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..