On Hands and Knees

photo by Aaron Hawks

My favorite room to clean is the kitchen.

There is a beginning, middle, end.. and all kitchens are the same- Dishes, wipe down the counters, sink and stove, take out the garbage, sweep and wash the floor- my favorite part. I say wash because I don't mop, I've always gotten down on my hands and knees with a rag; Everything else is leading up to this, and all of it is meditative.

As a masochist living far from M, this is about the only thing I can do for myself to take the edge off. Like a drug addict, I will pace and fret until I am so worked up that all I can do is some sweating housework.

Today I was blessed, even, with bruised and blistered knees - the rice from the other day had pinched skin long enough to create small bubbles, which bit and popped as I moved around with my bucket... my dress riding up as I made sure every spot was clean.

Have you ever cleaned the floor on your hands and knees? It's amazing the humility it gives me, watching so closely every movement and seeing the floor disappear into the negative space of finished. You really know, then, that you've done a good job. And it always leads to cleaning other things: the wall, refrigerator, cabinets, stove. Somehow I always feel like with every circular stroke I'm wiping away some doubt, debt, some anger, some frustration; By getting on my knees to scrub it reminds me of my place, this role that I adore so much, and always of M. Perhaps sometimes even letting myself a fleeting fantasy of Him coming to sneak to watch, my skirt pulled up and me engrossed, feeling his eyes of approval and - hopefully - desire, at seeing his slave in such a way.

I have known, however, a few girls who feel similar burns of stresses and aches and angers that itch at their skin, burning to be let go. These girls do other, more harmful, things to release themselves: Razors, knives, safety-pins; anything that's sharp. One time (years ago), after a fight with her mother, a friend locked herself in the bathroom and I knew what she was doing. I begged her to let me in, and, finally she did. She sat on the toilet with a razor in her hand as I barged in like some sort of vigilantly, her arm running with blood - I could tell it was just enough to hurt, though, just enough to bleed good. She wasn't crying anymore, just looking at her arm with her calm tear stained face.

I didn't say much, I just took her hand and ran it under the water, knowing that doing so must have stung, though she didn't flinch. I patted it clean and clung to her neck, telling her I loved her.

We then acted as nothing happened and moved on with our day.

Sometimes I think girls just need some love, or at least someone to recognize their pain - sometimes, though, I think it doesn't matter; that it just comes down to this unexplainable need to feel nothing but some sort of searing pain to rid themselves - myself - of bottled up emotions and held back thoughts. And while I think that most people feel so overwhelmed at times, I don't claim to understand why some desire physical and/or mental anguish to relieve that pain, and certainly don't try to explain why some relish in their said releases.

I am lucky, so lucky, to have someone who counteracts this need. Though sometimes I wonder if He realizes how far this need goes... We will know, though, soon enough.

Kneeling on Rice, an Afterthought

After finishing my night with my Master, and having a good sleep, I thought perhaps I'd not been clear about the crying part. I only say this because last night I was unable to stop crying after I'd started - a pause long enough to write out my post, where my mind was occupied. I guess I'd like to specify that because the pain itself was not bringing me to tears (though surely eventually it would have), I looked inside for an emotional trigger, something that would surly upset me. 

Do not doubt, however, that this is any less sweet torture than hearing my Master revel in my pain,  that that my pleasure doesn't truly come in his pleasure and that my aching doesn't come straight from my desire to be close to him. I wait with anticipation. 

You know it's a funny thing - to be so far away from someone you adore so much. This morning I woke with such calmness between my ears, I floated around the way my nylon nightgown floats about my skin which feels so taught and ringing with him. I thought through some haze of things I should do and was happy at the thought of doing such things as laundry and dishes and small errands, keeping busy. 

It's amazing what a good cry can do.

And only to find out that He must be gone for a few hours, as if I was already preparing myself for his absence. I continue to be amazed at our connection.

My sister, Juliet, she thinks it is all terribly terribly romantic. I would have to agree. On that thought, Juliet's interest and acceptance in our strange but passionate relationship is so welcome, her involvement unravelled the last bits of my doubts. After all these years and all the conversations with her about him, how I slowly presented to her my relationship with him over the years - and then, finally, after a particularly painful relationship ended for Juliet and the idea of a responsible, skilled and knowing Master actually exists, brought her comfort, albeit painful. 

And now, my two favorite and most reliable people, the two who have always been there for me and supportive, understanding and sometimes harsh when needed.. are friends!

Kneeling on Rice

photo by Gilles Toledano

I can't quite remember, back when Master and I first started our relationship, which rule came first- I know there were two that came fairly immediately. One was to capitalize correctly - not only names, but all correct punctuation and grammar - something about the idea of appearing as intelligent as he believed me to be. The other was to address him as Sir (which, obviously, transformed to Master). I had a very difficult time with this, though I wanted to, and I wanted to please him, and, truthfully, the thought of it turned me on - never having wanted to respect someone so much, never having men in my life, this was different, and in it's self, erotic.

He called me up, this was the first time talking on the phone since he started to require me to address him as Sir, and now I was expected to prove myself by also addressing him properly on the phone, with my voice. I remember being curled up on my bed at my mothers house, under the blankets with the phone pushed to my ear. The burgundy phone that matched my burgundy bed spread. He waited and prodded me a bit, "are you going to address me properly, girl?" I was so nervous and terribly aroused, my heart seemed to pound so wildly in my ears and throat. Finally I took a breath and threw my unnecessary (for even then I knew it was unnecessary) fear away and mumbled, "Yes Sir". He laughed that soft knowing laugh he does and that I love, that laugh that tells me that he knows he has me, and he's relishing in my squirming submission.

Today, years later, I seem to still have yet to not forget to address him properly. I know better, surely, obviously. I am not afraid to do so any more, and while it doesn't give me the same lurching arousing response, it does remind me with nearly every sentence I speak to him, that I am his, and of what that means.

Too many times I forgot today - four times Master put me in the corner to kneel for 10, 10, 20, 15 minutes and STILL I forgot, the last time while we spoke on the phone. I think he knew I would mess up, even though I honestly didn't mean to. I begged him not to make me kneel on rice, but he would have none of it; He meant to make sure I'd not forget. With dragging feet and no knowledge of what was in store for me, I did what I was told.

Twenty minutes passed - the longest I've been made to kneel for punishment - and it was hurting. A half hour and I was in pain, but still holding strong. He wanted to hear it, he wanted to know, without a doubt, that I was suffering. But I wasn't about to give in until I really meant it. An hour and I'd learned that if I didn't move, it hurt a lot less. Also, the pain went in waves. I'd be able to sink into it, to embrace it for a while and I'd be fine - then, suddenly, it pierced through my skin and I gasped and whimpered. He wanted tears - tears? I didn't feel like crying.. How could I cry, then, if I wasn't in that sort of pain. Sure, I was in pain, it hurt like hell, but what made one actually cry? Soon I wanted to cry, it hurt so bad I was bent over with my forehead almost to the floor in agony.

When, I asked, when when would He let me up! When could I get off the rice?

Not until I get tears, he said, give me what I want.

And still I was not feeling like crying. Why? An hour and a half had passed and I was in terrible pain but not enough to cry. Why? Was I not sorry? No, that wasn't it, I was sorry, I was sorry as soon as I'd done it, I'd been sorry- perhaps that was even it, then, that I was past sorry and just looking to fulfill a requirement. But how? Was I being prideful?

Finally, bent over, I asked myself: What about this situation does make you want to cry? And my answer came: That I wasn't there with him, my Master, so that he could see for himself my pain and punishment. That when this was all over, I would not be wrapped in is arms - oh God, his arms! - I imagined being able to look over and see his boots level with my face so close to the ground. I imagined his delight at my pain that I couldn't see. So wracked with my longing for him that tears did come.

Silent, at first, shaking my body - and then, suddenly unable to contain myself, I called out, "Master!" so desperate did I feel to have him conscious of my own overwhelmed mind and body, hysterical. He heard and he was, I think, at first purely pleased with my release, and told me I could get off the rice. I toppled over with a yell and more sobs, curling my burning knees up to my chin and burying my face in my hands, his voice calming me, telling me to take deep breaths. The only thought I could think was, I love you Master I love you I love you I love you. But I wasn't able to speak. "It's okay, girl, it's okay." I curled myself around my computer.

The pain in kneeling had broken me down. And there had been this knowledge inside of me that if I really wanted to, really honestly desired to end it, I could easily remove myself! But I didn't want to, I want to be His. "I love you girl, you know that? You know I would never give you up for anything, you're such a good girl, you're such a good slave." Which surged in me just more rounds of sobs, I was so terribly overwhelmed with love.

I don't even know if I understand how that works and even now, tears well up in my eyes and my chest cannot hold any more love, I swear! Once again I've been broken down by him, my Master, and God, I love him for it..

Dear Master

Dear Master,

I am here, in my bed, writing you this way because I know you'll see it, and I know you like seeing and reading my words in this way, on my blog. I am writing you in this way because it is public, and I am not with you, and I wish to write you a letter. 

I wish I could run my fingers along your skin, stealing your strength and hearing your body. I cannot throw myself at you, as I wish to do now, locking my fingers behind your neck and rolling my body against you, letting my arousal for you - which burns in me daily - escape into you, my body trembling and long pent up sighs for your ears only, hot breathes close to your face and my tongue, as wet as between my legs, searching your ear - no words, just pure honest want- No, need! Need of you of your hands- God help me, your hands. The thought of that smooth voice, I hear it: slut. And my head pulled back by my hair - indeed I needed it to release my scalp of that tension (thankyou thankyou!) - Your hand on my neck and, oh I can't even speak - and my knees, they're buckling I can't stand any longer, would you let me to kneel? To take you in my mouth (my mouth salivates, my throat has tension to rid of, too!) or would you find a wall to shove me into by my throat, would you put your fingers in me and deny me a moan, would you? 

I want every part of me to know you, feel you, love you, scream with you. My body is aching for your dick, your voice, hands, crop. I writhe with the thought of pleasing you, and, truely pain - ah, pain. 

How I wait to be granted that white wash of agony dealt by your hand, to finally know how it feels to be whipped, to escape into you, into myself, pure, to feel my body screaming in every possible way - fire in my sex, fire on my skin, released through my throat, through my tears, my blood and seeping down my legs. 

Oh! What cruilty to wait one more minute to see you, Master. I feel I might die of want and longing. My collar, it seers me, I feel like a crazed dog - bitch indeed! - thrashing on a leash tied to some distant place from her owner, gone mad to be near and loved and pleasing, beautiful, obedient, unquestioning! The only live she wants - truly, I want. Ah, my heart burns! Do  you love me, Master? Every day I feel your grip get tighter, or mine, like a death grip. And one day I'll be unquestioning, whole. 

I dream of kneeling at your feet, adoration proven in every way I can, of your mouth I'd love to kiss, to breathe your breath, to love your love. I am mad, Master! The crazed bitch of pure adoration and slut of your desires and girl of your heart and slave of your every want. I am yours, Master, and I wait for you to take me, all of me. Am I in love? have I lost my mind? Indeed, lost it happily, as everything else that once belonged to me, lost in this swimming freedom of confinement, this bound and blissful torment. 

Forever,       

your girl

Excerpt: Story of O

"Daily sweat mingled with her own sweat, she sensed herself to be, literally, the vessel of impurity, the foul depths of which the Scriptures make mention. And yet those parts of her body which were the most continually offended, having become sensitive, seemed to her to have become, at the same time, more beautiful, and as though it were ennobled: her mouth closed on anonymous members, the tips of her breasts that hands were forever fondling, and between her wide-flung thighs, the twin ways leading into her belly, paths wantonly trod. However astonishing it might seem, that she might be ennobled, that she might gain dignity from being prostituted, continued to amaze her. It illuminated her as if from within, and one could see a new calmness in her bearing, on her countenance the serenity and imperceptible inner smile one rather guesses at than perceives in the eyes of a recluse."

It ennobled her; she found dignity.

How is it, that some may find freedom in such behavior, and some such terrible captivity? Or is it the difference between telling yourself it's wrong, viruses allowing for such terrible and confused pleasure? I feel it must be a combination of the two. The struggle of Nurture and Nature.

Similarly, I continuously approach to other people my relationship with my M very delicately. it is something I strive to protect, and (especially lately) am so absolutely proud of.

Today I wore my collar with the buckle in the front and my hair up, prancing about and looking for some reaction, though I got very few. Maybe it was the obnoxious fox fur collared coat. Maybe the jutting of my chin or the bounce in my walk gave way to make for no need for excuses.

Even though He is not with me, I have no desire for it to not be known that I am His, that I am owned, that I am proud of Him, my collar and enslavement.

I was on a long road trip today, with someone I barely know, carpooling. I was sitting there, in the passengers seat, wanting to be entertaining for him but having my desire to read this book - Story of O - overpower that. The whole first third part of the book (which I read on and off during the ride) is of her getting lesson after lesson on slavery; a break, a beating. Being used to mens desires, when and how they want, humiliation. During reading these things, part of my mind is always on Him and us. At one point during which O is getting particularly nailed, a fantasy so vivid and sudden of my M slamming into me from behind overtook my thoughts and an audible surprised gasp burst out of me.

"What?" asks my car-partner.

"uhh, nothing..." I reply. Beautifully awkward and I stared out the window savoring the fire.

March

When I was sixteen I was shy and rebellious, but mostly I was curious. In my solitary search online and through messageboards, looking for answers of all sorts, I found Him. With slow graceful gestures he pulled me close, feeding me thought provoking words, changing blind rebellion to something more. Opening my mind little by little until he could come and go a he pleased. He introduced me to the world of BDSM, more specifically the D/s section.

I remember the moment I deterred from bitching about how the whole thing was degrading and women were equal to men and all the other average thoughts of the rebellious teenager. He was speaking to me about his slave at the time, he called her a slut and I was terribly appalled! I remember a flurry of key strokes describing to him how disturbing I found that.

"Listen," He said to me, "don't assume that because you have a preconceived idea of the word, that I intend it in a negative way. My sub and I have an understanding, to us it is the equivalent of 'baby' or 'darling' or whatever else."

This had a great impact on me, showing me that these small things could mean totally different things. My thoughts were widened at that moment, racing with all the possibilities that meant, not stopping with pet names.

At some point, maybe a year after I met him, maybe longer or shorter, he started calling me "girl". It became my pet name, and to me, he's always called me it. A handful of times, I remember him using my real name, and how shocking it is to see it written or said by Him. Men have from time to time called me 'girl', and every time it causes me to think of him, and my body stirs. I've been called 'baby' and 'darling' and many other pet names, but none compare to the one given to me by M.

And after six years of knowing him, and through all of the trials and complications, I've surrendered and admitted to myself and to Him, that I am His, heart body and thought. I have, by his desire and permission, wrapped a thin black leather collar around my neck. I am reminded constantly of my adoration for him, my absolute enthrallment.

In March, I finally get to meet Him.

This is the story of us from my point of view, and the wild undercurrents that is M wielding his slave under my average exterior.