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I am suddenly distressed about sex.

Everything else about the reunion with Master yesterday was so good. I was afraid that I had wasted so much time missing him, and pining over him, and putting him on a pedestal, that actually seeing again would be anticlimatic. I was worried that all these supposed feelings might not manifest themselves when I finally saw him again. I think maybe Master was worried about the same thing, but it's harder to tell, as he masks vulnerability through joking, and sarcasm.

But either way, despite the nerves, everything was good. There was none of that awkwardness that sometimes occurs when two people haven't seen each other in a long time. We talked, and he showed me pictures of his trip, and he took me on his new scooter, we joked, we laughed, we played around in the pool, he held me and kissed me and I felt so glad to be back.

But when it came to sex, I was actually a mess. When Master entered me for the first time that night, I felt nothing but pain. This had never been an issue in the past. Despite being soaking wet with my own fluid, the pain was deep and heavy and constant--stemming not from mechanical force or friction--but rather surging and gurgling in my abdomen and spreading into my chest, strangling my breath. It was one of the strangest, most uncomfortable sensations I’ve ever experienced. It was all the more shocking because it was so unexpected.

The second time he had sex with me that evening, it was immeasurably worse. It was so painful that I felt so scared and weak and vulnerable, that I just started sobbing and sobbing and couldn't stop. I cried on and off as he drove me home, and cried more at home.

Sex has suddenly become very confusing. Because I was really trying to detatch myself from Master before, I tried to think less of sex as this mystical thing and more as an action; a natural act, a normal progression. If it didn't feel amazingly great, I just chalked that up to needing more practise...especially if Master seemed to be fine. But now, I'm remembering all the emotional reasons for which I have avoided sex and wanted to keep avoiding it.

Despite having convinced myself that it was all very normal, I do in fact feel very open and exposed. I've been in complete denial for the last two months that I'd even had sex. It's really hard for me...I basically went from no experience...to suddenly being diving into a relationship that is heavily based around sexuality.

And I know that this relationship extends to more than just sexuality, like any relationship it is also about getting know someone and about companionship, but because this is a somewhat recent acknowledgement, it's still hard. I'm dissapointed in myself for not knowing myself well enough. And I'm dissapointed in myself for weeping as if Master had intentionally hurt me although he has been nothing but good and supportive to me, for worrying Master, for getting frustrated with external situations when it really does seem like all the problems are just coming from my own head.

I don't know if I'm taking a step backward right now, but I think I'm realizing that I can't lie to myself. If something is difficult for me, I need to acknowedge it immediately, instead of pretending it is not an issue and then panicking when two months later, I finally realize how emotionally strained I am.

Drinking from Foxgloves

The other night, I shared a hotel room with four people I didn't know very well, so to pass the time, we decided to do something completely awkward and unbalanced: psychoanalyze each other’s personalities. Those who understand anything about body language and personality cannot resist this game, even at the risk of making others uncomfortable and causing people to turn on each other.

However, when it came down to me, the others said exactly what I expected: “You seem like a warm, fun girl, which compels people to try to befriend you. But once they attempt to know you, they realize that you have very restrictive boundaries and won’t let people in.”

It’s true. With most people, I stick to very superficial topics of conversation. I’ll make jokes, be silly, encourage mischief, and we’ll have fun…but that’s it. We won’t keep in touch, we won’t stay friends. I tend to have many acquaintances; people with whom I can eat, study, travel, go to the bar or party (because it often isn’t socially acceptable to do things by yourself)…but who ultimately know nothing about me. Many end up telling me their stories and secrets because I am willing to listen to and reflect with them, but I won’t reveal anything about myself. I choose the people I want in my life selectively, and those few tend to know everything. But that level of friendship takes either time, or occasionally, an intuitive sense of trust in a person.

Master was one of those people that I intuitively felt that I could trust, but being so guarded, wasn’t sure that I wanted to. I told myself I’d give the Dom-sub dynamic a trial run, I would try my best at being submissive to see if I liked it but I would disassociate myself from what was happening and tell myself none of it was special or what I was ultimately looking for. I didn’t want to get emotionally attached because I wanted the option of walking away unscathed if the arrangement became too inconvenient.

For a long time, I didn’t see anything but a small fling coming out of it; I couldn’t see it lasting for summer, let alone wrapping my head around the possibility of a long-term relationship. Even at the point where we had sex, I told myself I’d do it because it was too idealistic to wait for love before sex, and that if the situation was safe and comfortable—as it had become—then I wouldn’t regret it in the grand scheme of things. However, this feeling of safety and comfort became paradoxical for me. Despite all my justifications that I didn’t need any of this and that I was not necessarily a submissive girl, nothing about being with Master felt wrong. In fact, everything felt smooth, normal, even pleasant.

The last day I spent with Master before he left, however, transcended the generalized contentment that comes from a sense of comfort. That day epitomized my ideal dating situation: fun and happy, feeling owned but at the same time, cherished. For the first time, I didn’t just feel fine, I felt joyous, giddy, bursting from the seams with happy energy. After that point, I was forced to examine why prior to this nothing had felt so amazing.

It took going away--and the reflection accompanied by a change of pace--to realize the only reason I hadn’t been happy was because I wasn’t allowing myself to be happy. In theory, everything I’d ever hoped for was happening, but instead of embracing it, I was sabotaging it and throwing dark shades over the rose-coloured light that would otherwise perfuse the events that have come to pass.

It took being away from Master to confront myself. Now, I am at the point where I truly want to be Master’s and my desire to obey stems from the need to be with him and make a relationship work; not out of a desire to play silly mind-games. Master might not be aware of the thought process behind the change of heart, but he knows that because something within me has changed, we can now transition to a new level.

In acknowledging this growth, Master has been talking of—and I have been gladly accepting—upping my training when I return, increasing my pain tolerance so that he can beat me thoroughly, deepening my servitude and intensifying his sexual usage of my body. Because I have purged my self-inflicted poison from my mind, I’m fine with these things and do wish to please him better. However, I still manage to frighten myself because my best memories are when Master is tender and gentle with me, and while I want to feel owned, small, helpless, I ultimately wish to be treasured and cared for. Before our first date, Master said to me: “I want to take care of you…if only you allow me to.”

I think about that all the time.

I have finally reached the point where I want to entrust myself to Master. It is frightening that reaching this level has been met predominantly with talk of challenges—of beatings and increased training—without explicitly vocalizing the other end of it: a reminder to me, of his desire to take care of me. However, when I spoke to Master last night, he said something so beautiful that just encapsulated everything I needed to hear and reminded me of why I want to be his. I read the lines over and over and thought of them as he gave me permission to touch myself:

“I only want to beat and whip you so that at the end of it, you will collapse into my arms, and say “I am still yours Master”. That would be the ultimate. But I don’t think I would enjoy beating you so much…I hate it when you cry. I treasure you too much to treat you badly.”

This was everything I needed to hear. No one can be selfless. I have learned enough about Master to know that I want to be with him, and be a good slave and companion for him. However, I likewise need both a Master and a companion. I need a lover, a teacher, a friend, a boyfriend…and I can only give him what he needs, if he is also willing to be there for me. We are moving towards a new beginning. We need time for this relationship to grow and develop and see what this dynamic turns into.

Like all relationships, it is impossible to foresee what the future holds for us, but in dismissing my poisonous thoughts and being able to at least fathom a future, I can finally be happy and serve Master. I finally see that this could be something wonderful and I’m eager for the next stage to begin; for continued explorations with a more open and willing frame of mind.

Clicking my Heels

After a long period of limited communication with Master, I had the opportunity to speak with him last night; a massive relief!

While he has been giving me assignments, there has been virtually no opportunity for feedback upon completion of the tasks, making me exceedingly anxious, since my foremost concern is to know if he is satisfied and happy with his little girl’s efforts. It has been wildly lonely to not know what he is thinking.

The best I’ve been doing to feel close to him is reviewing the past—replaying moments together in my head, re-reading texts and emails from him— and thinking of the future. However, these thoughts have all been tainted by the uncertainty of his current feelings. I would hope that he hadn’t forgotten me, that he was happy with me, and still wanted to be with me as much as I wanted to be with him.

So, when we finally spoke, I was predictably very emotional when he told me of how much thought of me over his trip, told me that I had been a good girl (for the most part) and that he was happy with his slave.

Despite my joy, however, I managed to let my sleep-deprivation and emotionally-straining workdays get to me; when he gave me a new task, instead of accepting it readily, I resisted, questioned him, and asked him to postpone the tasks. He told me that I was pushing my luck—which I acknowledged but without desisting—and we warned me that if I was with him, he would by punishing me severely. In the moment where he began to express his disapproval, I already began to regret my words. I had pined for so long for Master’s approbation, to hear pretty words and to feel a happy connection with him, and now this: after finally getting to talk to him, I was upsetting him!

However, before I could try to explain myself, he told me that in light of everything that was going on, he would chalk up my insolence to my not having slept in a few days and sadness from not being with him, and thus would forgive my bad behaviour. I was overcome by his understanding and kept apologizing for my silliness. He told me there was no need to; all was well, he wasn’t mad at me and that instead of worrying, I should go to bed, rest, and feel happy. After I thanked him and was about to leave, he told me to “stop crying... you are more mine since you left than when you were here.”

He’s right.

I feel so wanted right now and even though it is hard to be apart for a few more weeks I do feel re-connected with him, and thus, immensely happy.

Pathetic Fallacy

Limbs tangled among bedsheets, I laid in the vapid light. With half-open eyes, I watched the shadows of raindrops paint an animated mural across the cold, white walls. Between the crashing of droplets on the window’s glass panels, my phone rang and I brushed my hand across mechanically the nightstand to pick it up.

A message from Master read: "Where is my picture of my doll wearing her sign?" I sighed and curled into a ball under the sheets, pressing my phone under my chin in contemplation. I had procrastinated in completing his assignment for the past week, with plenty of self-justification: post-work fatigue, inclement weather, social obligations, inappropriate timing.

However, I knew I had to finally do it or risk Master's displeasure. After a moment of begging my headache to leave me, I kicked the covers off. I got up, and grew dizzy from the sudden movement but instead of pressing my cheek back against the down-filled pillow, I rose, washed up, and dressed. Once attired in a black skirt and stockings, I put Master's ownership tag on my collar and wrapped the leather around my neck. Then I donned the handmade sign with Master's message on it. As if by omen, the sky cleared once I had made myself presentable, and although my window was streaked with water, it no longer vibrated with the angry drumming of raindrops.

I didn't have an umbrella--its backbone was snapped by a windstorm earlier in the week--so I ventured into the murky gray of the between-storm calmness and walked to the high street. Master gave me specific instructions for his photo: I was to wear a dress, wear a sign with his message on it, have someone else take the photo, have evidence in the photo that I was in a public place where other people could see the sign.

The rain had herded most sensible people inside, so I walked for quite some time before I finally happened upon a road sprinkled with people moving between the convenience stores and tiny bars tucked between residential apartments. I stopped a young woman and asked her to take a photo, explaining my assignment as a friendly dare. She tried her best, but the wind pushed my hair into my face and the sign flapped around so that the paper curled and obscured the writing, but because she appeared harried--she too lacked an umbrella--I didn't ask her to try again.

I moved on. After a few poor attempts at a photo, the sky darkened from a slate gray to charcoal—a minute difference, but enough to change the ambiance and foreshadow a new surge in the storm. Growing desperate, I resorted to asking a scruffy pre-teenage boy to take a photo, praying that he wouldn't instead take my camera and maybe try to snatch my purse. He did a most reasonable job though, and although there was no clear evidence of passers-by in the photo, I knew that I would do no better when the rain began; so I thanked him, shoved my camera into my purse, and turned on my heel towards home.

There was no gradual build-up in the storm that proceeded. The clouds were torn apart by angry hands and from their seams fell, not droplets, but spears of sharp rain that slashed my face and stung my cheeks and lips. In minutes, my clothes were clinging to my body and my hair clawing at my face. Despite the gusts of wind that rushed at me, my clothes were too heavy with water to move with its force, and so the furious torrents sheathed my wet body with cold, until I was trembling and my knees were knocking each other.

The roads here are winding and difficult to differentiate even on a clear afternoon, but behind sheets of rain, the quaint and already camouflaged street signs completely disappeared. I slipped along the cobblestone, wishing for any semblance of the familiar. When the thunder began to boom, all the frustration that had been building swelled into my throat and forced tears out of my eyes. They mingled with the rain and rolled down the edges of my cheeks and chin.

I realized that the paper sign was still pressed into my chest, the ink dribbling down the paper. Suddenly, feeling cold and angry and deserted, I pulled it off my chest, flung the wad of paper upon the ground and smashed it with an angry stomp.

I walked on, fuelled by sudden rage. I contemplated searching for refuge and waiting for a reprieve from the rain's angry lashings, but I knew that cold and wet as I was, it was too late for any shelter to do me any good. I walked for forty minutes, with only my anger to both warm and motivate me.

When I got into my apartment, a friend was waiting by my door, looking for me. We had cancelled our day plans because of the intensity of the rain, so she furrowed her eyebrows at me when I stopped at the doorframe, and water pooled around my feet.

“What possessed you to brave that mess?” she asked incredulously, as she watched my numb fingers fumble with the key in the door.

I shrugged and as my shoulders dropped, the anger I had been carrying melted away. “I had some errands I remembered I had to do.”

“And they were so important, they couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” She was staring at me, confused by my erratic behavior, but sensing that I didn’t want to elaborate.

“No, I guess not,” I replied.

She left me to get warmed up and changed. I peeled off my clothes but despite the moisture of wet leather and cold metal against my throat, I did not remove my collar. I was so sad; I was doing a task for Master and yet, instead of feeling closer to him, it had served to amplify my loneliness. I was not angry anymore; I knew it was irrational to be angry. After all, Master had not asked me to go and shiver in the rain. However, I was sad because I had done it anyway, out of desire for his approval, but despite it all, I was at that moment, alone. Forgotten, unacknowledged, invisible. I slithered between the covers, curled up to warm myself and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the pillow was wetter than my clothes had been.