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.