Punishment

I'm to be punished when I see my Master next. I know why, and I know how. He has never punished me before in a physical way. He has in other ways, but pain is something I enjoy, so typically this has never been something he uses.

This time, my first punishment as his slave, he is to use a strap on my inner thighs. He has said I will be bound.

The excitement of this worries me. How on earth can I be aroused by the threat of punishment? I think it's because I haven't had one yet, I'm certain this isn't going to be pleasant. I don't like to be hurt on my inner thighs. I'm used to having some kind of warm up. I've never been hit with the intention of hurting me as a punishment, it's always been for my own enjoyment, for our mutual play.

But the idea, of his tying me - perhaps on my back, legs pulled open and over my head so he can see my face and my pussy while he uses a belt on my thighs, or perhaps on my hands and knees, with my arms pulled up, my knees forced apart by a spreader bar, my ass exposed should he decide to reinforce the lesson by using me in that way roughly as he has threatened in the past... these things to me do not seem to be a deterrent.

Even though I know he will make it hurt, he will make it not fun, somehow. I think of his voice, how it makes me respond inside when he's serious or stern. I think of his strength, of how hard I know he can wield the belt. I think of how it excites him to hurt me, and how knowing that will inevitably turn this into something beyond what it maybe should be - a deterrent to disobedience.

And yet... and yet... I long to cry for him, long to be made to do something, to take something for him that I don't want in the moment. I want to be on the floor at his feet, my thighs red and sore, shaking from the moment ... I can't even describe what it is I'm after here. I just know it's there somewhere. Perhaps afterward I'll be able to describe it and define it adequately.

Property

My first moments as a slave, I felt as if my breath were sucked out of my lungs. My Master began immediately to take charge of me, and although I'm always a willing participant in our play, lovemaking, although he is always in charge and that I'm used to - somehow things felt different.

He put nipple clamps on my breasts - he hadn't done this to me in the past. They were connected by a chain and screwed tightly to my nipples, which began to ache. They remained on for quite awhile, longer than I would have thought they could be worn.

The difference between sex as an owned girl versus with a lover: its like being broken apart then put back together. There is an element of detachment and objectification. There is a duality and a splitting. I'm a person, experiencing what is happening, responding, and acting and at the same time I'm something else - an object, another entity separate from myself. Property.

My Master touches me, but his focus is on me as he would be on a car or any other object he was on task with. He bends down to bite my stomach and I begin to wilt and melt into the pain and the pleasure, I'm there but I'm also there with him observing me, aware of myself as his.

My pussy wets for him, and I'm aware of the pleasure leading up to it as I experience this, but then am also suddenly made aware externally as I feel him shove two fingers inside me after he checks to see if I'm wet.

"What a little slut you are", he says against my stomach, and I note this, helpless as he proves his words, for here I am, the chain between my nipple clamps swaying, my back arching as he fingers me, my knees weakening as he presses them inside me. I'm both inside my head and outside with him, seeing myself as he does.

My body is his toy, and we both feel the difference. I don't yet wear a collar but the contract and our mutual understanding of it is enough to send both of us to a new level. I can't speak for him, but I felt awed by the change, aroused and freed to do what he willed without concern. I didn't have to worry about anything that happened from that moment on, for everything I am and that I do belongs to him. If I soak the sheets with my sex, I don't need to be concerned or embarrassed. I'm there to please him, belonging and pleasing my only purpose.

Enslaved

I've entered into arrangements with men before. I've never before entered into one quite like this, however. I've known my Master for several years, longer than I knew my ex-husband before we began to live together and longer even than I knew him before we were married.

Within that time, I've come to trust and admire and adore my Sir as I have no other person. We have the usual lover-associated feelings I imagine everyone else in love has - physical attraction, the trust and intensity that I know accompanies many D/s relationships. He is also my best friend, and has been so, has seen me through so much.

He is my steadfast ally, the keeper of my many secrets and secret fears, and I owe him the sort of fealty owed to one who has saved your life on many levels. I suspect he may know me in some ways better than I know myself. However, I know the dark places he has saved me from, the places I take myself mentally when I'm feeling afraid and alone in the world. In my most lost moments, going through a bitter divorce and custody battle and in danger of losing it, turning to things that would have harmed me further and possibly guaranteed the loss of my child, it was his hand that came in and stopped me from destroying myself and everything important to me.

There have been days I stayed in bed the entire day grieving the state of my life, unable to present myself at work - my Sir has stayed with me for hours, comforting me as I cried with words of encouragement, or informing me of hard truths I needed to face in order to pick myself up again.

Though he knew I would have done anything asked of me, he asked for nothing during those early times. I owe this man everything, and can never repay him.

With these thoughts and emotions flowing through my mind and heart, I knelt in front of him, reading aloud my promises from the contract he wrote for us. Our favorite music was playing, artists we both love, lyrics we've sent to each other to read that we thought expressed our love and emotions best. He braided my long hair as he sat behind me, weaving a leather whip remnant through it to tie it up and out of the way, lovingly and gently kissing my shoulder now and then as I read, stopping me at points to ask if I understood, to clarify his meaning of specific points.

Leaning over me, next, he read his promises and vows - my heart skipping with happiness at each intonation of his voice that I love to hear so much. He wore his glasses to read, and I find him so sexy, so much my daddy when he wears those, he may as well have been reading me a night time story about a princess and her Master. My skin shivered with response as he'd bend over to read in my ear.

He told me how much he loved me, how pleased he was to have me as his, how long he had wanted this for us. As always, I felt inept and tongue-tied in his presence, giddy as an idiot, feeling about as un-womanly as I could be... I always feel like a girl around him, shy and unable to believe that he's chosen me, knowing my flaws as he does. He always knows the right things to say, the right way to put them - while I express myself best in writing.

A small part of me dwelled on my fears, in the middle of my solemn and serious joy and sense of fulfillment in the moment. As right as everything felt, I was agreeing to let him do anything he chose to me. He can mark me, with a brand or a bruise if he decides. He can punish me if I'm disobedient or careless. I no longer have a safeword, although I've never used one with him before, it's absence is almost a presence of it's own.

My fears, however aren't truly about a fear of Him. My Master has always been good to me, I know and have experienced what he wants and it's always been what is in the long run best for me, the things that keep me safe and untroubled. My legitimate fears were about my own potential for error.

What if I let him down, disappoint him and he regrets taking me on? He knows I'm compliant sexually. What woman wouldn't be - he's tender and intense and sexy and thrilling ...? Those things are easy for me with him, he can bring me to a state where anything he desired I'd give. Pain is erotic to me, so I don't fear that so much - I know he won't do anything I won't be able to fine a way to endure and probably enjoy, even it it's only the enjoyment of surrendering to him.

It's my independence and my will that will be tricky. Those are the areas where my obedience is an effort at times. I have to learn to think of him first, learn to hesitate and ask for permission, rather than act in certain situations. I have to stop relying on my own preferences and my own wish to avoid reviewing my actions and feelings, interpreting my behavior. I need to realize and accept there are some choices and decisions I'm no longer allowed to make on my own.

The Contract

Even after our decision was made to begin a formal M/s relationship, there was still the matter of the contract we would sign, what we would agree to.

My Master, of course, would design and present the contract to me, and accept input, answer questions etc, but the final decision on how, when and the manner of implementation would be his.

I cannot say that there were surprises in it. I know the basics, as everyone does. He is my Master, this is about power exchange and all the things that go along with it, the safeguards, the consent, the defining and spelling out of the agreements. I suppose you could call it a "beginner" contract, a starter of sorts.

What surprised me, was the emotional reaction I had to reading his words. I was touched, humbled, honored, amazed at the time, effort and energy he put into writing it. I haven't had anyone ever do anything similar for me before. It was a clear indication to me of his seriousness about us, and his love for me.

One would think after years of daily caring and contact that I would know, and understand. On some level I did. He has written to me of his love, shown me with his caresses of his care, with his intensity of his passion, and I can see in his eyes that he knows me and accepts me and my needs, my flaws, that despite how and what I am he does not turn his eyes from me.

This was just different for me. The contract demonstrates his desire to be bound to me, for the term of the contract at least. It illustrates the claim he makes on my will, my soul, my body. I suppose that's it. I have felt loved by him, desired, comforted and controlled. This is a claim of ownership that extends beyond lust and love and to me that is more romantic and fulfilling than any other vow or declaration could be.

Decision

I am soon to be a nation of one, sole subject and slave to my Sir, who has decided it is time to make me his completely. I feel as if I'm an orphan about to be adopted, a lost pet in a shelter about to go home.

Until a few months ago, I was unaware of this longing. My Sir, shortly after we met years ago, never described me in terms of slavery. He mentioned former slaves, discussed the concept of slavery hypothetically, but I felt that my own level of submissive capabilities not only fell short of what was required of a slave, but that he did not desire such a creature in his life. I put it out of my mind for us.

I don't think I've ever been involved with anyone who is as obsessed with me as I am with him. I'm not certain obsession is the correct word. The only thing close to it I've experienced is the intense mutual interest of getting to know my newborn children, the innocent co-dependence of having another in your head constantly, the missing sensations when apart, the completeness, bordering on relief of being together.

Of course it's very very different in many other ways - but it just calls to my mind the sudden knowledge of complete and full connectedness to another I experienced when I became a mother. I'd never felt that for any adult before now.

So, almost by accident I learned that he did want this kind of closeness with me. The discussion of a contract arose several months ago, I had asked if he'd considered one, because I really wanted to understand what he expects of me. He said he only used them with slaves, and I immediately felt the awkwardness I've felt in the past - one time in particular when I'd practically begged him to collar me and he gently redirected me off the subject.

However this time, he inquired if I felt I was ready. And at the time, in that moment, I was certain yes, before my logic and doubt and worry began to set in.

I felt fear of failing at a higher standard of accountability. A fear of some potential loss of the relationship entirely if I didn't meet expectations, an acceleration of a certain end. Commitments in my past have always been the beginning of the end, the moment when one turns from being one thing into another, that always, always culminates in a parting, and where the common denominator is me.

Finally, though, after reviewing our history, and realizing I couldn't imagine any other resolution of our fates, nor can I imagine a future he is not a part of... I decided if he felt I was ready, then I am and let go of my fear.

I agreed without reservation to become his slave.

Love and Submission Part III

In the first two entries about this topic (inspired by other blogs I read, links to which are available on the first entry), I discussed my thoughts on D/s experienced entirely as a non-love, non-romantic response, purely submissive, without the requirement of the will or knowing involvement of the dominant. My second entry was about the connection between love and D/s, whether D/s can work without love, or in my case, I question whether love works without D/s.

I have found myself in love, of course without an overt D/s component, but for me the elements are already there in every love. I always have tried to shape myself into what I believe the loved one wanted me to be, in an effort to please them, to connect better. We all want to put our best foot forward in any new relationship, to impress and woo the other. I suppose you can view submission as the willingness to take that a few steps further.

I think that is where it becomes tricky. Is D/s possible in the context of intimacy without love at all? I still believe so. Respect is necessary, trust is necessary, but I don't believe love is.

This has come up in my own relationship with my Sir, because I certainly was submissive to him long before I knew him well enough to love him. Love has made our connection deeper and more interesting, more passionate. But it is the trust and the respect I harbor that has enabled me to submit and then to love him.

I can submit casually, more of a bottoming than submission I suppose, to any dominant if I choose to in a playing context. I will leave them in control of the pace, the order, the intensity of sensations or activity. Just as I can submit to an authority at work and enjoy that same thing, functioning within a structure set up for me. None of that requires love, although on some level there needs to be respect and basic trust.

But the deeper levels of emotionally submitting, not just giving my body over to someone to play with, but allowing them access to my mind and being vulnerable does not come easy. Letting someone hurt my body is nothing. Opening up to allow them to possibly hurt my heart, or my ego, or even damage my mental health is another. My Sir has taught me to be more cautious, to be more careful even in casual play, before I trust someone simply because we're in public and "what could go wrong"?

My Sir recognizes that I used to give my body easily, even while clinging to my will. I think he has at times suspected I took him casually, before he learned to see through my feigned indifference and emotional removal. His response has been to show me consistently and steadily that he is there, an unchanging and unwavering force in my life.

I often read about women not hearing back from their doms, going for days or weeks with no contact, feeling ignored or anxious when they write or text. While I have endured times of less frequent contact with my Sir, it has been well over a year since I've felt the panic and wondering, the constant anxiety of separation, of worry over whether he cared or would be there for me. Despite our not living together and our distance from each other, his presence and control is with me continuously.

This sense of security and the freeing lack of concern about where I stand with him is only made possible through trust. This is why he is the only one in the world who knows who I am, that I write this blog. I can open up here anonymously, but no one in my life, not even my kinky friends, know who I am. I am not Lyla on FetLife.

It's taken us a long time to get to the point we are now, mainly because of my past, in particular my experience with my ex-husband. Along the way there has been a great deal of balancing between us, he has even had to extend trust to me first in some ways, before I would take the next step and give him a little more. I read in another post, the comment that you are trusting your Dominant, as he is trusting you with his desires, and that's entirely true. I think D/s relationships are inherently more risky, we are more vulnerable with this type of exposure of our selves than most people have to be to achieve intimacy, especially if we've suffered at all because of our proclivities.

I think that's another reason I see so much more willingness to compromise between those who are in D/s relationships. An example is the number of people who are doing D/s long distance or who are in open or polyamorous relationships.

It's not simply about being more open because you are kinky. It's about understanding the rarity of finding someone who pairs up with your needs, and for me at least, the kind of love I feel for my Sir is based on making him happy. If that happiness included his involvement with another, I would be more understanding than I think I've been in other relationships because I know how difficult it can be to find these things in others, to find someone who pushes your buttons in the right ways and who is also responsible and sane.

I also trust absolutely that my Sir has my best interests at heart. Unlike others I've known, he engages in the introspection necessary to evaluate his own motives and needs, and weigh them against mine. Not much about him is transparent to me, but even I can see how he has slowly and steadily taken me down a path I know he foresaw months before we got there. I appreciate that time, because it has made him familiar and comfortable to me, made my slow relinquishment seem natural. And while I love and crave the feeling of being made to do things, he knows better that there are some places I might have gone too early, that would have made me feel unsettled, rather than at ease with what we are.

So while, yes, I love my Sir, it is not that which binds me to him and inspires my submission, but the confidence I have in him, the trust that he knows where he wants us to be, and that I can let go and give him the reins for both of us.

Love and Submission Part II

In my first blog on this topic, I wrote about situations where D/s has existed for me without the knowledge of the dominant individual, without there being a love or romantic aspect to the relationship, and with the feelings of submission and attention being the only end or reward.

I realize this isn't the case for most people, or doesn't seem to be. I think for most, submission and D/s are a sexual kink, something that only works within the context of an intimate relationship.

I recognize now, that while I can have a D/s experience or encounter or elements of submission outside of a love context, I do not think I can experience true love outside of a D/s context. The act of serving another, of being helpful and nurturing and caretaking is what inspires emotion in me.

This has made motherhood rewarding for me, knowing that someone else needs me, that they appreciate or enjoy what I do for them, that I am making my children's lives better by the things I do. I personally know self-proclaimed "service" submissives who make special shopping trips to buy things to prepare for dinner for their dominants, who don't derive the same gratification for doing for their own children. I don't get that. To me, serving the needs of those I love, whether a child or a Master is fulfilling - not always in the same way, maybe the difference between one kind of meal and another, but the contentment and satisfaction, the heart-fullness is the same.

As far as romantic relationships go it's been more complicated. I have often sought out dominant men as lovers, however, these encounters did not always result in long lasting relationships because of that lack of will or desire to dominate that others discussed (see my earlier blog on this for links). It was never enough for me to just be involved romantically or sexually with someone who was naturally dominant. I wanted to be pushed, and molded and made to do things I did not want to do.

One relationship in particular comes to mind, for I think he was a natural dominant, but had no idea what he was interested in was D/s, or if it was he did not share this with me. He did refer to me once, I heard later, to his friends as kinky, so perhaps he knew more than I thought, but we never discussed what we were doing at all, let alone in D/s or kinky terms. He tied me up for sex, he ordered me to strip for him, told me when to move and when to not move...but my willfulness in other areas, the things I did for attention, knowing he wouldn't like them, hoping he'd punish me and tell me I was his and that I was forbidden to do them any longer, that he wanted to control me outside the bedroom ... these things drove him away. My childishness and inability to understand and communicate what I wanted, why I was doing these things, lost the relationship.

I was heartbroken. The intensity between us made it difficult for me to get over him the way I normally had with other relationships. So I deliberately steered away from any repetition of that kind of intensity and ended up married to the wrong, albeit safe person. My needs for caretaking and nurturing were met, as I viewed him in most ways as another child. However, my sexual desire and interest in him dissolved. I assumed it was age - I was 30 - and that those feelings were just something that disappeared when you got older.

To be honest, my life felt more sane, more in control that way for awhile. I felt I'd finally grown up - and I had all the responsibility to prove it, as he assumed very little, allowing me to take care of everything, finances, the house, planning, being the grown up. He on occasion would exert his authority as the man of the house I suppose, but my response was only resentment because I didn't feel he was entitled to this control or authority because I was the one making the money and doing the housework and raising the kids while he lived a comparatively stress free life.

To me, the only reason for this resentment is the lack of his will and intent. Had he been different, had the life we lived been in the context of a D/s construct, I would have contentedly done the same things, viewed my work as service, viewed his handing over the tasks I did as an honor, rather than as a sign of his inability to do them himself.

Our marriage began to dissolve, as I began, for a variety of reasons, to awaken from this frozen state I'd tolerated. I realized abruptly how utterly lonely I was. Being alone began to be more appealing than being lonely in a marriage. I began to develop crushes on characters in books I read, for God's sake - all these feelings I didn't feel for him, I felt for imaginary others.

We began to discuss our problems and attended some group seminars and in one of them the topic of sexuality came up. For the first time I described to him what I liked. He did some research and told me I was submissive. We began to play at this. Just hearing the word "submissive", just the idea that I had this label to put to myself and my desires was life changing. I was in a constant state of arousal, it was as though I were a teenager.

He really didn't have to do anything other than demand sex, and my mind did the rest - I called myself a slave, considered him my Master, my mind dwelt on the knowledge that he could do anything he wanted to me, that he owned me. I honestly have no idea what went on in his mind. It honestly didn't matter, I was having a fantasy and he was going along with it and it worked at first.

However, for me a huge part of this, at least in the realm of intimacy is sacrifice, being made to do things because someone else wants them. I really related to the other posts, in the sense of wanting, at some point an acknowledgement of your submission, a demand of it, a pushing or luring.

This kind of thing requires a certain type of intellect. This is not a caveman thing. My dear husband was a pretty simple, basic person with very uncomplicated needs. This is how he could remain married for years in what he experienced as bliss, to a woman who was suffering a soul death. Without his desire for my submission, a need to impose his will onto me, we failed.

It was the introduction of discipline and pain into the mix that did it. I wanted to be spanked, punished. I wanted rules, limits. He began by making me go to church - something he'd never had any interest in during the prior years of our marriage. I believe now he was hoping Jesus could cure me. I went to church, soaking my panties as I repeated in my mind that I was there as an act of submission to my Master.

Ultimately though, in our seeking (read: my seeking) out of others to guide us in our exploration - and by others I mean community, not individuals - we fell apart. I wanted to run headlong into the bdsm scene, relieved to find there were others like me, my family. He was appalled. We would look at a scene underway, my mind reeling as I saw a woman spread out and helpless upon a cross, her body writhing under a whip, focusing on her bound wrists and spread legs, imagining myself in her position, my husband wielding the whip, whispering to me to relax, encouraging me to take more for him, stroking my body and telling me I WOULD take more for him. My husband saw only a man torturing a woman. He was repulsed by me.

The rejection of one's mind is far worse than the rejection of one's body. To know, finally, that what he loved and wanted from me was only my body and my paper doll wifely-ness, not my submission, not my will, not to know me fully and completely as a person was only a revisiting of my anguish months earlier. I'd taken a risk, exposed my parts to him as I had never done to anyone and he was unable to love me.

Love and Submission Part I

I'll start this out by saying I'm jumping on the bandwagon, as there has been a running theme among several other bloggers on submission and love. lil at Submissive Sanctuary wrote about her feeling at times as if she only wants to submit to her husband on her terms, and cited several other blog posts that related to the subject of love and this other crazy little thing called submission.

I had read some of these blog posts already, and as often happens I am either struck with recognition of myself in the words and experiences of others, or given a deeper insight at least into how this works for other people. In greengirl's blog What I Wonder, she wrote about submission being the end in and of itself, whether its just a response to dominance or if it is or should be an end, something one does without needing that acknowledgement or awareness or initiation of the other. I found I related to this perspective quite a bit, that it is an end in itself.

Greengirl inspired Aisha to write this post, where she mentions the need for there to be an awareness or willingness of the other to dominate, which I'm not entirely certain I agree with in all cases. I have experienced both ends of the spectrum, with a dominant personality who unknowingly inspires submissive reactions, as well as those who knowingly impose their will.

This has become a chain of sorts, as sin has written a post as well, which is the one that convinced me I really wanted to weigh in with my perspective. She mentioned marriages that have become D/s and been altered or improved and I do have some experience in that as well.

I am submissive generally and somewhat indiscriminately. It's a part of myself I'm uncomfortable with and that I try to hide in most circumstances. I think the discomfort with it is that I always perceived it as a need for attention, not for submission. I didn't know the word submissive existed until a few years ago, was unaware that it was a verb, or a personality characteristic. My need for attention is something I felt ashamed of, in part because I've done some really stupid things to get it.

I like to help people, to make their lives better, to please. This manifests and has manifested all of my life, in school, at work. Whether the authority figure was a professor, a director or a boss I always sought approval, and even more, to be special and closer to that person in authority than any of the other students, workers, actors etc.

I do this furtively as I of course resist the impression of being a brown noser or attempting to be the teachers pet, and it's never been for any kind of personal gain with regard to getting some kind of privilege others don't. It's just been a desire for closeness and connection with a dominant authority, even if that other one is unaware of it, and even if it is only within the parameters of that situation.

Submission of this sort is not sexual at all, but it's another kind of satisfaction. I enjoy nurturing, helping, doing things for others. This helps me be a better mother, and a better employee and friend - when I feel safe enough to do and be this way for people.

I have had bad experiences, mostly with employers because there isn't that reciprocity and loyalty - I've found you can do the best job you can, work very hard at your job and still be abused. I think for some reason the type of personality who best inspires that brand of "submissive" behavior at work is also the type of personality who tends to be a bit abrasive and dismissive. I've had bosses with terrible tempers, who enjoyed venting their anger and taking it out on everyone. For awhile I'd be the one who could calm them, fix their problem, be the only one NOT being attacked - however this kind of special status is only temporary. One minute you walk on water, the next, no matter how hard you try to fix things for them, they eventually turn their ire onto you.

But I have found the same physical reactions in these kind of "D/s" work relationships as in love relationships. Heart pounding, stomach nervous and anxiousness, a keen awareness of the comings and goings of the boss, almost a telepathic ability to read the mood and predict how the day will go, just based on what time they arrive in the morning.

So I would disagree with the concept that in all circumstances the dominant needs to be willing to participate in this kind of exchange, or that there needs to be love involved in D/s. There are some personalities which are so strong and dominant by nature, and some circumstances that are so inherently skewed with regard to power, that for me at least, they will pull out submissive responses and reactions.

These aren't sexual responses, but they provide some level of excitement, a sense of fulfillment in my day, as well as a set of walls - a space where this experience is played out, but also a space that can be left at the end of the day to provide a reprieve. This is true whether it's a workplace, or a classroom, or a church turned community theater space.

My Shelter

What amazes me about my Sir, among many qualities I admire, is his ability to see things I do not, his ability to discern and predict the trajectory of an individual based on their character. He has been right so many times about so many people and many other things, I've learned to not doubt his judgement and his predictions of behavior and outcomes.

Why is it then, I believe it possible to fool him myself? I recently confessed something to him, only to realize it was something he'd already figured out about me, based on my responses and reactions. I didn't know whether I felt relief, or distress. On the one hand relief that he accepts me as I am and that there is nothing I cannot tell him. On the other hand, it really bothers me on some level that my openness to him is not entirely a choice.

First and foremost, above and outside the constructs of D/s and our emotional involvement, he is my friend, my very best friend. He is the one I dreamed of as a child, the strong hand who takes yours and pulls you out of the dark and comforts you. I believe that every dream and desire of comfort and nurturing I harbored in my young life is manifested in this man. If I never were to see him in the flesh again in my life, if I could not belong to him, I know that I could trust him with my secrets to my grave, that he would always be my friend as he is now, if nothing else.

Perhaps it's due to that precious and rare connection and the stark fear of it's loss, that I worry I've somehow fooled him. I think he doesn't see through me, that somehow I've tricked him into loving me and wanting me, and that some day he'll wake up and realize how unlovable I am. It's not without merit, this fear, because that's kind of what's happened in my past ... I've rushed into things with men who didn't understand me. I've been rejected for my submissive nature, when it was perceived to be passive or needy or weak, I've had lovers be disgusted with my sexual fantasies of being controlled and my masochistic tendencies.

But my Sir knows those things about me. Of course, in my head there are a million other things to worry about. Thousands of small flaws and imperfections in my personality I try to shield from his regard. I worry sometimes, how I can dare make love to a man who I cannot fool? I know he watches my every move and sigh, nothing I do escapes his notice. The very thing I live for - to be the object of his focused attention - is the same thing I have to fear if I want him to continue to think well of me.

When I had my oldest child, it was the first time in my life that I loved someone. I could see immediately what a wonderful and amazing little person he was. I remember thinking, if I could have such a sweet, perfect baby, then I couldn't be that bad. Thank goodness he came first, and not my second child who was a little more fussy and who seemed to not bond with me as quickly as my first child - I would have been a basket case! By then I was somewhat more sane in my impressions and understanding of parenting and love.

But I think of that now. If such a person as my Sir, with all his insight and his ability to see through people can love me and want me, all of me, not just my body or this part but not THAT part ... then how bad could I be really? Is there a corner of my mind he hasn't explored? I can't think of one. He has seen me at my very worst, my lowest, my weakest and most hateful and still can claim me, even after those unattractive displays.

He makes me want to be better - he's the reason I try when I want to give up. When I won't do things for myself, I will do them because myself is no longer mine. I belong to him and because of that I must try to be as good as I can.

It's just a strange dichotomy. I'm generally a happy person. I realize I sound as though I have terrible self-esteem, but it's not true at all times. It just seems that the more I love him and the more I experience his patience and stability and strength, the less worthy of him I feel in comparison.

But the wonderful thing is that I can tell him these things about me, my fears, knowing that he is on my side, and that he will shelter me even from myself and these thoughts, if needed, until I can open up and exhale, let go in full trust that he will catch me.

A Task and a Puzzle

I used to have these puzzles when I was a child - little plastic squares with smaller squares inside, little tiles that you slid around, but could never remove, you just shifted until you put the picture together. That's what submission feels like at times, as if I'm shifting my tiles around to form a picture I can't quite see.

I received a message the other night from my Sir, indicating that he wanted photos of me, that night, nudes. The feelings that rose up inside me are difficult to recount precisely, as I shoved them away immediately. I'd been feeling particularly close to him the days prior, we were approaching a visit and of course I love, in the right time, taking photos and thinking of him as I do so and working on them in the computer before I send them to him. Photography is one of my hobbies and I enjoy having a project.

This was different, though. It was approaching evening and I'd been working all day on other projects waiting for the time when I could get some other things done - I had a list, but wasn't to start until after a set time (well, my child's bedtime). Suddenly all my free time at the end of the day was gone. I wore no make up, my hair was pulled back into a tie, my room was messy, would have to be cleaned before I could start, and I needed to pack an overnight bag for my visit to my Sir.

I suppose, were we living together, this would be considered the equivalent of a demand for sex when I wasn't "in the mood". So, shifting my priorities and plans around, and about as stressed and unhappy and feeling as unsexy as possible I set about doing what I could immediately, rather than relaxing prior to bedtime as had been the plan.

I packed, applied make up, tried to do something with my hair, made sure my camera battery was charged, picked up my room so there wouldn't be a debris field in the background of my photos.

When the time came, little one brushed and tucked in and kissed, I worked efficiently to take my photos. I'd put on a loose fitting outfit so I wouldn't have elastic marks, I set up the light I needed, my tripod, my backdrop (black sheet over the bed) and took a few test shots. I then got out the remote, and realized it had been so long since I'd used it I couldn't recall how to set my shutter to fire with it. This required research, but I had no time - I needed to get these done so I could write to my Sir and have a visit before I slept. My stress level rose, and I had to push out the slight annoyance at his last minute order. If I'd known earlier I would have arranged my day differently.

When I figured this out, then the battery in the remote was out and I couldn't fix it. Exasperated, frustrated, failed and defeated I sent my Sir a note, explaining the problem. He replied that using my phone was fine, and immediately I relaxed. As if it had never been there, my tension dissolved, the way it always seems to do when I turn to him with any problem.

I set up my full length mirror horizontally, moved the light, threw my backdrop over the end of my bed and took some photos of myself through the mirror, using my camera in my hands as I would a model and just avoiding my face - too bad I'd applied make up but oh well.

My Sir loved the photos, complimented me and seemed genuinely appreciative. My relief, joy, happiness at having been able to fulfill this task was immense.

However, what I've noticed is that whenever he gives me anything do to, my first response is inevitably panic, frustration, even mild resentment, fears of failing and fears that he's setting me up somehow to fail. It never is the case once I calm down. These are always things within my ability, doable within the time frame, and I usually get it right the first time. It just requires I shift myself around a bit inside, to mold around the task, and myself around him.

Regrouping

When I return home from my visits with my Sir, one of the things I do first is to examine my body in the mirror for his marks. The evidence of his presence still saturates my being - at times I delay bathing as long as possible, unwilling to erase his traces from my skin. Often I'm carrying visible marks - welts and bruises from his belt, perhaps, or if I'm lucky the cane.

The teeth marks on my belly and beneath my breast remind me I'm owned. The same marks on my shoulder and neck tell me I'm loved. The soreness on my nipples where he pinches and pulls remind me of his passion, how his cock hardens and grows as I moan from the pain, a cycle of energy vibrating between us as his excitement feeds my own. The aches I still feel in my throat, deep inside my pussy and sometimes inside my ass remind me of the eagerness with which I allow him to invade me. Not my body, but my mind and my soul. There are no marks there, nothing anyone else could see, but the same aches are there, the invisible signs of touch and possession.

Its a long drive to see my Sir. Over an hour. I am always the one to go to him. It's my service to him and my privilege, that he allows me to come to his home, that he sets aside his day for me. Its one of the things that sets this apart, this thing, what we are, from a normal affair. Because I come always to him. He may see me here if he has to work nearby me, but he never has made a trip just to see me specifically.

I used to attempt small tests - wait to see if he would suggest a visit, but he never has, I always do so before him. I don't think I've ever gotten very far into these tests, never past the time when we would regularly make plans. He always says yes, always wants to see me, but he never is the first to set up a plan to see me again.

With another man, I might worry. I might wonder about his feelings for me. But my Sir pays me more attention than any other man I've known. He remembers what I say to him, recalls them later to me. He reads my horoscope and birth sign characteristics to me. He asks questions about my friends, the details of my life and actually cares. When we're together, his eyes aren't off me for very long, he never seems bored with me, or as if he's forgotten I'm in the room.

He has written to me nearly every day, since we met - over two years ago. There have only been two occasions we've gone more than two days without some contact. Similar to the visit requests, however, he always responds to an email or text of mine, never is he the first to make contact. He might be available in a chat window for me, but it's I who recognizes it and sends the first missive.

Yet, even with those things, there is no question who is whose, who belongs to whom.

I spend some time always kneeling before my Sir being petted. We talk quietly, he strokes my hair, I put my head on his knee. I press as close as I can get with my body to his. Periodically he will kiss me, I'll rise up to smell his neck.

Sometimes it's his hand on mine, lifting me gently to my feet, his voice commanding me up. Other times its roughly by the hair, or pulling my nipple, that I'll be made to stand. He may lift me and bite my tummy, or pin me down, baring skin for his teeth to caress. My breathing goes out of control immediately - I never know how intense he'll be right away. Often the bites send a trail right to my pussy - today I came just from being bitten on my stomach, as I squirmed and wriggled with the pain/pleasure of it. His hand will be either against my throat or my mouth, both positions excite me incredibly, I love being held down by him, love resisting just enough to get him to quiet me. Once I tried to get away from where he wanted to bite - because he wants to do it so slowly, sinking in, touching first with lips and tongue, then gradually applying his teeth, and I lie there knowing what's coming, the sharpness, the things it does to my helpless pussy and sometimes I can't stand it and I begin to wriggle - and he actually commanded me to stop, to move my hand that was blocking him, threatened to move my hand or else.

Of all the erotic and sadistic and dominant delights and torments of the package that is my Sir, his voice is what rules me. He can lure, frighten, compel and drive me with it. In an instant I was frozen, my mind still wanting to escape his intention, but the tone of his voice let me know that it was best to succumb now, than tempt what would happen if I resisted. I think of that moment, that feeling, over and over now.

Dizzy with the sense of him in and around me, I return at the end of our visits to the solitude of my nest ... although there is no place I can go to truly escape his presence. Not that I want to. But these days when I have time with him, as much as I never want them to end - I feel I might die from the intensity if we were to spend more than moments together. So the distance, however lonely, is somehow a relief. A temporary relief, before the longing begins anew.

Defying Gravity

My Master cannot always be with me. And here I misrepresent just a little bit, because he is not formally, officially my Master, but only my Sir, because he doesn't officially and formally claim me as his slave due to my balking at a critical moment in the process of becoming his. And it's a constant source of chagrin for me now, knowing what might have been, wondering if such things make a difference. Do the words we use matter in this, or is it only the reality that makes the final determination of what we are? Is the state of being a slave somehow different, I wonder? I would not dare defy him now intentionally, but the inadvertent missteps I make would take on more gravity perhaps. Even as I try to at times sidestep the seriousness and solemnity of being completely His, I continue to fall ever more deeply into his world.

So, my Sir (my Owner, my Prince, my Love, my Daddy but not yet my Master) is not always able to be at my side. And sometimes a pain slut needs ... pain. So I went out recently on my own to play. On my own, but never alone.

Sir and I discussed this at length - my apprehension at my ability to behave appropriately as his property was high. I'm so used to acting according to my own will in many ways, following my own impulses and whims, this would be a challenge for me. Not due to my imposing my own will, but just due to the lack of it occurring to me that we could want different things sometimes.

Not that my will is in any way at odds with his. It's more some personal issues with boundaries he's helping me with. Testing myself without him physically by my side would be difficult. I've opted to avoid playing, and when that became too awkward at those kinds of events, I've avoided them entirely.

So I went out. Dressed in my corset, a skirt and a faux collar (for I am not yet a slave entirely) I set out determined to find someone sadistic in this town to play with. There had to be someone willing to hurt me and abide by my limits, right?

I found him. However, as is often the case among the people I know, negotiation and discussion was fairly cursory - I told him generally that I don't want my scenes to be sexual. People tend to think based on how you move and sound that any play is sexual, and it can be but pain is its own separate sensation from sex. So I clarify that now, no sexual touches, and what can be used on me and what can't.

This man is a friend - someone I trust enough that he knows what he's doing, that he cares for my well-being and is sane. However, the very first thing done, and probably my fault now that I think of it, because I said no D/s play either and didn't stop him even though it could have fallen under that category - was he pulled out a leather demi-hood to cover my eyes. I hesitated, thinking it was a full hood (and I'm very claustrophobic) but didn't say anything. Once I saw it was just covering my eyes I relaxed but I could have just said I didn't want it on my head. Or better yet, reminded him it wasn't negotiated.

However I realize now that I'd already transferred power somewhat by asking him if I should have my shoes on or off. I sort of did it as a courtesy, just curious what he thought, the way I'd ask someone if I need a coat on the way out the door. He said shoes off, and I took it as an opinion, not an order. However, maybe he took it another way?

So, I've already allowed the blindfold and he pulls out leather cuffs and puts them on my hands. He's one of these who likes ritual when he's playing. Since he's artistic and the same astrological sign as me, I think I understand. Its a ritual he very likely performs in each scene, the things that put him in the right head space - the hood, the cuffs, probably done in a certain way or order... and I guess this may be another reason I went along with it, because I don't want to deny him that small thing any more than I deny a friend who wants to sit in a particular seat when we're out.

I know this is a strange way to look at things during a BDSM scene. I become ultra polite, ultra concerned about NOT doing something to offend or insult anyone, because I really don't know if there are norms.

At any rate my concerns, my problems, my issues, my choices and preferences become a huge issue between my Sir and I. Because my body isn't mine. I told him what we were doing, canes, floggers, whips. No mention of restraints, no mention of hoods, no mention of the nipple play or wharton wheel that was used on me later. Some of that might have been okay with him, but it was just that it wasn't negotiated and that's what we were working on and I failed.

None of it violated me personally. My play partner kept his word as far as the specific things I said not to do. I don't feel he pushed any boundaries, or did anything he felt was likely to push boundaries. But he did introduce elements that weren't discussed. And it caused a huge problem for my Sir and I.

He wants me to be safe, to not take the risks, to behave like an adult. And there are things I just don't always see. Nuances to which I'm blind, but which are black and white and not nuances at all once explained to me. It's very frustrating for me, this learning his way, and failing in obedience when that isn't my intent.

I have always heard dominants say that they don't need to punish, that their displeasure and the knowledge of it sitting in the mind of their submissive is punishment enough. I never really believed it could be that way. However it's true. Knowing I've let him down in something so basic is very difficult, is punishment for me, because I want his approval and praise. It may not be a huge thing, this may be how most submissives feel. But this is not the norm for me, the norm for me is to find a sore spot in a man, and do that thing even MORE - just to assert my independence, make sure they don't become too certain of themselves, too sure of me. This is a change. The gravity I cannot escape.

Stepping

I was in a cage. I was at a New Year's party at the home of kinky friends. It was late and I had already been played with at least once, whipped and spanked. I was in that cozy place I go to afterwards, after the initial buzz and high abates and my brain slows down. Immediately after play, I tend to have a lot of excess energy. I wander around, unable to keep still, until finally, like an overspent toddler I eventually settle somewhere quiet to rest and regroup.

The cage was wooden, built underneath a table where another woman lay above me being flogged and beaten by two other tops, my Sir one of them. He stood behind me, and I lay there on the mat inside the cage, resting and watching the scenes going on around me, content to be nearby my Sir, although not directly interacting with him.

Suddenly, I felt his foot upon me. I've never, in my life, had anyone put their shoe on me in such a position. I melted. Something about that just gets me. Its the possessiveness, the positioning, the fact that it's a foot, that I'm on the ground, that it holds me in place there where I belong and want to be. One moment I'm just lying on the ground, unclaimed, unbidden, inactive. By the mere act of his foot upon me, suddenly I'm owned, held, positioned and actively involved.

That's all it was. It led to nothing after that, although at some point when I was released I know that I moved to the foot again, kissed its boot, and lay my cheek upon it, unwilling to remove myself from contact with my beloved.

I suppose on some level there could be perceived an element of humiliation in this. One is, after all, beneath the foot of someone else, there to be trod upon and touched by the sole which has been god knows what dirty places. There to be a foot rest, no longer a girl, no longer anything other than that which supports his foot, the same way a step might, while his attention is presumably focused elsewhere.

I felt not a scrap of humiliation, though. My adoration and desire for connection and attention from my Sir is so strong, that it overrides that sense of shame I perhaps should have felt. Or maybe that's the secret to humiliation play - that it truly isn't. Because this man could in fact, do nearly anything to me, and my entire being would be open and content in it, simply because it's his bidding. For him I'm willing to be things I otherwise would consider unattractive or unsexy. Things I would consider beneath me in other contexts. The only common denominator being his will for me to do or be that thing.

Kneeling

It's impossible for me to be with my Sir, without wanting, irresistibly, to kneel. It isn't something foreign to me, this impulse, I have felt comfort in kneeling at other times. But with him, it's risen to the level of a force, some gravity in him that pulls me downward. When we first met each other I didn't recognize or understand it, was unaware of any submissive impulses, barely aware of the word submissive, certainly not aware of its relation to myself.

So this last time, I end up in my happy place, at his feet while he sits in the chair and we talk, very quickly. It is here, kneeling, that I can put my head on his knee to be petted, here that I turn my lips up to his to be kissed, here that he takes my hair in his hands, touches my breasts softly, then roughly. Here that he holds my face and brushes his lips against mine gently, here that my silly heart, which had thought to regain some control in this relationship, thought to put him in his place as just another man to me ... falls again.

This time of reconnecting is so precious to me. When I miss him the most, its these moments I think of to comfort myself. Yet, suddenly in the midst of my content, I'm restless. Not just randomly restless, specifically in need suddenly and desperately for his touch.

I'm unable to ask, although looking back I suppose I should have. Instead, I decided to hint. I put myself across his lap, head down, arching my bottom up to him, hoping his hand will slide down and stroke my pussy. But, alas, he only began to spank me, not realizing perhaps how far past that point his chaste kissing had brought me. Somehow, I'm not really certain exactly, I ended up bent over the foot of the bed, his belt striking my thighs and ass, my body responding in shock and arousal.

It's been months since we played in this way. There was a time this would have been light play for me, but now, unused as I am to this kind of treatment, a concern began to build inside me that this might actually hurt. What if the magical something I used to have, my special relationship with pain that I was unaware even existed until a few years ago just left me? Suddenly I flew back away from myself, and realized, I'm alone, all alone, with a sadist. He wants to hurt me. I could feel my pussy flooding at these thoughts, just moments before I was snapped back into myself when he grabbed my hair and pulled me to the floor before him.

This kind of play disarms me the most. This is something I could only do with someone I love and trust completely. Being treated roughly under other circumstances frightens me too much - I've done it once and ended up with my teeth chattering so badly and my pussy so dry the poor dom had to stop the whole thing. But with my Sir, it feels so different because I want so badly to make him happy. His cock is hard for me, because of me and my suffering for him, because he can hear me whimper, see me close to tears, see how aroused I become, he's hard for me and I do my best to swallow his cock all the way down my throat. My ass is suddenly so hot, I don't even rest it against my heels, but I swallow and suck and feel the heat.

Then I'm back on the bed again and he's using the belt. I don't know how many times we alternate this way, but eventually I'm in some kind of rhythm because I just vacillate between my knees and the bed, his cock becomes larger each time I return to it, my pleasure and happiness growing because I know I'm pleasing him.

Somewhere in there I begin the change, the reason i do these things, for the moment I abandon myself in him, where I and my needs stop existing. I've forgotten about my pussy and how badly I wanted him to touch it. Now I'm his toy entirely, there to be used and abused if he desires, willing to do and be anything if it will only win me his smile. He orders me onto the bed and I go - suddenly lost as I kneel there, should I kneel, should I stand, or lie? I hover there, kneeling but up on my knees, waiting for orders. My legs tremble, my brain feels fuzzy and I think it again, I'm alone in a room with a sadist... why that phrase, why the distancing?

Three years ago if you would have told me I'd be here, I would have never believed it. Three years ago I was unhappily married, in some kind of sexual hibernation, ducking myself into hidden places to vent the painful crying that seemed to come out of nowhere. Sometimes I'm a stranger to myself, this woman I've become, this creature with her special relationship to pain, her lover a stranger, really, if you count the proportion of her life that he's been witness to.

Kneeling on the bed alone while I wait, I float in this uncertainty. Until his touch and voice bring me back to myself and to him and I'm home again in one piece, the only spot in the universe that truly feels safe.

Homecoming

When we're together its what we both call home. In the little lover whispers, the lexicon of owner and owned, home is when we are one.

I crawl into my bed, deliberately naked, his smell on me still, my body aching from his touch, his hands, his teeth, his belt. Each welt and mark and ache evidence that I'm loved, treasured, that I belong to someone...that I'm real.

My bedroom window remains open from when I left to meet my Sir. Now the sun spills in through the trees outside, the wind blowing across the bed where I lay, remembering. The parts of him I love the most: the smile I only see at certain times, the rounded part of his hand below his thumb that I sucked and mouthed as my head lay on his lap, his ears, the thickest part of his arm, his soft skin, his teeth and how they aren't straight but have a distinct shape - I would know them on my skin even if I were blindfolded...his voice, particularly when he's stern, his bottom lip, fuller than my own and how hard it is to ever resist lingering there when we kiss.

How can I be this in love with someone who can bring me to tears from pain, who rarely gives me what I want just when I want it or how, who forces me to his will in nearly every encounter, who makes me feel simultaneously small and unworthy, and at the same time like I'm the most important thing in his life? How can I give him things I don't necessarily want to give, but only do so because they are for him?

I wonder, does he know all these things I feel, or does he suppose I liked them all before him? Its as if I'm being reshaped and formed into a creature of his design, interrupted off my own path and redirected to his ... does he know or does he just assume that's the way it is?

A Summons and a Kiss

I was summoned recently. It was quite a surprise to me, to be called so abruptly and out of the blue. "How close are you?" He asked and I told him. Even as I finished I was altering my course to get to where he was. My heart began to pound, the worry began in my head about what I was wearing, how my hair was. My Sir has requirements about how I look - but I'd had no notice at all this time, no chance to prepare.

I was wearing shorts because of the heat, and a thin t-shirt. At a stop light, I undid my bra, sliding the straps down my arms and slipping it off beneath my shirt. My breasts ached and felt heavy - but it was a relief all the same as I threw my bra into the back seat.

A text came, telling me specifically where to be, where to wait for him, and for me to let him know when I arrived. My nipples began to ache ... while I drove I pulled out my hairbrush and ran it through my hair with one hand.

I parked in the corner as instructed and replied by text to him - "here". Then made my way to the spot I had been told to be. A door opened and he stepped out. Within moments he was upon me, his lips against mine before I could even murmur a hello. One hand held my hair in the way that melts me and my stomach began to do that thing it does whenever I'm nearby him. The way he touches me makes me feel small, owned, invaded. One hand in my hair is all it takes, but his other hand immediately went to my breast. I had a fleeting relief that I'd remembered and removed my bra - its expected, but would have been so easy to forget. I gasped as he grabbed a nipple - I'm used to his rough touch here, it pleases him to pinch and twist and pull while I squirm and whimper. I can almost feel him soaking up the noises I make - only this time he's not letting up.

The pain lasts the entire kiss, as his fingers turn and pull, my body alternating between pleasure and desire from his kiss to frantic sounds as I will myself to not struggle against his hand. The pain is ... delightful, sending itself down to my pussy. I try to pull my mouth away from his for a breath, so I can gasp or moan but he holds me there against him, each sound I make muffled by his mouth, his hand not letting up on my poor nipple.

He releases me from the kiss, and I gasp as my nipple is let go, the pain seems as much as if a nipple clamp had been on it. I still haven't said a word, barely had a look at him and my eyes are down now, drinking in the sensations and composing myself, preparing to meet the eyes of my Sir, feeling small and humble as I know he recognized what he does to me, how much power he has over my body, how I respond just with his nearness.

Before I look up, he is gone. "I love you" he says and his voice is deep and growly, sending chills up my back as I know the desire and intent behind it. But he's already back through the door - returned to his meeting or whatever business he had.

I'm left there to compose myself alone. To make my shaken and delirious way back to my car, to ponder the hot, wet readiness a few moments with him creates. My nipple is throbbing and erect, my lips ravished and very likely swollen. I taste him in my mouth still.

It's not until I arrive home that I realize I never got to say hello or even a single word.

Slave Space

Tonight I was reading some of the other blogs I follow and I read one wherein the writer mentions her "slave space".

It made me wonder... do I have such a place, a space in my mind where I go to when I'm experiencing my submissiveness at it's deepest? I fear that I do. My love and desire for my Sir is leading me into places I didn't intend to go. The place where what he wants is important, more important than what I want, or else they are the same. The place where I circle back to his way even when I believe I'm thinking on my own.

Right now I'm a submissive. At times a conflicted submissive. I still struggle with things, still have moments of pause. Days when I attempt to impose my own way.

Something very emotional is triggered within me at the use of the term slave. A longing, a desire to explore what that would mean. I'm drawn to it, and at the same time am afraid of it, afraid to go deeper into this.

I feel the lure of accepting a collar, yet am unsure if its the commitment, the unknown, the inability to recant that stalls my steps.

surrender, dorothy

When I decided to begin this blog and needed to choose a name, I had some difficulty. Most of the blogs I read that touch on similar subjects involve the word "submission". However, I don't feel that I fit the typical "profile" of a submissive. Surrender seems to me to be the more appropriate word for how I engage in a D/s context.

Letting go of my own sense of "the way" and allowing something else to be imposed upon it requires that I surrender, not merely submit. Or at least that's how it feels to me.

Accepting guidance, even when I know its needed and may be more appropriate than my own way requires a conscious act, not just a submitting, but a letting go as well - hence the feeling of surrendering. Abandoning the thing I cling to that gets in the way.

A couple of days ago, I asked Daddy to explain to me how he sees something, how he looks at it and understands it, a situation in our lives that we differ on. I wouldn't say its a disagreement, but more of a perspective. I hoped, by understanding his view, that I would be able to embrace it and therefore avoid the consequences that arise from my own view.

I haven't got his answer yet, but the basis for my question was, I think, a fear that we view the circumstance dramatically differently. I wanted validation of my own viewpoint, either a reassurance that it was in line with his own, or perhaps the discovery that his was so very different, and I could adopt his point of view and save myself some ... thinking and plotting.

But it hit me overnight somehow, that I don't need to understand his perspective at all. I don't need to be like him, to adopt his views, or agree with them. I simply can just adhere to the agreement between us to understand his wishes and if not that, to do things his way, to obey. I don't have to change myself or my thinking, just let go of it, even if momentarily.

What I find, though, is sort of anticlimactic. Maybe it's just peace. But without the struggle, internal or otherwise, its ... vanilla?

Last week, my mind was set on adventures, outings, parties, events I wanted to attend that he put limits on. I dressed carefully, knowing he'd approve or disapprove the outfit prior to my leaving. I got permission prior to everything, throwing myself into a veiled tantrum when he said no.

It's as if a switch has been flipped somehow. It's the weekend. And I've lost all desire for engagement in kink activities. The people I wanted so desperately to see ... meh - I saw them, they're still there, nothing really has changed since I've been gone. My desire to be beaten has withered. The excitement and suspense that once accompanied interactions in the scene and community have just evaporated.

It may be temporary. But in some ways it's a relief. There is nothing I want to do that is forbidden, out of line with his wishes, or even in the general neighborhood of what he normally regulates. The influence of his will may need to become more personal and less global, I suppose, for me to feel it's confines.

bound by words

My Sir and I have always had a literary relationship. My first inkling of interest in him was due to the discovery we had a love for the same authors. He is the only man I've known who can make me drip merely by writing a sentence or two. My heart beats faster and skips when I see his name in my email box. This is how he owns me first, and always has.

It makes me wonder, though, at how common this could be. As it happens, although we write to each other a great deal, we met in person first, and fell in love with each other's minds through our correspondence.

What if I'd never met him, didn't know the face and voice to match the words would it have been the same?

His "voice" - his writing voice, is what lures me and makes me love him so fiercely. He compels me to obedience with it, pulls out tears and laughter, consoles and comforts, controls and dominates me without once needing to lay a hand upon me. Is it any wonder I fight to not drop to my knees in his presence? The intensity of the flesh incarnation of my Sir, the carnal and weakening effect his presence has on me is difficult to endure. I feel such an idiot at times, unable to think or be as clever as I feel I sometimes am when we only write. My wits are entirely gone when I see him. I wonder, does he miss the woman he writes to, question if she's even the same person? I'm so much more flirtatious and intelligent when I'm not under his actual influence.

I've never experienced this kind of involvement - the pure lust I can be driven to by the least mention of what he'll do to me when I see him. The sweet aching and painful longing that accompanies our good-byes, whether in person or apart. The miracle it seems to be when we're together, as if I've invented a lover in my head who's been transformed into flesh by some magic.

His words echo in my mind when we're apart, memories of things he has said or written that can make me blush in business meetings. They contribute to the feeling of being his, as if he's within my head, an active part of my smallest moment. I rarely ever feel truly alone or without him. I invent conversations that never happen, little things I must remember to say to him, sigh over missed viewings of pretty skies or funny events he will miss. I try to silently communicate all these lost moments when we're together, pressing up against him, an effort to melt into him as long as I can.

For all the words that pass between us, our times together are much more silent. We talk and visit, but there's also so much communication only with looks or the awful inability to look into his eyes for too long. Because we spend so much time writing to each other, it improves our nonverbal abilities somehow. We sink into the silent moments, initiated often when I'm in mid-sentence, unaware, my guard finally down and becoming comfortable with him. His possessive touch that undoes me, and renders me once again mute.

Boundaries and Fear

I struggle with boundaries and limits. Identifying, setting, and adhering to them. Its bad enough when they're my own, I can change them at a whim then, with only myself to answer to. I may feel regret afterwards, or be angry at myself, or frustrated at whatever situation or person contributed to the breach. Not surprisingly the boundaries I try to set involve less self-disclosure ... even as I write here relatively anonymously I recognize the need within me that I dislike, to share things about myself that maybe I should not. Part of it is exhibitionism, sure. Being a girl who has always been burdened with secrets, I rationalize that it's my need to steal the power from them that leads to the violations. Maybe. I think other times it might be motivated by the searching for the one I could tell my secrets to who wouldn't see them and look away.

Boundaries around my body are different. I don't like to negotiate, to set limits. I think part of it is a lack of knowing what I want and don't want - do this, maybe I'll like it, maybe not - it depends. Sometimes I like things only if they're forced on me, there are things I want that I might never agree to because that would be admitting it. I'm an adrenaline junkie, I get bored, I find drama. Boundaries keep drama out. Another side of myself I dislike, but without it, am I even me?

Having boundaries set for me by someone else is difficult. It's so easy to just say do what you want to me, or to obey, to learn to not resist, to hold still. I'm the perfect toy, because I will do almost anything. Its getting me to not do things that can be a struggle.

It isn't that I don't want to please, it's just so hard to do things someone else's way. I can't think of a time before now when I've done that, or even tried to. Instead I do them my way, and try to fuck someone into still wanting me, use my body to impose my will onto them. I do things my way and scare others away - after all, if you have no self control or limits, if you can't learn to reign yourself in or be reigned in, are you safe? Not only for yourself, but are you safe for someone who needs to be in control?

This is how I found myself at a play party - not playing. I dressed the part, short skirt, fuck-me heels, tummy revealing top. But I wore a push up bra, padded in case errant hands tried to pinch my nipples and full panties (blue) in case my skirt was lifted, rather than go without or wear a thong. These days my body is no longer mine, and therefore I cannot give bits of it away randomly. So I avoid eye contact with former play partners who might otherwise use it as a signal to grab me and begin beating, as in the past. I move away from the inquiring flick of a cane tapping my skirt as I pass. I eye the bench where I've had nearly every man presently in the room take turns trying to make me cry out in the past, where all I could do was giggle and ask to be hit harder. I sit there, watching the other bottoms squirm and scream ... not letting the thing out that wants to rear its head, or at least lift an eyebrow. I could be there, I wouldn't scream - the way I play usually gets attention which I always crave. So many people, so many new people who would be shocked or scared by what can be done to me before I'll scream.

I chatted, tortured myself by watching, smiled, tried not to be envious when I conversed with my friend, obviously high on endorphins. Left after a long hour and a half ... time moves so much faster when you engage and allow yourself to lose track, so slowly when you're being obedient.

The entire time I thought of my Sir, of his wishes for me, his requirements and most of all what consequence to disobedience. It wasn't that I couldn't play. I just would have had to talk to someone, negotiate, and then run it past him first for ultimate permission. Talking, negotiation, not skills I'm used to employing, so I don't play until I get up the nerve.

One success. I feel no triumph, just the relief at not displeasing him, trying to make myself feel something other than the desire to never attend another party under those conditions. It felt like wandering through a warm rainstorm in a plastic suit. What's the point? No emotion, no fear, no suspense or potential for anything unexpected to happen. Very safe, though.

I console myself I'm doing things his way, this is how he wants me, he's pleased. And I have to admit, its calmer, definitely not the roller coaster of endorphins, then returning home alone to get droppy, bruised and sore and weepy and alone the next day.

But are those the only alternatives? Maybe, for right now anyway. I don't see much else around me, only the extremes.

Another boundary today. I may not go someplace I really want to be. His reasons are valid, although he was disappointed I wanted to know why, that "because" wasn't good enough. There's a whole world of other places I can go and things I can do. But, because it's not allowed, its the only thing that appeals to me.

I slept instead. Instead of walking or writing, or reading or watching a movie. I crawled into bed and shut down.

It would be easier if he just wanted to play S&M games. Or sex games. Control in sex is a huge turn on. D/s outside of it is making me squirmy. I don't inhabit my own body the same way. Its much more difficult for me to accept this kind of control.

Its bringing back to me a couple of other times I've been very drawn to someone, someone who probably didn't know they were dominant, but who I have lost because of doing things my way. I'm trying to not mess this up. It seems I'm emotionally in a position where if I do fail, it will hurt an incredible amount.

But I do wonder, can I do this? Maybe it should be easier, if it were the right thing, wouldn't it be? Its not that I wouldn't do anything for him, but this "not" doing things for him is what's cost me vanilla relationships. I suppose I thought there would be fewer restrictions in this world. That how I am naturally would be enough, would be okay. Or maybe he's targeting my boundaries in this way because it is the most difficult thing, or because he knows it's best for me?

Judgement and Hiding

I haven't quite pinned down what it is I have to hide, but I know there's something...

I have always loved theater and performance. As an only child I was required to entertain myself and play alone a great deal of the time. As a result, in addition to being an avid reader and spending hours in the woods around my childhood home, I've spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror. I lip synced my way through all the albums of musicals my parents owned. My Fair Lady, Guys and Dolls, L'il Abner, Rose Marie, The Music Man, Oklahoma ... I'd make up plots to accompany the songs, acting out the story I contrived as I mouthed the words. I learned to look at myself without embarrassment or self-consciousness as long as I was being someone else. It was okay to adopt the sultry moves I imagined went with the words, make faces, smile - animation I rarely exhibited as the shy and invisible girl I really was. I still remember the embarrassment I felt if my parents stumbled upon me when I was doing this...worse than being caught masturbating would have been - an abrupt transformation from the creature I was in my imagination to the awkward child pretending to be something I wasn't.

Later, when I actually auditioned for plays in school and was able to engage in "real" theater, with other actors and players, it was the first place I felt comfortable going outside the boundaries without fear of judgement. I found it's easier to try new things and take risks, to be someone, as long as there's a layer of alter ego between myself and the one taking the risk. As a young actress, I stumbled drunkenly around the stage as Sunny the rag doll (trying to channel the straw man in the Wizard of Oz), minced around in a flirty outfit as a hillbilly in L'il Abner, danced a can-can dressed as a tart in a flouncy skirt. I even had my very first kiss onstage. The theater department was my place - the first place I felt I was truly "seen" in school, a lending of legitimacy to my solitary and secret practice of escape. I ate up the attention, even as I realized it was for being all those someones I was not, not for being just me. I never meant for this to become a theme of my life, but it has.

In life there is always judgement. In a situation where there's an audience, they can either love what you do, hate it, laugh when they should or walk out. But in theater, nothing is real. You adopt a persona, and you can bleed out anything into it you choose with a layer between you and the vulnerability that might be there otherwise if you exposed those same aspects of your character in real life. In theory, this protects you from any judgement because if there is any rejection it's not of you, but of what you projected.

The risk is that you can become dependent on this separation. I've used the option to act 'as if' so much, it's taken up more hours of my life than the times I'm really me. I'm not a super star, not a celebrity, but I imagine sometimes I spend as much of life in a role created just for the public as Madonna or any other performer might. It's gotten me through tough situations, job interviews for one. Conflicts at work are easier when you can play someone else. It's been helpful in many stressful situations.

So, back to hiding. I understand in D/s there can be no hiding, no dishonesty. Its similar to being onstage, a theater of two, only there is no play acting. Or rather the play acting that is done is just a vehicle that assists in the uncovering of the truths.

It takes a lot for me to expose myself. Not sexually, I'm comfortable with my body, it's just a shell, a place I live in, nothing really to do with me. In fact, it's often a useful barrier, to distract others from the rest of me. Although even as I write that I realize it's no longer true, because knowing my body belongs to someone else has changed that ability to disengage. Its as if I'm more present in myself when I'm owned.

What is the most difficult to expose is my head and my heart. I understand that with control and will bending, there must be instruction. I have to be made aware when I've transgressed. I have to understand what is required and what is inexcusable. Its difficult to know where the line is. Cold words make my heart pound in a scene, but they also cause anxiety. Being reminded of my shortcomings always leads to fears of rejection and abandonment, and an urge to run away and hide. When I'm asked to share my feelings and desires, its difficult because I'm not certain they're okay. What if I open up, trust that much and then am found so flawed and inadequate anyway? There is no person who can truly love unconditionally.

Keeping my eyes down, holding still through pain, kneeling, spreading my legs when told to is easy, when compared to opening my mind to the scrutiny of another when it matters so much.

A Consideration of Disobedience

I have nothing to prove. There is no prize for minding, for being a good girl. My transgressions have normally been of the kind where I'm just clueless as to what it is that I've done wrong. Understanding how to be in tune with my Master is a struggle, was a struggle since early on. I never meant to do a single thing that was anathema to his will. He seemed puzzled at how blithely I did my own thing, I know he tried to not break my spirit. Now I fear it's set too well, the awareness of his mind within my own.

In the past, my errors were of a disregard for my safety. I didn't set appropriate boundaries when I interacted with play partners. I took risks, accepting car rides, trusting too easily. I'm not as careful with my body or with my life, actually, as he wants me to be. I wanted him to do these things for me, to make the decisions, speak to my partners, say yes to this, no to that. On some level it was the hotness of being given to another to play with that I wanted, the being withheld from someone who wanted to toy with me, the exertion of his power and control of me, his ownership displayed openly. On the other hand, it was also me just wanting to avoid making those choices on my own ... I like being told what to do, what not to do - as long as it's what I want anyway. He wants, I speculate here, for me to assume his values and mores, to incorporate them into my own processes and apply them independently. Again with the offering ... so I'm not to merely be told what to do, I must instead absorb what to do without instruction - offer anticipatory obedience rather than just minding him?

My Sir is protective of me. But sometimes caution is so boring. I like excitement and risk, I enjoy doing things I shouldn't be doing, the danger, the chance of being caught. I like to do things I'm not quite ready for, drive too fast. Tell me someone or something is dangerous or forbidden and it's as if a beacon turns onto that one thing, lingering in my mind to tempt me constantly.

So, right now I may not attend kink events. It's for a good reason, has been a wise decision he made that served me well. And in a very short time from now this restriction will be over. But suddenly my awareness of the things I'm missing and my itch to go do them has overwhelmed me. The opportunities are numerous and enticing. And my Master is otherwise occupied at the moment.

I made a decision to go to an event tonight. I thought about it, weighed the risks in my mind and decided it was safe. I heard his voice in my mind, knowing he would say to wait until the time he had set for me, but I pushed it away.

For a bit, I felt fine with my decision. It is, after all, ultimately my life, right? I wasn't going to let anyone touch me, its my life but his body, so I could protect what was his and just socialize harmlessly with what is mine. Then I began to worry, who might see me there? Do they know him? Would they report to him that they saw me, innocently for sure, but still. How could I avoid that potential? A disguise? Furthermore, as my habit is to tell him my plans, what was I to do about that? Lie? An outright black and white, no question of nuance lie, as to my plans? Or lie by omission? Or lie by claiming an accident - "I thought it was just a normal event at a bar, not one of THOSE parties"?

I knew that wouldn't work, I'm too transparent to him. He would see through it in an instant, in fact even thinking of lying to him began to make me nervous - I worry at times he has a special sense that lets him know when I'm thinking of doing something I shouldn't. I find myself telling him things that there is no reason he could ever know, except that he seems to meander through my mind at times and know things there is no way he should.

So I sat down, finally to write him a note - letting him know where I was going and what I was doing and why. Something along the lines of "I've chosen to disobey you, although I can't recall if it's just a recommendation or an order" and perhaps asking his forgiveness in advance, knowing he'd be extremely displeased, hoping it wouldn't be taken as a sign I wanted to be released, hoping the punishment wouldn't be silence. I intended to put in my note that I would take full responsibility should any negative event occur in my life as a result of my taking this risk, no matter how small.

I didn't get two sentences into it before abandoning the project. I want to go. But although he's not here, I know the answer. I think if he were here, if we could discuss it, he might agree with me the risks were minimal. He might even be persuaded against his better judgement to allow it. But absent that grudging permission, if I disobey him ... telling him of my intention to do so, even having thought it out, how will he feel? What will he do? Its almost worse to disobey after such prolonged consideration, isn't it?

I don't know if its the fear of punishment, or of his disappointment, or of what it would say about our dynamic if I do something I want to rather than what he wants me to do. Its not fair. He should be here with me, then, if he says no. Its not necessary, he should be reasonable and see that. Shouldn't he be happy with me that I'm not contriving to lie, that although it crossed my mind that I could do so and get away with it, I chose instead to advertise my failure to obey, to telegraph my disobedience?

But I can't. Maybe it's my need to follow the rules of the game? Some childish extension of needing to color within the lines, even though I hate it when I do that and will color outside them just because I catch myself at staying within them? But then, if I break one of the most basic and simple rules...

I'm a grown up, its just a game, right? I can walk out that door and do whatever I want and he'll probably never find out or by the time he does, the danger will have passed and I'll have been proven right, nothing happened as a result of my risk. But he'll know, then, that when it comes down to my will or his, which one I choose. And I can't bear the idea of looking into his eyes if it came to that.

I really want to go. But instead I stay and I write, my brain in turmoil, not quite understanding. Is bending my will to his a choice I make, I do have a choice, right - or am I past that? There is no prize for being a good girl. I have nothing to prove...so why?

A Treatise on Anal

I have a love/hate relationship with anal sex. Perhaps it's an analogy for my ambivalence and confusion about D/s and why it is, how it is that I'm drawn to it. In theory and fantasy, emotionally and symbolically it is perfection in submission. I dread it, if I'm told it will happen.

I once had a small curiosity about it, similar to my interest in skydiving perhaps, but nothing that would compel me to become serious enough to actually engage in it. I am not, however, left to my my own choices in this, the event, the time and manner are never my call. It is in this exercise of domination, this very specific act, that my submission and obedience to another's will plays out most fully. This one experience is what tells me without a doubt that I've crossed some line that exceeds the predictable. I can feign obedience, I can kneel without feeling, my lips can form words that sound acquiescent. I can take a lot of pain, I can soak it up and never return the energy, remain in the power seat... my true letting go isn't achieved easily, my instinct to resist is too deeply ingrained. There are many ways to play at D/s, much to my chagrin. I do wish it were easier for me. It always takes time before I sink into it completely. This thing, the state of mind ass fucking brings me to, for some reason I cannot fake.

You may find me on my knees sucking cock, find me tied to some contraption or other being whipped, wearing a collar. You may see me crawling or even begging if I'm told I must. I can do any of these things and still remain my own. I can do these things and even be distracted by my grocery list, or concerned with how I look, aware of those who watch instead of focused on my task or my tasks master. But when I'm taken in the ass, there is guaranteed to be nothing else on my mind and such an event can only happen through the most deliberate and helpless surrender of my entire self to another. My entire focus is on sensation, the desire for it to stop, the surprise at the pleasure, then the shock of the fullness, the concept of what is happening washing over me.

When my pussy is being fucked, there's this thing I can do, an angle of the hips that will prevent the deepest penetration, I can, unless I'm told not to, assume some control of what happens in that way. Sometimes I'm told to stop, to open to him, to my Daddy, but doing so is voluntary. Anally I have absolutely no control of the depth, the speed, the angle. It may be my inexperience, perhaps there are ways I can eventually learn once the shock diminishes, when this becomes familiar. Until then, the loss of bodily control is absolute.

At times I know it's imminent. My body trembles with anticipation of the inevitable. The usual thrill I might experience as my mouth slides over his thick cock, feeling it swelling and becoming harder as I suck and try to take it all down the back of my throat is tempered by the future. I feel every inch nervously, my lips pressing against the fullness that I can barely handle. His thrusting both excites and worries me, knowing exactly where these motions will soon be employed. Even the strength of his arms draw my attention to the vulnerability I'll soon experience, for he can lift and hold me, prevent any movement of mine.

His weight would easily keep me in place, were I to succumb to the impulse to escape. This thought flits across my mind as he kisses me, pressing his body onto mine, his lips and teeth moving me past my anxiety into arousal. I'm played thoroughly, his instrument to torment, seduce, my pussy dripping for him - in vain it seems, for if he's not going to use it, what difference if I'm ready or not? My body is his traitor, giving in to it's owner, even though I'd delay my response to win any extension.

At times I float away, my only escape, hovering above us seeing me as he might. Small, somewhat pale, weak, trembling and dizzy with lust. The room is thick with his desire and intention, for he knows this is how best to command me. He's patient, loving, gentle ... slide back love, take your time, push against me ... he's all patience and light until the moment I waver and decide to withdraw, avoid the stretching and the burning. It's that instant that he seems to spring and I don't really know what happens for those moments but suddenly he's deep within me and I've gotten past it and there's always some relief in that. It's like jumping off the high dive, the moments during the fall oblique, the only memory the bursting up through the water into the air, alive and through it ... only to realize you're still in the deep end of the pool.

He moves and I pant. He may remind me to breathe, as sometimes I hold my breath, just as I'm holding still. He can't go in deeper if I'm quiet, can he? Oh yes, he can and he will. I admire his control, because I know what this does to him. My body tight around his cock, my whimpering, my hands clutching at anything I can hold ... my head to the side, his little girl keeping her eyes shut. I know what overwhelming me does to him, how the possibility that it might hurt and I still take it affects him.

How I want to please him, now that I'm here. I want to move, to fuck him and give him what he wants to take. I beg for it now, or ask for it nicely, please, my voice sounding unfamiliar, higher, desperate. I feel him move inside me, stretching and filling me in places I never am aware of. My ass has abilities to feel things my pussy never does, each inch and throb and thrust. My bottom vibrates with his movements, but I can't synchronize, even the ability to cooperate is gone. The only participation I have is through my joining to his will to accept and enjoy this, so I arch my back and become one with his purpose.

Sometimes I orgasm, when I come this way I scream. My bottom is numb afterwards, I feel my ass all day, for two days even, it's as though I've got a new body part, like a sore muscle you never knew you had. Except it doesn't hurt, it's as though I'm constantly being touched there. Worse than I imagine wearing a butt plug around would be. I feel stronger, more owned, somewhat altered and just a little bit dirty.

But it's what occurs later that is truly the telling part for me. If he lost interest in my ass I'd be okay - its not something I crave in a physical sense. I worry when I know it will happen, when he warns me. But when I'm alone, when I'm bored and want to make myself come, nothing else works lately. I think of ropes, of biting, of his hand on my throat and how he has teased me with his cock, refusing to enter me until I begged ... nothing pushes me over until I remember the powerful rhythm as he shoves his cock into my ass, biting my shoulder, claiming me for his and reminding me who I belong to. I can't even engage in masturbation on my own terms. He's entrapped even my solitary fantasies with his will and control.