Moving Journals

I haven't written here in so long -- so I extend my deepest apologies if I do still have readers. Unfortunately, due to privacy issues, I am moving my journal to a friends only journal at http://www.livejournal.com/.

If you would like to friend me, my username is: thorn_circlet.

Looking back at the entries here, I am thankful for everyone who dropped by and for all of your support and insight. Hopefully, I'll still see some of you over at livejournal. :)

Rising slope

I didn't believe in love before I met Master; not even the abstract, theoretical, whimsical notion of it.

It's strange because I devour fairytales, and always saw beauty in relationships and companionship and commitment. But I just never believed that romantic love was real -- thinking it was just a gross exaggerration of that soothing comfort of friendship or familial love.

It seems unbelievable to suddenly experience this whole world of feelings I never knew before. It's ridiculous to me, that I used to debate whether this thing existed, when now it's not only obvious, it's persistant and encompassing.

And it amazes me, just amazes me, that it is still growing and growing with no sign of declining, or even plateauing, soon.

Self-Reflection

I had an inappropriate emotional reaction last weekend. I am really embarrassed about it, but I will reflect on my behavior and explain my thought processes to Master.

The incident occurred while meeting Master’s best friend, X, for the first time. Master and X have been friends from childhood but they haven’t seen each other in a while. X has a wife: Y. We went out for dinner with X and Y, and then we went back to their place.

Y's conversations were centered around domestic life: the baby, family, the house, décor, organizing, cooking, cleaning etc. Whenever she mentioned some domestic task that she needed to attend to, Master would automatically chime and volunteer my services. Although he was joking, his persistent: “she’ll come over and clean for you whenever you want” really started to irritate me.

When Y noted that she hadn’t gone grocery shopping and didn’t have any food in the house, Master volunteered me to go with her to the store and help her pick up what she needed.

This is where I got really frustrated and worked up and my eyes started tearing up like a bratty, little child. Thank goodness no one but Master saw. He was, however, thoroughly perplexed by my reaction.

In retrospect, I know I overreacted, but for sake of explanation here are three reasons why this incident upset me so much:

1. I was annoyed by Master’s offering of my domestic services. My first thoughts jumped how he had 'no right' to do that; to offer me out to others, to reduce me to a maid. I felt devalued, embarrassed.

It took me a few breaths to regain my composure and evaluate the situation. I was upset at the time, but I later realized that I was overreacting. I have trouble obeying orders when they don’t align with my desires. However, I do realize that being an owned woman, means doing what Master wants. It’s easy when his commands are sexual in nature, or if I get gratification from a task; it’s harder when tasks are uncomfortable or inconvenient. However, as a submissive, I should not be allowed to pick and chose what I want to obey. Belonging to him means doing whatever he wants, even if I’m not thrilled about it.

Beyond this, I should be thrilled to serve him and obey him. Master is very good to me, and makes a lot of sacrifices and compromises for me. Even without the D/s dynamic, just within the context of a loving, vanilla relationship, I should be giving back to him with an open heart. I love him and a lot and want to please him, but to do that I must stop being self-centered and think more about serving him.

2. Alongside anger, I was upset by the fact that Master was sending me away from him. Prior to his offer of my assistance, I was sitting by his side. He was chatting to X, I was chatting to Y. I wasn’t interrupting his conversation, or being a nuisance. And yet, despite promises to keep me close that weekend (see previous post) he was very quick to dismiss me. Being in a particularly needy mood, this really upset me.

Later, when I looked at the situation from Y’s and Master’s point of views, I realized once again that I was in the wrong.

Y needed to get a few things from the grocery store. It would have been very rude of us to all stay behind, and let her go by herself. It would have made her feel isolated and, had I been in her shoes, I would have been annoyed. I was in a very selfish mood and wanted to stay close to Master but I should have actually volunteered myself—like a polite, well-mannered girl—instead of being told by Master. I was so focused on my need to cling to Master that my basic etiquette disappeared.

From Master’s perspective, Master and X hadn’t seen each other in a long time. If I had been thinking about Master’s needs, I would have realized that he might want some time to just chat with X. Going out to the store gave them the perfect opportunity to bond, while I bonded with Y. I realize that I should not cling to Master in order to fulfill my own need for attention, and that I should take more time to consider the needs of others.

3. I was frustrated about the concept of the men staying behind, and chatting, and relaxing, and watching sports while the women had to go out—baby in tow!—and do the domestic stuff. Master and X could have insisted that Y should just stay and relax, and that the groceries weren’t important at this very moment. Instead, they seemed perfectly happy with sending us on our way. I hate the idea of being relegated to women’s work. I also got a little freaked out by a hypothetical glimpse at our future: Master reclining on a chair, watching TV…perfectly oblivious to me as I fussed over a baby, and cleaned the house. Ugh. The imagery makes my skin crawl.

Anyway, I got over this one just by talking to Master and hearing him reaffirm his belief system about domestic life, reaffirming that he wants to be an involved husband and father. I have to realize that ordering me to do isolated domestic task does not mean that he will one day trap me in the house and refuse to let me do anything by cook, clean and have his babies.

I have to remember that there is a reason why Master and I get along so well; and it’s because we have similar core beliefs. I have to remember that the reason why I’m still submitting to him, is because I trust him to make good decisions for us and to act in our best interests. And it is in neither of our best interests to relegate me to the world of traditional women’s work and stop me from having a life beyond the home.

***

After we left X and Y’s place, Master asked me why I had gotten upset—asked me if he had said something inconsiderate. While Master’s words made me upset and frustrated, he was not in the wrong. It was me who was being hypersensitive and inconsiderate. I love him for not getting upset at me, for trying to tease out the reasoning behind my reaction, for wanting to make things better.

I love him an awful lot, so much that my heart swells just thinking of him. I am so ready to get back to serving him properly.

Restraint

He often refers to sex with me as “taking me” or “having me”. Poetry, without euphemism. And I can’t help but love something as subtle as his diction.

***

Last weekend I was emotional, clingy, needy.

On Friday night, after a long week of studying, Master brought me to his place for the weekend.
It was late when we got in and after I had changed into my slip and cuffs and collar, I found him lying in bed, on his stomach, with his eyes closed. Without even looking up, he instructed me to give him a massage. There was nothing unusual about his request, but on that night, he may as well have locked me away in a cupboard. I was crushed by his decision.

I knelt up on the bed and as I glided my hands over the oil-slathered muscles, I chastised myself in my head. I had no right to be so disappointed just because he didn’t feel like hugging, or kissing, or petting me at the moment. I had no right to be disappointed because he wanted to relax and wanted me to serve him.

I kissed his body, and worked my hands down his calves, but when I came to the soles of his feet, I just felt so far away from him and tears welled up in my eyes. I tried to blink them back, so that he wouldn’t see me being so silly or selfish. But even though his head was down, and my back was turned to him, and my tears were silent, he still sensed that something was wrong.

He turned on his side, and called me to sit by him. I looked away, embarrassed by my outburst. He pulled me down onto my back, and climbed on top of me. At first he held me, and I wrapped my arms around him as he kissed my cheeks and eyelids. Then, he put one hand around my neck and with his other hand, slapped me. The blow was not terrible, but it was unexpected, and I cried more.

“I can do what I want with you,” he told me.

“Yes Master,” I squeaked, although I wished—in my heart—for him to stop hurting me.

He attempted to fuck me—which told me a lot about his sexual need at the moment—since he is usually extremely reluctant to have sex when I’m on my period. But between my period, and a lingering yeast infection, I tensed up as he tried to push his cock inside of me.

“Relax your legs,” he said, as he pushed my raised knees down. I tried, but when he pushed himself in again, I howled and clenched all my muscles.

“Relax,” he repeated, his voice now low and growling, “relax your legs now.”

But this was now deep, real, visceral pain and my silent tears became choking, breathy sobs. “It hurts Master, I’m sorry, it hurts so much.”

“I’m going to have you,” he said, “and you'll stop complaining and take it.”

He made a motion to drive his cock into me again, but all of a sudden, as if some unforseen force had jerked him back, he stopped. In the pause, the snarl on his face slowly disappeared and he unclenched his fists and composed himself. “No, I’m not,” he said, “Not when it’s hurting you this badly.”

He went to the bathroom to clean up, leaving me spread out on the bed. When he came back, he scooped me up in his arms.

“I’m so sorry, Master.”

He kissed my forehead. We lay together for a few minutes, before he responded. “I think it would be a good idea for me to be strict with you this weekend; you are stressed and I think it will give you some release.”

In retrospect, I can see how it was a good thought, but at the time, my eyes widened and the reluctance showed in my voice, even though I responded with: “Whatever you want, Master.”

We were both quiet.

“Hmm,” he said, after evaluating the situation. “I have a better idea.” He got up and brought back a short length of white, nylon rope. “I’ll tie you to me; so you’ll never be more than a couple of feet away from me this weekend.”

I smiled and gigled, as he tied the rope to my wrist cuff and then to him.

“Thank you Master,” I said and kissed his hands, before we fell asleep, curled and bound together.

***

There are a few points I want to make, related to the above story:

• Later on in the weekend, I felt like my period was lightening up and my vagina was generally feeling better, so asked Master if he would fuck me. He said no—just in case it was still too painful. He explained to me that it took a lot of willpower for him to stop, when he is already inside me. “The testosterone makes me even more aggressive,” he explained, “and it makes me want to just shut you up and show you who’s boss.” I didn’t fully appreciate the amount of willpower it took for him to withdraw when I was in pain, the willpower it took for him to comfort me instead of finding another means of indulging himself. His self-control astounds and awes me—especially since I acted exactly the opposite; giving in to my rampant hormones and emotion.

• In retrospect, typing up the above anecdote (up until the painful part) and his little statement about wanting to shut me up and show me who’s boss, really aroused me. I think feeling physically unwell at the time really amplified my negative emotional response. I can’t wait for this studying crunch time to be over and my maladies to resolve, so that I can focus on him and he can focus on using me in whatever way he sees fit. I want him to be strict with me, and put me in my place, and hit me when I’m bad, and hit me even when I’m not, and shut me up when I whine. I want him to objectify me, and use me, and parade me around like a toy. I want him to be the one to make me cry. I want to be on my knees until they ache, wear the nipple clamps in public, dress scandalously, dress and act as his slave publicly, do everything and anything he wants, serve him endlessly. And I know that I will have moments of crankiness, and aversion to pain or humiliation or domestic tasks, but I want him to hold me to me duties and remind me of my place. He is a amazing Master, an incredible man, the love of my life, and he deserves nothing less.

• I was sure I had a third point when I started this. I tend to cluster things in threes because I’m anal retentive. Even though, I can’t remember what I was going to say, I'm leaving this completely unnecessary third paragraph here for aesthetic purposes.

Love

I suspect the next month’s posts will be majorly composed of uninteresting writing. I apologize for anyone who happens to be following this journal; while things are going splendidly with Master, I just don’t have the energy to transcribe it all. One quick point:

He came to visit me at home after I spent the whole day studying. We retreated to my bedroom and I sucked his cock, while trying to block out the chatter of my family downstairs and the fear of somehow being “checked up on”. I know that it’s not ideal that I’m staying at my parent’s house, or that I’m spending my break studying and not with him.

But, after he came, he pulled me up from my knees and kissed me.

“You aren’t taking from me,” he said to me, in reference to my last journal post, “I am giving to you and I’m happy to do it. You don’t have to worry about upsetting me. I love you and am happy with the way things are with us.”

I wrapped my arms around his waist and squeezed him hard. He squeezed me even harder and we swayed back and forth in our tightening grips, until our arm muscles pulsed and gave out.

Points

Too tired to synthesize full paragraphs:

Home for a week
- preemptive fear of explosive arguements
- surprising twist: parents seem to have accepted the fact that I am an adult
- atmosphere surprisingly normal, relaxed, low stress
- immense sense of relief
- normal, rational convos with parents
- acceptance of Master and my South Africa trip this summer (good, I can start getting excited)
- acceptance, even (dare I say) excitement (?) re: our proposal/marriage timeline
- even greater sense of relief

Random ailments
- Stress, bad night time nausea and stomach pains
- lack of sleep
- general fatigue, feelings of crappiness
- today, also vaginal itching and stinging with peeing
- Master playing with me worsens itching/burning/pain
- On inspection, Master notes bumps, redness, white discharge
- yeast infection
- I am annoyed and cranky

Master
- I am needy and whiny and bratty
- not feeling very submissive at all
- simultaneously feeling guilty
- feel like recently, I've just been taking and taking from him
- realize more and more how amazing Master is to me
- feel even guiltier for being so useless

Time to sleep. Slight fever, exhausted

Paradigm Shift

Uncertainty makes me uncomfortable. I hate games where the risk of winning or losing is based on chance alone and I can’t do anything to modify the outcome. For me, uncertainty is anxiety.

For a long time I saw my relationship with Master as a source of uncertainty because I did not know how it would fare through hard or busy times.

Now, I realize that this perception is skewed. The sustainability of our relationship is not based on chance alone—and while it may be influenced by external circumstances—its success is predominantly based on the effort invested by both parties. Since we are both committed to each other, I am now realizing that our relationship should not be viewed a source of uncertainty but rather, a source of stability and comfort.

I am constantly surprised—pleasantly surprised—at the dynamic nature of this thing called love.

Healing Touch

Every touch between us is special and beautiful, but my favourite, is his kiss on my forehead. There is nothing that makes me feel so safe and secure--so completely protected--as this gesture of tenderness.

I also love when he runs a hand down my back to comfort me; it may seem minute, but this small action is immensely soothing to me. One night last weekend, I was thrashing around in bed because I couldn’t sleep. Apparently I was whining and talking nonsense—which I don’t remember. What I do remember, however, is the gentle motion of his hand along my back to calm me down.

There are so many touches between us; the rough touches of play, bear hugs, playful touches and tickles and even headlocks, loving touches of arms wrapped together, palms touching, fingers locked. Beyond the flesh wrapped around flesh, there’s the touch of lips and tongues, and the variant pressures of lying together, over each other. It’s all so wonderful, all so good. But it’s easier to remember and pay tribute the strong and unyielding sensations: the grip of his hands around my wrist and neck, his hand fisted in my hair and fingers gliding over sensitive areas, bringing moans of pleasure. Its easier to take for granted all the other touches that bind me to him.

It’s easier to miss the gentle brush across my cheek, or his arm around my waist, his hand running down my back, his lips upon my forehead. So now, I want to honour all the little touches that I delight in; those little touches, which show that I belong to him in so many ways and contexts and senses.

More Thoughts

I’m not sure what to focus on in this entry.

I could write about how I had a giant meltdown last weekend and how Master held me and refocused me and brought me sunshine to dry my flood of tears.

I could write about how I push him away under stress, but instead of getting upset with me, he just draws me back into his arms. He reminds me that I belong with him and to him—not with force or threat—but by showing me how wonderful and compassionate he is, which further re-enforces my love for him, my need to be with him, my desire to serve him.

I could write about the way he explained his Mastery over me; gave me the framework of ‘guided inquiry’ to show me that while I am accountable to him, he does not want to remove ounce of my autonomy or hinder my goals or break down my personality. He wants me to serve him, but in a way that works for both of us, so that in the end I’ll always want to serve him and always feel like this was a choice that I freely and happily made.

I could write more about how he called me his soulmate today, and then predictably downplayed it, when I “oohhhed and awwwed”. I could write about all the little ways that we match and come together like pieces in a puzzle. I could mention our shared quirks and fascinations; our shared wonderment for so many of life’s little nuances.

And if I wanted to talk about sex, I could write about how I love when he just nestles into my chest and suckles on my breasts. How, I am surprisingly bad at this no eye-contact rule when I wear my collar—but how I love feeling powerless. I could talk about how much I want him in me all time, but also enjoy the fact that he can deny me pleasure at his whim. It just makes me crave him more.

I could write about how he tied me to his door two weekends ago, and clamped my nipples and flogged me soundly. About how I wish he had an instrument that he could hit me with at his full force so that neither of us feels like he’s holding back, but at the same time doesn’t injure me. I really don’t think I could handle him whipping me at full force with the flogger—and I would pass out at full force with the cane—but I think it would feel oh-so-good to have him really going at it with something that was pushing my limits, but still allowing me to withstand the pain.

I could write about how much we jokingly role-play—like he we once stood in the shower and recreated the kissing scene from The Notebook, or how we pretend that we’re breaking up in public to freak people out, or how we’ll have conversations in different characters at a restaurant just for fun. And I could write how much I like it and how interesting I think it would be to do full-out sexual scenes. Or how greatly aroused I am by the whole prison warden/inmate scenario.

Or, I could write in more depth about how I feel when we’re just sitting on the couch together and we’re on our different computers, doing our own separate thing…and how amazing he is, for enjoying spending even that kind of time with me. I could write about his immense faith for our future, and while I was once worried that it was blind faith—I once feared that his reassurances were not completely genuine or well thought-out—I can now see the strong commitment to working on things together and making both our dreams com true.

And I’m sure there’s even more to to touch upon, but this is my start, held together by one resounding theme: I love you, Master!

Look Down

I wrote an angst-filled entry here last night but have decided to revoke it. My stress is, in turn, stressing Master and causing him to inadvertently put more pressure on me about getting things done. However, my problem isn’t lack of motivation or procrastination. I do everything I have to do, I just tend to worry about outcomes in the process. But worrying Master in the process of venting has only worsened the situation.

So, let’s forget that. This past weekend was good, as usual. I studied, we went out, we played.

A new rule was made: no eye contact when I’m wearing my collar. I like the concept. These days, I rarely feel helpless when we play since I can easily look into his eyes and plead silently for his mercy. And because he loves me, and fears that he may be really hurting me, he often gives in. This rule is good for our play; it lets him watch and enjoy my expressions while removing any power I had over him, when I inadvertently begged with puppy-dog eyes. I like it. I want to feel helpless again; I trust his judgement and want to give up power to him.

Lust and Greed

On our way home from a movie on Friday night, Master whispered to me—out of earshot of his friends in the backseat of the car—“black slip, collar and cuffs”. After dropping our passengers off, we entered his apartment and I stripped silently before re-dressing—for the first time, in a long while—as his slave.

I passed my naked arms through the thin straps of the slip he had requested and let the silk glide over my body, until the fabric pulled over my breasts and grazed my upper thigh with its lace trimming. I smoothed the black material flat against my stomach and played with the slit that carved a path of exposed flesh under the material. Then, I fastened the leather cuffs tight around my wrists and ankles and secured a thick black collar around my neck.

I caught my reflection in the mirrored backing of the cabinet where he keeps his books, and I saw myself—not as the put-together woman I try to be—but a small, shy girl. His little pet. My clit began to tingle at the mere notion of it.

I grew suddenly timid when he gestured for me and snapped once. I knelt before him, between his open legs. He didn’t tell me to look away, but feeling coy, I kept turned my eyes down as I waited for instruction. He didn’t speak, but rather, pulled the hair-elastic down my ponytail to loosen the dark strands over my shoulders. His touch was rough, perhaps disapproving, but without seeing his face, I couldn’t be sure. I stole an upwards glance and was relieved to see him smiling. Not a carefree, playful grin—the curve of his lips were far more subtle—but there was still a glimmer in his eyes. And that, along with the bulge that grew between his legs and pressed into my chest, was enough to convince me that he was pleased. My clit began to throb.

He snapped his fingers twice and I stood up at the command. He got up too, and I followed him to where the toys were kept, watched him pull out the butt plug and lubricant. He gestured to the bed.

I placed my hands and face on the mattress, but kept my bottom raised. The silk slithered down my back and exposed my ass to him. He ran a palm over the cheeks, then his finger along the crack.

“Spread your cheeks with your hands and hold them open” he commanded.

I shifted my weight, and leaned into the bed with my chest, pressing the side of my face into the sheets to stabilize myself as I moved my hands to my backside and pried open my asscheeks for him. I could hear him squirting the lubricant out of the tube, coating the plug.

I felt the silicone press into me slowly, until it was sitting comfortably inside. Then, he pressed the base of the plug, plunging it in deeper than was comfortable, and driving a sharp jolt into my abdomen. He pulled the plug out slowly, before he twisted it deep into me. I moaned. Not in agony, but in delight, as warmth spread inside my cunt and waves of moisture coated my insides. He pushed me onto the mattress and flipped me over so that I could see him as he stood over me at the edge of the bed.

I watched him take his pants off. I watched the material fall away, to expose his sturdy legs, the dimple where his thigh met his ass, the shadows across his hip bones. I watched his underwear peel away to expose the smooth, round head of his cock, and the beautifully engorged shaft whose central vein was throbbing to the same rhythm as my little clit.

“Sit up,” he demanded, and I did, forcing the butt plug erect inside me. He moved toward me. “Play with me, slave.”

I reached out longingly and cupped his hardened balls in my hands, caressing them between my rotating fingers, making the outer skin of the scrotum glide over the firm testes inside. Cocooning his balls with one hand, I brushed my other hand—lightly, breathlessly—from the base of his cock, up along the shaft, finally tickling the head with my fingers. Then I wrapped my fingers around his shaft, and slid my hand down, up, around the head. My thumb and fingers massaged, flickered, tensed, eased, stroked. I lowered my mouth over the crown of his cock’s smooth head, my tongue varying it's pressure as I sucked, and then moving in hard, sharp flicks across its lines and curves and gentle indentations. I didn’t look up at him, I sucked greedily, while one hand trickled its fingers along his balls and the other milked his shaft. I could feel his length, ever-growing, the rushing blood beating like a second heart in my hands.

Finally, he took my hair, and pulled my mouth away. He pushed me back, so that I was flat against the bed. With one of his hands digging into my hip and the fingers of his other hand hooked inside my cunt, he dragged me into the center of the bed. There, he straddled me, raised my arms over my head and clipped my wrist cuffs together.

He moved his hands down my body: pausing at the place when my collarbones met underneath the collar, the mounds of my breasts, my nipples, my waist, my hips. Then, he reached between my legs to part the silk and expose my cunt. Fluid pooled inside me. My cunt was weeping; begging to be used.

I wanted him inside of me so badly. I wanted to raise my hips toward him, to plead for him to touch my clit, to enter me, to pound me like the dirty, little whore that I was. But I knew that he would probably punish me for begging without permission, so I lay still as he smirked at me, holding his cock in his hands.

Finally, he turned my head so that my chin touched my shoulder and I could no longer stare at him. He moved over me and brought his cock into me. As he pounded into me, he wriggled his hands under my bum and moved his fingers to synchronously drill the butt plug into me with his every thrust. I closed my eyes and relished in the pressure building in so many places—the mattress against my back, his solid body over mine, the leather encircling my wrists, and ankles and neck. I squeezed my eyes shut and became overwhelmed by the sensation of pulsing from every direction—his cock in my cunt, the butt plug in my ass, the oscillating pressure of his hips against mine, the thud of our chests together, the heaving gasps of air moving in and out of our lungs.

I wanted so badly to move under him, to rotate my hips, to rub my clit vigorously against his body. I was getting wetter and wetter, spiraling into a dizzy wave of sensation. I wanted to complete it with his friction over my clit, with the eruption of an orgasm. But I restrained my need and wondered what he must be feeling.

I wondered if he, even though he was not the one subjected to this wide array of stimulation, of fullness from within and weight in all directions, if he was feeling the same joy and exhilaration as I was. I wondered if he was experiencing the same arousal from using me, that I was feeling from being used by him.

I wanted to move, to take more, to force more pleasure for myself. But I lay still and let him fuck me with his cock, as his hands alternated from fucking my ass with the plug, to jerking my hair back, to squeezing his fingers into my breasts, and pushing down into my nipples.

I wanted relief from the building pressure— the beautiful, wonderful but overwhelming pressure. I wanted to relieve all the agonizing tension growing within, to move, to take control, to search for an orgasm, to actively create that final release. But instead, I stayed still and hoped that he was enjoying himself as much I was, that he was finding pleasure from my body, my obedience, my restrained need.

I willed myself still and despite the tormenting waves of physical pleasure, I found relief and delight and a calm, steady pleasure from the acceptance of being motionless underneath his body; from being helpless, used, controlled. Owned.

Thoughts

I love him. I love that he loves me. I love that his love for me deters him from wanting to hurt me.

For this reason, I'm afraid to admit to him that I sometimes want him to hurt me, that I want him to still be firm with me, to have expectations of me, to punish me if I slip up. I am afraid to tell him that I welcome discipline, sometimes crave it. I am afraid to admit it, because I think that if he does start hurting me, if he starts wanting to hurt or punish me, it will be the marker that he no longer loves me in the same way he does now. I want him to to use me, to keep me in my place...but at the same time, I don't want to lose this sense of love.

Recently, I have been pushing boundaries. Sometimes he'll tell me to do something, and I'll whine or take a long time to do it. I'll move under him when he's fucking me, and even when he commands me to be still, I don't restrain my need. At times, I ask to go to the bathroom and I just assume the answer will be yes, and start to go before he gives me his reply. Sometimes he'll gesture for me to kneel, but I won't feel like it, so if he isn't really paying attention I'll just sit on the ground. They are little things. I am afraid to admit them because I don't want him to think that I am acting out because I desire constant strictness, or rituals, or seriousness.

I don't want high protocols; I like what we have, I like that we can talk and laugh and play. I like his flexibility. But overall, I do want him to keep me in line. I don't want to forget my boundaries. I don't want lines of basic respect to be lost. I think we work very well in our dynamic and I'd like to maintain that. I don't want him to let me get away so much with little things, that it turns into me not feeling very submissive to him, or him not feeling in control of me.

I think the challenge, however, is that although I want to preserve the dynamic, although I want him to challenge me and demand things from me, I still want to feel treasured. I still want his compassion, and most of all, I never want him to stop loving me the way he does now.

Pain

Kneeling on the middle of my bed, I watched him untie the bow that held together the white curtains of the canopy. I offered him my hands, and he bound them together in the red and gold organza ribbon, before pushing my back against the mattress and attaching my wrists to the footpost of the bed. He threw a sweater over my eyes, and stepped off the mattress. I could hear him rummaging through drawers and bags, so turned my head toward the noise and the sweater slipped away from my eyes. When he climbed onto the bed again, he made a sound of disaproval when he saw my half-exposed face, but pulled the sweater away entirely.

My eyes were now free to watch him straddle me with a sly grin on his face and a belt in his hand. He drew the purple fabric of my dress up around my waist and began to stroke my clit with his free fingers. At first, slow, winding movements. Then quick, sharp flicks. Then, his thumb found itself inside me, and rotated within me, as his other fingers teased the outer areas of my cunt. He leaned over me, then into me, and his lips met, then swallowed mine. His lips traced my lips, the angle of my jaw, my chin, my neck.

And then, he pulled his body away, and with his folded belt in hand, made a motion toward my cunt. I closed my legs instinctively, but he inserted his hands between my thighs them and forced them open. He sat on the inside of my right leg, pinning it against the mattress, and pressed his weight against my left leg, which was bent at the knee, with my foot firmly planted in the bed. Then, after regaining his balance, he commanded the belt to bend, and brought it down against my mons pubis with a sharp snap. He repeated the motion but changed the target; the next snap tore across those nether lips, then the inside of my thighs, the lips again, the mons.

He pulled my breasts out from over the neckline of my dress, and smacked the nipples with the belt. I watched it snap up, fall back down. The pain was slightly delayed, inconsistent with the actual fall of each stroke; stinging only after the belt has lifted it's tongue from my skin. The first stroke would hurt mildly, but everytime he repeated a slash over the same tender flesh, my skin burned and I moaned.

He alternated hitting me, and kissing me, and rubbing my clit. And although I whined everytime that belt broke it's momentum against me, I grew wetter and wetter and wished for another lash. And each time my wish was granted, I resented it immediately and wished for a kiss instead. But when the sting wore off, and was replaced with the throbbing in my clit, I begged, in my head, for another stroke.

A strange cycle indeed. I'm not much of a masochist, but somehow, I like the idea of being challenged by him; of him knowing that he is hurting me but forcing me to take more just for him.

A Natural History of Love

Last week, he asked me when I starting waiting for him to say “I love you”— an indirect way of asking me when I started loving him. I couldn’t answer because I couldn’t pinpoint a date or time. It happened gradually, with the very definition and understanding of my love changing as our relationship progressed. Even if I had could discern the exact moment, I would have considered playing dumb to save myself from admitting that I had fallen for him long before he had for me.

He admits to being more stressed out about this term, even though the distance and the routine are exactly the same. The only difference is that now he’s exposed his vulnerability, allowed himself to admit to feelings that may have been lurking under the surface; he’s allowed this relationship to mean more to him. I’m so much calmer now because he feels this way. Now, I feel like we’re really in this together and I’m not the only one trying to hold to on.

***

He first said those three words over the Christmas holidays. A Wednesday night. We went to the basketball game, and when we got back home, we chatted in bed before we fell asleep.

“So,” he asked me at length, “what do the little hearts at the end of your notes mean?”

I had in recent weeks, taken to signing emails and notes with a heart beside my name.

I knew then what he was getting to and I didn’t want to make it so easy for him. I thought I had felt this way for him for a while now and I didn’t want to offer that admission.

“They mean ‘fuck you Master’," I teased.

We laughed and the subject shifted. At length he paused.

“Girl…” he started before trailing off.

“Yes Master?”

“Never mind, I was going to tell you something but…”

“Oh Master! Please tell me!”

Somehow my begging, and his resistance, turned into a tickle fight, which turned into wrestling, then into his hands tugging down the thin, black straps of the silk slip clinging to body. Somehow, my pleas to hear his secret turned into his parted lips making silent words along the curves of breasts and over my nipples. Somehow, my appeals to him turned into his hands grasped around my wrists, pinning my hands over my head. Somehow, his cock found its way inside me and pulsated inside as he thrust his hips against mine and pounded hard into my body. When pulled my hair back and asked me: “Who owns this girl?”, I suspected as I responded: “You do, Master”, that if he said those long-awaited words tonight, he would reserve them for the height of passion. He would rely on the testosterone and the aggression of sex to drive the words out of him, to compensate for the potential vulnerability he might otherwise reveal.

I was partially right but he was much gentler that I expected.

He moved his arms around me—freeing mine, so that I could wrap them around his back. It was as he slowed his cock into long, gentle dips into me, and changed the pattern of his kisses into softer brushes, that he whispered:

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” I blurted out, without hesitation or deliberation. I had been anticipating his words, so I had no reason to reflect before giving my response.

We squeezed each other tightly, and as he came, he pressed his rough cheek into mine and his heavy breaths into my neck.

***

Having never been in love before, I wasn’t sure what it would feel like and if it would be as crazy or grand as the centuries of art and texts and film and song have suggested. It turned out not to be crazy and it started out far more subtley than I had expected; starting with a gradual buildup that required initial pushing before steadily gaining its own momentum, then tumbling so quickly that I was forced, by its velocity, to roll along.

When I started falling for him, there was nothing I wanted more in the world than to know if he was feeling these same things for me. I wanted to know if I was becoming to him—as he was for me—not just an important person, but something almost vital. Something that, when removed even for a few days, made life feel a little off. I wanted so much for him to feel everything I was feeling, to verify my ideas, to confirm my suspicions. I was glad that he decided to.

So after sex that night, he spoke and I listened intently. I have this journal to vent and analyze but there is little opportunity for me to hear his thought-processes, his deep reflections. He told me of many sweet reasons for his words of love, but in passing he also said something along the lines of: “I really didn’t think this would work out, that you were ready or mature enough, but I’m glad it did.”

And because it was a night of emotional outpour, of courage on his end, I did not press him on this little phrase although it bothered me greatly.

***

The next evening, after going we went out with his friends, we resumed our nighttime chatter as we settled into bed.

“Master,” I asked him, “What did you mean yesterday when you told me about all the doubts you had about us?”

I phrased it like a question, as if I was welcoming discussion and open, honest answers. But I wasn't. I was holding an interview—I wanted him to give the job—but I needed him to mention all the keywords so that I could justify giving him the position.

I was hurt by what he had said the previous day and I wanted a satisfying explanation. I was hurt by the previous day's statements because I had invested a lot of myself early in the relationship; I had given him my submission almost instantly, my virginity relatively easily. I had invested time and emotion into the idea of him, even though I knew from the start that it would be full of the strain of long distance. I took these risks because he had been taken great interest in me, he had reassured me, he had somehow convinced me that everything would be fine.

Only on that night of I loves you, did he finally tell me how unsure he really had been; about all of his doubts; about conversations he had with his friends about me, about us. He waited until this night, to tell me that he didn’t think it work and his words--although open and honest--made me feel so violated, so cheated. I felt that if he had been as openly wary as I was, I might not have taken so many risks. I felt like if he had shared his thoughts with me earlier, I might not have opened myself up so quickly to potential heartbreak.

I felt like it was by pure happenstance that it did end up working out for the best, and not because of core compatibility, not out of a true desire to make things work. It frustrated me that he thought me to be immature, when from the beginning I had told him about my age, my sexual inexperience and it was he, who convinced me that this would not be a problem. It was he that promised that if there was potential between us, he would guide me through the inexperience and take care of me. And while he has done all those things, hearing his doubts, made me believe that there were times when he really didn’t see long-term potential and that he was willing to risk my feelings, my involvement, my time, my commitment, everything, on something that he wasn’t sure could ever have meaning.

In retrospect, I don’t think that’s what he meant when he expressed all his hidden doubts on that Wednesday night, alongside of I love yous. But at the time, this is how I interpreted his words. It was hard for me to hear that he—my Master—who appeared to be ever stoic and certain, who had convinced me to let my guard down and act in ways that were sometimes counterintuitive to my own logic, was perhaps more uncertain than I had ever been.

So that Thursday night, when I asked him for clarification of his words, I wanted him to say that he had his doubts because every new relationship involves large doses of healthy skepticism as a mechanism for self-protection. I wanted him to tell me that even though he was scared, he had always wanted it to work out, because he had liked me from the beginning and started to care deeply for me early on. I wanted him to tell me that despite the uncertainty, he at least had a hunch, a feeling, that this would be special and not that I was just some experiment that happened—by chance alone—to work out.

However, his answers to my questions that night didn’t alleviate any of my fears. Instead, he just ended up telling me about more of his doubts, about the conversations he had to others about me, that he probably should have had with me instead.

Upset, I wriggled away from him as he was talking. He kept trying to hold me and asking me to stop being upset, but I couldn’t put together all my muddled thoughts and I kept fighting him. I wanted him to keep trying to hold me, to suddenly understand why I was so upset and tell me everything I needed to hear. But as intuitive as he generally is, as well as he has come to know me, my silent demands were unreasonable and impossible.

We said our goodnights and we went to sleep, still touching but not curled together, not with the sound of his heartbeat in my right ear.

***

Our morning rituals were the same as they had been for the preceding days of the work-week. We cuddled as the morning light crept into the room during the twenty minutes before Master had to get up. Then, Master got up before his alarm went off and tucked the blankets around me before heading to bathroom to get ready. After dressing and packing his bag for work, he peeled away the blankets and prodded me to wake up. Then, when I had stretched and sat up, he gestured for me to kneel high on the bed, as he stood by the edge—so that we could speak to each other almost at eye level.

He told me that he would be late coming home from work today, and he ran his hands through my knotty hair and kissed me. I smiled and wished him a good day at work. It's hard for me to stay angry for a long time, and here, sleep had dissolved most of the uneasy feelings while his tenderness and patience dissolved the remainder.

“I’m glad to see your smiling and happy again, girl,” he told me as he was leaving. “I didn’t like those crocodile tears from last night.”

But those words fuelled my resentment. Last night’s tears were by no means false in any way and I hated that he dismissed them as such. That night had probably been the single most frustrating night I have ever spent with him—where I wanted more than anything to be loved by him, to bask in the happiness that being in love could mean, but simultaneously antagonized by the perception that he had once played with me so carelessly, and the fear that he would continue to do so.

But I didn’t want to cause a fuss before work and ruin his entire day, so I kissed him and waved goodbye as he walked through the door.

***

The day was long.

I was trapped in the house by my own misery, which grew conveniently alongside the perfect scapegoat of a snowstorm. The friends I was supposed to see cancelled plans due to the inclement weather, so I stayed inside all day. I felt agitated but with no means to expend my energy other than formulating my reasons for being upset. And when I had thought of all the things I wanted to say to Master, I just wanted him to come home so that we could talk, so that I could get it out of my system and get back to the happy place we should be in now.

Even with his forewarning that he would be late, waiting for him to come home—a usually manageable task—became excruciating.

Then, when he called me and told me to come downstairs, that we were going out, I frustrated that our talk would be postponed. But I figured there was no point in sulking, so I got ready and met him. He had friends in the car, so I put on a smile and made small talk and tried to not let on that I was feeling down.

The minute they were gone though, Master immediately recognized that something was wrong, but when he told me we were going to his parent’s house for a little bit, to avoid negative feelings before the visit, I simply blamed my listlessness on the storm.

I think I was able to put on a good show at his parent’s house. They had guests over that night, so we all chatted. But Master saw an underlying sadness in my eyes and asked me if I was okay, every time there was a free moment.

We left late that night, and the roads were still unploughed and piled high with thick, gray snow. We drove in silence for a while, as I looked out of the window, watching the fog make dim halos of light around the street lights.

“You seem sad,” he said.

I shrugged.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

"No," I said flatly.

“Are you starting your period?”

"No."

“Did I say something stupid tonight?”

"No."

A pause.

“Should I stop asking right now?”

I nodded.

The drive continued but we did not hold hands as we usually do, since he rightfully needed both his hands on the wheel to navigate the slippery, snow-saturated path.

At a red light, he took my hand and looked at me.

“Are we okay?" He squeezed my hand. "Because this doesn’t feel okay.” There was a plea in his eyes--deeper, more powerful than his words and glazed by a film of tears.

He had said I love you two nights ago, and instead of being elated, I had for the last few days been bogged down with analysis. I should have been happy that he had finally exposed himself to me but I was worried that despite three words he hadn’t really let down his guard at all. I was worried that even after those three words, he still would still hide himself from me in the way that he had before: that he would not trust me enough to tell me his thoughts, and discuss with me his fears.

It was that look, however, that silent appeal that begged for everything be okay, for us to go back to being happy, for me to love him back, that pushed me to talk.

I told him how much it was hurting me to learn that while I was increasingly giving myself up to him, as he reassuring me and encouraging my vulnerablity to him, he had been maintaining his own walls, refusing to budge, refusing to let me in, refusing to share with me. I told him that I wanted him so badly to trust me, to be able to tell me things, for us to be able to make decisions together.

He explained his side a little more: his difficulty in opening up, the necessity for this relationship to have developed slowly in order for him to understand these feelings, and the promise that he was now ready to share more of himself with me.

I sobbed all through the ride...even after he had said all the words I needed to hear and we told each other that we were okay.

“Why are you still crying?” he asked me after time had elapsed and tears were still streaming down my cheeks.

Through staccato breaths, I managed to answer, “I don’t know anymore Master, I’m happy now, but it won’t stop.”

“I think” he said to me, as we pulled into his parking spot, “That you are crying for me, all the tears that I can’t shed.”

I turned to him with a smile. There was still a film of water in his eyes, and I was joyous to see it, for the unformed tears was the token of emotion, of affection, that I had been searching for. He is often steely and composed and calm, but that hint of emotion peeking from the surface gave credence to his words, convinced me that we could indeed be feeling the same feelings for each other.

It was that night, when he told me how much I had come to mean to him and I could see in his eyes and hear in his voice, what he actually meant by the I love you, that I finally let myself feel happy. Happy, and relieved, and comforted, and blessed that I had found him. So happy that I had found this wonderful man, and that he did want me just as much as I wanted him.

That night, I realized that all of the affection and need I had felt prior to this night may not have been love. Or perhaps it was the early stages of love, growing in its preliminary form. I realized that while I had started falling for him a long time ago, the feeling that I had called love was amorphous and ever changing. It didn't matter though, labels were trivial at that point. All that mattered was that on that night, my feelings for him—that baby love, budding inside me—blossomed into a thousand glorious flowers.

***

Three weeks has passed—how the time flies! Here we are settling into a new routine, or rather, the same routine...but infused with different meaning. Here we are, both nervous in our own ways because we have admitted to ourselves, and each other, and inadvertently to the world, the seriousness of this relationship and all that we hope it becomes.

Fear still exists because we are both pragmatic enough to realize that nothing in life is certain. We are both frightened because we fear that poor circumstances or newly discovered personality flaws will challenge our compatibility, our willingness to be together. However, I think we also both realize that this is a worry that all couples must face when starting a journey together.

I feel ecstatic though because I really do feel like we are journeying together. I feel better knowing how he feels and to know that it is reflected in how I feel. I makes me feel so good, so happy, to have him in my life.

Insomnia

On New Year's Eve, we hung out at my parent's house but by dinner time, I was getting inexplicably drowsy and cranky. As a result, I was short with my parents and my brothers. Because they are used to my antics, no one protested, but as he led me into the kitchen, Master squeezed my arm. "Behave yourself," he told me softly.

Initially, I was annoyed. I was tired, this was my family and if no one else had noticed, who was he to tell me I was being too snippy? I made a snarky comment, and he subtly gripped my arm, and raised his eyebrow and told me to behave again. Then, he put his arm around me and kissed my head, and lead me to the table. Something about the mixture of his command and that gentleness, that understanding, woke me up a little and made me feel ashamed of my behaviour.

I didn't want to be cranky, and hurt other people's feelings. I didn't want to be annoying. I just wanted everyone to be happy. I also appreciated that Master also wanted to keep things that way. So, at his prompting, I livened up a bit and tried to behave.

One of my biggest fears about our relationship is that I am entering a new career, where the next few years will be busy, sleepless, and emotionally exhausting. I am worried that despite my love for him, stress will spur me to be selfish and needy, and I don't want to drain him him with my emotional fatigue.

I can only hope that Master will continue to be patient with me, and be a calming force in my life. I hope that he will continue to remind me when I am being illogical and silly and stepping out of line. I need him to support me, to not ask me for the impossible, but simply to remind me to behave and be a good girl, so that we don't have to waste life being unecassarily upset or distraught. So that we can continue to enjoy being together in the way that we do now.

New Year

Since I customarily write to relieve myself of vexation and anguish, it is difficult for me to share happy moments in text. I fear that every translation of a pretty memory to written word will diminish its magnitude, its power, its hold over my heart. I am afraid that sharing my happiness will somehow dilute it—when all I want is for it to rumble within me, to thunder beneath my skin, to underlie the excitement in my smile and the sparkle in my eyes. I don’t want to write down every detail for my records, because I don't want to risk letting any of these feelings escape. I don't want my only memories to be on paper, I'm desperate to keep them bottled within.

I will write more in the new year, both out of necessity and at Master's request, but for now I am truly enjoying everything for what it is.