I label myself as WIFE. This one is kind of hard to define. I am less than a submissive, but more than a slave, I think. Husband does call me his slave on occasion, and I don't bitch about it when he does, so...maybe that does make me his slave.
I am definitely his property.
He loves to remind me how he "bought" me at our wedding. We had a Jewish wedding, and according to Jewish custom, the marriage contract has two parts: the tana'yim, the conditions under which the man gains possession of the wife, and the ketubah, the contract itself. I signed neither one of these things; my father and Husband did, because it is basically a purchase agreement between my father and my Husband, and I have zero say.
(People try to claim now that women do have a say, by silently "agreeing" to accept the man's ring. But guess what, centuries ago women were married without their consent all the time, using this exact same contract, and nobody batted an eyelash. Even today, the woman doesn't say a damn word at her own wedding, and that should be an indication of what's really going on.)
I label myself as SMART-ASSED BRAT. This means I got a mouth on me. I'm snarky. I'm mischievous. When things go too far, I'm a dirty rascal. It's just part of my nature. People who can't abide brats don't play with me, it's that simple.
I label myself as an ANAL SLUT. I love all things anal. I give advice on it to those starting out. My best orgasms are anal orgasms. Yes, we exist, and we're not just faking it; it's just how our nerves are set up. Touch my cunt, and I'll moan, but touch my asshole, and I'll squeal.
People call me a MASOCHIST. I struggle with this label. To me, a masochist is someone who is able to process pain as pleasure, and enjoy it that way. I'm not like that; pain is always pain for me.
What I like is the struggle, the fear, the agony of suffering through. The anticipation of knowing what is to come, the heightened rush of adrenaline, living moment by moment as it hits me, the heady rush of feeling alive. I especially love to suffer for the people I adore; I feel like this is the ultimate proof of my devotion. I do not just tell them how much they mean to me, I offer up my blood upon the Cross as sacrifice.
This kind of play is incredibly sacred.
I label myself as PREY. This means I love—love—to be chased and taken down like a wildebeest in the wild. I need to feel like I've been hunted and captured, stalked and seized by a bloodthirsty, predacious animal. I need the savagery, the heat, the teeth, the steamy breath in my face. I need him to respect my wily ways, but in the end, he needs to outmaneuver me if he's to have any chance of having me.
And in the end, when the struggle is over and he's pinned me down and I have no breath left to fight and I hear his brutal laugh in my ear? That is the biggest rush of all.
And yet, I also label myself as LADY. Because when I'm not in scene, when I'm not playing, when I'm out in public and living my day-to-day life, I try my best to be dignified, refined, and as respectful as possible of those around me. Because I am a wife and a mother, and I am expected to make my Husband proud. Anything I do that embarrasses me, reflects badly on him. I am to walk with grace, pride, and awareness of not just who I am, but what I represent. I represent my Husband, my children, my family, and yes, my community; I should not forget that.
These are all the labels I can think of right now. I guess there's one more—coffee addict—and I need to go get my fix.