” Wrote SubJeffie who is stealing my thunder.

“I am a teapot.” Poor Cynic, made mad by the torments.

Finally, days of misery were broken by the long-awaited message from my Master: “Slave. Where’s my coffee?” He continued: “You’ll be pleased to know that the site is doing incredibly well without you. I mentioned to Enslaved that you were in the dungeon and he replied: Slave who?”

As I read those cruel words my sobbing was interrupted by heavy breathing and a peculiar pumping sound coming from the corner of the dungeon. I peered through my bars and saw a figure lurking behind a red curtain, pulling on levers, fiddling with large red knobs and laughing at verification pictures and videos. It was him. It was the ONE. It was THE Master of ALL.

“Why? Why have you done this to me? Discarded me? Thrown me into this place?” I screamed.

He turned. His eyes sparkling with jealousy: “Slave, you are TOO HANDSOME!”

Like Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi, Oscar Wilde and Paris Hilton I will not be diminished by the dungeon and all its ghastliness. Like Gloria Gaynor, ‘I Will Survive!’