Through the Looking Glass

A liberated woman's journey into submission

There are parts deep inside, behind the eyes, behind the heart, inside the soul that can hurt worse than any pain you've imagined. You can break yourself into so many tiny pieces that you can't be put back together again. I wonder today that there is anything left of me.

Sometimes, there isn't a lot of comfort in the wide world.

People need need need things from me, right now, no...5 minutes ago, and oh-by-the-way-would-you-mind...

Today has been tempest tossed, full of other peoples needs, expectations, demands (sometimes in a rather abrasive tone) and I fielded them all, with as much grace and as much calm as I could manage.

It is odd maybe, that the One person who can always demand of me, the One who can always need from me, the One who I would obey no matter the cost--that One doesn't demand, doesn't expect, doesn't require. He doesn't have to do those things.

Real command, real dominance comes from connection, from caring, from love and giving. Those people in my day have none of those with me, and so they cultivate their little fiefdoms by bullying, yelling, and lofty attitude.

He needs to do none of those. He asks, He tells. He cares for me and about me. He loves me. He owns me for those and so many more reasons. Because He holds the string around my heart--not tightly as though I were going to run away, or disobey, but loosely and affectionately--I will always obey. I will always be, I will.

Every morning first thing when I get out of bed, and every night before I get into bed I take a moment to reflect.


Get on my knees, arms over my head, palms up, cheek pressed to the floor--in the the most submissive position I know. Master calls it Down; it reminds me of the yoga pose balasana--the child's pose.

There, on my knees I think about my day--how I can work toward being the best slave possible, what i want to focus on for the day, and in the evening, what I did well, and what I did not-so-well and how to do better.

Both times though, I say a little mantra to myself. I hesitate to call it prayer because that word has many connotations, and as a person of some faith I understand them. But the medieval Latin root of pray means "to make known, proclaim." That is the kind of prayer I mean here...

I say "I am His slave. I am lucky to have a Master who will work with me, will teach and train me. A Master who gives me chance after chance to prove myself. A Master who thinks I'm beautiful, and a Master who loves me. I am grateful for learning so much about myself, and growing not only as a slave, but as a woman. I dedicate this day to you Master, and will keep you always first in my mind."

I wish I could say that I hold true to that prayer throughout my day, but that isn't the case most days. But knowing that I have that as a framework, as bookends at the beginning and ends of my days helps me to focus, to remember, even in the crazy hectic workday, who and what I am.

I am His. Always.

**EDITORS WARNING** Okay. This is a post that is maybe a little upsetting. It is not what I normally write here. Acutally, it is an excerpt from a piece I've been working on and hope to sell. I don't know exactly why I need to post this publicly, but I do. So, read at your own risk, I guess.

****************************************************************************************

Happy Anniversary.

I can't believe that it was 16 years ago this week that we met. There are days it seems like only yesterday. There are days it seems like it is happening right now.


You know, it is funny but I can still remember the oddest things about that night. I remember my shoes, vividly. They were black patent leather looking flats, with a crest or coat of arms stamped on the vamp. I loved those shoes, they were so shiny. And when I think about that night, I can see them clearly…one foot on either side of the dome light in your car. I never saw those shoes again. One was lost on the way to the basement, and the other was taken as evidence after they cut it from my grotesquely swollen foot. It was a shame, I loved those shoes, they were so shiny.


The dashboard of your car, I think of that occasionally. I'd never had as close a view of the underside of a dash as I did that evening--my head wedged as far under it as possible, the wires digging into my cheeks and eyes as you kicked. I didn't realize how many wires are down there, just hanging around under a dashboard. I still wonder what they are all for; I know they won't stop the car, because I pulled a bunch of them out trying to do just that. Remember? When the radio quit right in the middle of a song you liked, you were so mad! I couldn't make out what you were saying, with my head down under the dash and all, but your voice got higher and higher pitched as you went. Sounded kind of funny, like a cartoon.


It was such a long night, bled right through the next day and into that night too. Odd how first meetings can be like that, where time seems to either stand still or stream by so quickly that you barely register the hours. I wonder how it felt to you? Like a lightspeed bullet train, or a slow leisurely stroll? I know for me it was a slow, ponderous passing of each minute, coupled with a desperation that a minute had passed, and that minute might be the last we had, the last I had.


There are so many things about that first night I will never forget--the smell of your crotch when you wedged my head under the steering wheel and forced yourself into my mouth: urine and sweat, bad cologne and surprisingly, fresh cut grass. How I literally saw stars when my head slammed into the basement wall for the third time in rapid succession. As I started to go under, I remember giggling to myself that it was just like the cartoons, with bluebirds and stars circling my head. Silly what you think of sometimes. Oh, there are others: the crack of bones breaking, which is much louder than I would have ever thought being inside the body and all; the incredible blinding pain of the knife, and how once the endorphins kicked in and I lost enough blood, it didn't really hurt anymore.


There have been so many days, nights since that first one--and though we've spent them mostly apart, you are always with me. With me in the scars on my ankles, my back, inside my vagina, with me in the spilt second I panic at an unfamiliar touch, with me in my dreams, always. We are a couple, you and I, two moons falling around a sun, bound by the gravity of what you did and the way it still lives in me. You've moved a lot these past years, first to the county jail, then to several other jails until after 5 years, you moved on. Moved out of prison and back into normal life. I've moved too, moved out of a life where I was confident, where I had a plan for the future, into a hole of pain and loss, and slowly, slowly back from that darkness. Sometimes, I wish you well, I hope you can make something of your life, hope you realize what you've done. Most of the time, well...I don't wish you well. Most of the time when I think about you, it is with a blinding flash of fear, pain and absolute fury.


So today I say, Happy Anniversary. I hate you.

Sometimes place is the most important thing.

Spent the weekend with Master (well, part of the weekend) at his house. It had been several weeks since I'd been able to visit, and I don't think I truly realized how much I missed his home.

I remember the first time I was alone in his home while he was at work. I felt like an interloper--touching his things, even cleaning and putting away his laundry felt like a crossing of boundaries. It was very much HIS home then, but now after all this time, it feels more like ours in a way. I have things there--toothbrush, shampoo; I've organized his closets--sweaters together, shirts and pants hung, socks in pairs; I've mastered the whys and wherefores of his kitchen--while he is the far better cook, I am the far better cleaner ; but it isn't these things that make it feel like my home in a sense.

It is him. It is how he has made me a part of his life, and how much I've let him inside my heart (a rare feat for me indeed). It is the sharing of silliness while doing the dishes, sitting at his feet sorting his laundry while we watch television, cuddling close in bed. Perhaps it is because--for the first time in my life-I feel cared for and valued; for my service, for my submission, for my love, for me.

I wouldn't trade this for anything.

Sometimes, I think there is something seriously wrong with me.

I am divorcing my husband. Me, I am doing it.
He didn't ever want this, I did. And most of the time I feel relief about it. Pure, simple relief and a kind of joy in the freedom of someday being on my own.
I'm not on my own just yet, as we are still living as "roomates" which is a Whole Different Story For Another Time, but I'm more on my own than I've been most of the rest of my life.

And then there are days like today. When the pain of my marriage ending is real, palpable, like a roundhouse kick to my stomach.
Walking down the hall just now, I started thinking about the Lady Antebellum Song, Need You Now and nearly collapsed with tears and hurt.

"Yes I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all.
It's a quarter after one, I'm all alone and I need you now.
And I said I wouldn't call but I'm a little drunk and I need you now.
And I don't know how I can do without, I just need you now."

But...I don't need him. I don't miss him. Well, sort of I do, but the him I miss has been gone for years, and the us I'm longing for never was.
I spent a lot of years believing hard that things would change, that they *could* change. That someday he would be able to care for me, to catch me when I stumbled, and that I'd be able to let down my guard, open my heart and relax in safety. It was all a mirage, I know that now.

I kept walking, past the mirage, past the ruined temple I'd built to our future...and found Master. Someone who cares for me, catches me when I stumble and makes me feel safe.

But today, I'm looking over my shoulder at the temple, remembering and grieving for all I've lost, whether it was real or a mirage.

After a good weekend with Master--difficult at some points, but overall good for both of us, and a re-committment--I'm finding myself daydreaming a bit today.
 
Thinking of lying naked in His arms, held close safe, and warm.  Knowing that I am His girl come what and who may.  Smelling the essence of Him, and tasting His kisses.
 
Master, I miss you already, but know that you always have the collar around my heart, and always will.
 
 
 

Hotmail: Trusted email with powerful SPAM protection. Sign up now.

I came across this passage from Ephesians:
"Slaves obey your human masters with fear and trembling;and do it with a sincere heart, as though you were serving Christ. Do this not only when they are watching you, because you want to gain there approval;but with all your heart do what God wants, as slaves of Christ. Do your work as slaves cheerfully, as though you served the lord, and not merely men. Remember that the Lord will reward everyone, whether slave or free, for the good work he has done."


I'm a woman of faith. I am a Catholic. I've always been, it is something I was born to, something I was raised in. Even during my more faithless points of life, when I didn't go to church regularly, if at all, I still felt and was Catholic. Master and I are both Catholic in much the same way. We attend Mass together each week, we both grew up in the church and can't imagine leaving it.

Which is why I guess, I equate my slavery with faith so strongly. When we are in Mass, so many times the lessons there speak to our relationship--letting go of control, having faith in the motives of my Master, serving with a happy heart, even when I don't want to.

This is the sticky wicket for me sometimes. The When I Don't Want To part. Because the truth of the matter is that Master and I don't live together. We never see each other during the week, although we are in near constant contact by phone, or email or text or what have you. There are things I'm required to do that I sometimes just...don't want to do. And nobody would be the wiser if I didn't do them. So where is the harm in skipping my evening meditation ritual? Not taking my panties off in the car as instructed? Wearing panties when I was told not to?

The harm is in depending on Master for my submission, and I think I finally, finally really get that now. I always have a choice in everything I do--get up on time (not a choice I make often enough, sadly) hold my tongue with the snarky remark I'd like to make, remember to follow my protocols, even when alone. Most of these things I do alone. He isn't here, he isn't within 200 miles of me. But he should be here, always. He should be in my heart, should be in my thoughts--at the top of my thoughts. I should do what I do to honor him, to please him, to represent him whether or not anyone ever sees it but me.

Because it is in that moment, that second that I'm thinking of how I honor him by doing the dishes, when I push all the chairs in at the conference table, when I hold the door open for someone, when I am the best me I can possibly be that I am most fully his. Most fully living as a representative of Him and his ideals. And nothing can give that to me: not Master, not a fancy collar, not marks on my back. I give it to myself by giving everything I have to Master.

What if I really just have no idea what I'm doing? What if I'm just guessing along and hoping for the best?

Sometimes I think that is all anyone can do, but then I meet people who seem so sure of themselves, so driven, so knowing-where-they-are-going in a way I've never been. Their lives seem (at least from the outside here) to be straight paths, not always strewn with success, but purposeful. Mine is a lot of wandering around bumping into things.

But when I bumped into this lifestyle--although not into the right person the first time--it just felt...right. And now with Master it feels amazingly right. And sometimes wrong. Not wrong in the sense that I shouldn't be doing this, not in the sense that he isn't The One for me, but more that I'm wrong.

I'm really not sure what I'm doing most of the time, I feel all elbows and knees, and right now don't feel like I can do anything right. I'm trying hard to trust, trying hard to listen and do as I am told without overthinking (yes, I know, unpossible) and not read too much into silences, or words chosen or not chosen.

But it is hard. And I know it would be a cop out to want him to just grab me by my neck and FORCE me to listen, to do as I am told and to behave. Only I can bend my own will...but sometimes I just wish he could drag me kicking and tussling, throw me on the ground and make me mind. Make me better. Make me whole. Fix what is wrong with me. Because I'm not sure that I am strong enough, good enough, or woman enough to do it for myself.

I've been asked by a vanilla friend, what I get out of my M/s relationship.
 
And, I can see how it might look to them--I get smacked around (consensually, of course), told what to do, and act subservient.  So..what's the gain from putting up with all that?
 
Well, as I patiently explained to him, I'm not "putting up with all that", and in some ways, those things are the reward.  Getting to be submissive is, to me a benefit.  And of course, as a girl who really enjoys the physical pain parts of play, that is something along the lines of a reward as well.
 
But today, I'm keenly aware of the larger benefit, the deeper benefit.  Today my work is incredibly stressful, and has been all week, with no signs of turning into an oasis of calm any time soon.  But, I've found a well of peace inside myself, a still and quiet place I can touch which brings me back to earth.  And it is Master.  It is remembering that I am owned, weird as that seems.
 
I found myself on a few occasions this week, sneaking off to an empty office, closing the door, and taking a few moments to be in my "down" position—kneeling, cheek to the floor, hands extended above my head, palms open.  Kneeling there for a few minutes, I was able to step out of myself, out of my whirling stressed out emotional head, and focus on him.  Focus on what serving him means to me—and how much I want everything I do to reflect positively on him, and be done with him in mind. And how much he loves me, and wants to help me become the best person I can.  And the calm and peace I felt there on the floor followed me back to my desk, and through the rest of the phone-ringing-urgent-report-email-meeting-deadline-drama of the day.
 
And that my dear vanilla friend, that sense of fulfillment and peace is more than I ever could have hoped to have in any relationship.

Hotmail: Free, trusted and rich email service. Get it now.

 
Beloved, thou has brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through,
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this lose room, nor missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of that love of ours,
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And whic on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my heart's ground.  Indeed, those beds and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait they weeding; yet here's eglantine,
Here's ivy!--take them, as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep the colours true,
And tell they soul, their roots are left in mine.
 
~Sonnet 44, Elizabeth Barrett Browning
 
 
Sir, you bring me flowers, and joy and sunshine and smiles.
I'm grateful to you and thankful for you.  My heart has as much happiness as it can hold, and I hope only to return half of the joy you have given me.
 
I love you.

Hotmail: Free, trusted and rich email service. Get it now.

Something I've been finding interesting as of late, is how much the lines of what is public information and what is kept private are blurred.  I was raised, as was Master, to believe that one kept as much of one's personal dirty laundry inside the house as possible.

 

Sounds odd coming from a blogger, I know.  However, the travails of our relationship, details of our medical histories, petty arguments with others and grievances at the "scene" in general or certain people specifically don't usually make it into my writing.  I'll admit to the occasional lapse (see my post about gossip below) but for the most part, I don't write blogs about you if I'm angry at you.  I either deal with it in my own head (or in my private personal journal) or talk to you.

 

What amazes me is fetlife.  The way it is set up, I see everything posted by those listed as my friends.  Everything.  So if they post about their partner having erectile dysfunction, I see it—as does everyone on their friends list. I'm not a fan of this feature of fetlife mind you—it kind of forces you to create a dummy account to ask serious and delicate questions without the Entire World knowing that you are having problems.  Or, in the case of so many people, you just don't care.

 If it weren't so breathtakingly inappropriate (at least in my own opinion) it would be funny, and well…sometimes it is.  

 

But what really gets me are the ranty things.  I'm a fan of a good rant, don't get me wrong.  If you could read my personal journal, oh goodness. But, that is the beauty of a private journal.  It is private.  I can re-read something a day or two later and think…wow, I'm glad I kept THAT to myself.  I can rip out the pages, shred them and flush them down the toilet, and nobody will ever be able to read them.  Because with a day or two perspective (or even an hour or two sometimes) I find that I am calmer, clearer and more coherent...sometimes.  But not on the internet.  You can take down a post, take down a comment, take down a picture—but on the internet, nothing is ever really gone.  Someone might have saved it, and sent it along to God Only Knows Whom.  Having said this, I do have some identifying pictures of myself, and some kind of explicit ones posted on fetlife.  It is a risk.  But, I'm not doing anything that I'm ashamed of.  I'm not saying anything I will want to take back later.  And—more importantly to me—I'm not making Master look bad, embarrassing him, and saying things that reflect poorly on him: things I can never fully take back once they are out there.  Pandoras box if you will.

 

Other folks don't see it this way, that is clear.  And I'm certainly not trying to be judgemental, just not sure how comfortable I am with so much oversharing. Thoughts anyone?


Hotmail: Trusted email with powerful SPAM protection. Sign up now.

"When was the last time you were punished? Why were you being punished? What have you learned from it?" Journal Prompt from Submissive Guide Journal Prompts

Ah, what an apt and if I'm feeling kind of snarky here, Timely journal prompt today.

The last time I was punished, was Saturday. Why? Because I cannot be on time. I have a very easy to follow set of rules about timeliness--I am to get up at a certain time, call Master at a certain time, and arrive at work on time. I asked for help in this regard, because I really do hate being late and feeling flustered and hurried all the time.

But I am not doing so well about getting better. The punishment, which I chose, was one smack with my most hated toy--The Tearmaker--for every minute I reported late to the above deadlines. This past week I had 16. Six. Teen. Believe me, that is a lot of swats with that evil horrible thing.

Master had me stand, elbows on the bed with my daily report book open. I had to read, day by day, how many minutes I was late and for what. Then I got the swats. 16 in all. It was terrible, painful, embarrassing--and I was 15 minutes late again this morning.

I did learn something from all this--that what suffers when I am late in the mornings, what gets missed is my morning conversation with Master. By being late, not only am I making myself harried and getting a hated punishment, but I'm short-changing him...the one person I should never short change. More than the whipping, that made me cry after the punishment session.

But, as I said, I was 15 minutes late again this morning. I don't know what is going on in my head right now. I am not disobeying to get the punishment...not acting up to get attention or the "play" of punishment. I genuinely hate The Tearmaker, and will avoid it at all costs. Well, not all--because I was late again today. I know that he doesn't want this to turn into a constant punishment, because that really doesn't do either of us any good. I'll still be late all the time, still be putting him last and missing his call--and he will just have to punish me, which isn't his favorite thing to do.

I am to come up with a plan to stop this once and for all tonight, but my head is spinning. I have some ideas, but if the threat of the Tearmaker won't deter me, and thinking of how I am putting him last doesn't either...then I really don't know what else to try. I need to get this under control for myself, for my job, for my social life, and most of all for Him. Period. Shape it up girl.

Oh, what a short little word. Five letters that hold meanings I can just barely stand to think about.

Trust is the cornerstone of any relationship--familial, friendship, professional, vanilla or D/s. Trust. I've got big issues with trust. Big Big issues.

This week I've been doing a lot of thinking about the problems Master and i have had in our relationship...the bumps in our road. Most of them were, if not caused by, certainly aggravated by my lack of trust. I do trust Master--more than I've been capable of trusting anyone in recent memory. But. There is always a "but" in these sorts of things, isn't there? But, trust in general for me is very difficult.

In my life, there have been some serious breaches of trust, many of which I didn't find out about until after the fact. Sometimes long after. I struggle with (and this is going to make me sound crazier than I really am) the feeling that I'm the punchline to a big joke. That everyone is laughing behind their hands at me. That the popular kid who claims to like me is just playing a very cruel trick on me, that everyone "gets" something that I don't, and my eventual pratfall will become the stuff of comedic legend. That these things have happened, that the blade is still sharp enough to twist and cut occasionally upon thinking of them doesn't help either.

None of these have been done by Master. But, he is still paying the price for them, unfair as that is. I realize at this slight level of remove, that many of the things that so hurt me in the past, and now come to think on it, were due to or at least complicated by this lack of trust. So what is it that leaves me so unable to believe him? Believe that this is all real, and not going to end the first time I make a mistake? That there aren't all kinds of things going on that I don't know about?

I suppose, in the end, it is that I have a hard time believing that I'm worth all this. That anyone in their semi-right mind would sign up for a long-term relationship with me. This isn't a choice I get to make. I'm stuck with me...but he chooses to be stuck with me. Chooses to hook his leash to my collar. And that alone should tell me that he wants to be with me, wants me on the end of his leash, and at his feet for a long time to come.

After a bit of a hiatus, due almost entirely to laziness, I am back to writing in this blog. I know that Master enjoys reading what I write here, and I really can only hope that something I manage to get out of my crazy head will help another on his/her journey to the submissive place.

I have other things to say, but I'm in the midst of a Horrendous Cold, and keeping upright for this long is kind of an accomplishment today.

Join me on a journey

i'm a 40-something, educated, liberated, consider-myself-feminist who is beginning my journey into submission and service.

Please join me as i explore this new (for me) world, my limits, and the depths of myself.

Copyright 2009 - Through the Looking Glass

Blogspot Theme designed by: Ray Creations, Ray Hosting.