You know that you’re different than other girls. You know that you’re darker. More twisted.

When you watch the documentaries or read the stories about NXIVM or similar organizations, you can’t help feeling jealous. You think of how special you must be to be a slave, to have someone care about you enough to hold you to such demanding standards. You feel depressed that you’re on your own, making your own decisions, so directionless and helpless.

Others call it a cult- to you, it sounds like love.

You know that most people think giving collateral to someone to insure obedience is creepy or scary, but it just makes your stomach flutter. You think about how serene it must be to have no choice but to obey, how it must silence every screaming voice in your head.

Others call it a cult- to you, it’s the sexiest thing imaginable.

You hear the complaints about being responsible to someone, responses expected in moments, and you feel that desperate longing to be that meaningful to someone. You wish anyone cared whether you answered them.

Others call it a cult- to you, it sounds like salvation.

And if you had that level of attention from someone, you’d suffer for them, wouldn’t you? You’d adjust to their schedule, follow their orders, hurt or degrade yourself for their approval and attention. You’d do absolutely anything to have them wrap you deeper and deeper in their control.

Others call it a cult- you just call it life.

A sample day.

Four forty-five. Your alarm goes off and you’re on your feet before your eyes are open. You move quickly, muscle memory taking over as you make your bed and insure your bunk area is immaculate. You take a picture and send it, with almost a full minute to spare before it’d have been a demerit.

Six thirty. Your hour of yoga is complete, you’ve completed your required grooming, ready in case there’s an inspection, you’re showered and ready to start your day. You check your messages to insure you have the correct breakfast this morning- oh, that’s right, too many demerits yesterday, there is no breakfast this morning. You begin an hour of silent meditation that will have to suffice.

Seven thirty, time for a half hour of self-improvement reading. Today is a collection of essays on the nature of obedience.

Eight. Time to get dressed for work. Even though you’re not going anywhere, you dress as you were instructed last night, fix your hair, do your make-up, everything that’s expected of you.

Eight-thirty. Work release begins, and the worst part of your day starts. Three and a half hours where you have some level of freedom.

Noon. Lunch time- you check your messages to see today’s decision. Apparently no breakfast was just the start- lunch is edging repeatedly, making sure this afternoon your poor little pussy is brutally distracting.

One. Back to work for the final push!

Five. Work release ends and you can remove your clothes, getting back into your solitary uniform of nothing. You hurry, knowing you only have five minutes before your class for the evening needs to start. Tonight is blowjob practice, bobbing your head on a thick dildo and working to remove your gag reflex.

Six-thirty. Dinner time. You check, although you already suspected- nothing. Meditation and reflection in silence.

Seven-thirty. Community service- tonight is active service, reaching out to lonely men and performing for them on your camera.

Nine. Lights out, time for bed. Despite the throbbing in your pussy and the aching in your empty stomach, you feel complete. No thinking, no deciding, just this wonderfully strict and controlled lock-down.

Who even remembers what was before...