Through the Looking Glass

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.