He sees me outlining the cartoonish bruises on my breast. I hear his laugh and became totally aware of what I’m doing. I must be getting that dreamy look on my face again. He leans in, his hot breath on my neck. “Awww… you’ll be lording over those all week. Every time you glimpse your cleavage. When you’re home working.” I blush and reach for the Listerine. What can I say?
Like the old cliché, I love him more every day. I adore him. I am totally devoted to him. Over the days, the weeks, the months, my love for him has blossomed and grown until it is larger than anything else in my world. It casts a shadow of comfort, of protection over the rest of my life. It’s beautiful. It’s freeing. It’s the most wonderful thing I can imagine.
And the most terrifying.
Because I am getting attached. Really fucking attached.
For years, I’ve been instructed that attachment is the root of all suffering – it’s driven my spiritual practice and helped me keep my shit together in my polyamorous relationships. I’ve tried to foster resilience, the ability to detach and move on, to accept change and move on. Move on. Move on. Move on again.
And yet… now – this is happening. We are growing together. I need to serve him, to please him, to assist him in all matters. I have my concrete rituals – I clean the cat boxes, keep the house in fresh towels and him in clean clothes and washed dishes, match his socks, manage trash and recycling, scrub the kitchen. I plan my day around his day. I pretty myself. I am (gloriously) at his sexual beck and call, ready to satisfy his libido.
And for these gifts, these gifts which I give freely, I am rewarded with his protection, his direction, his care.
It is unspeakably wonderful. And that’s why I am so terrified.
It’s been 6 months since we first started seriously considering a D/s dynamic – since we went from a nebulous flurry of energy switching and wrestling to our more defined roles. I’ve watched Skyspook explore kink and evolve into a loving Dom who can be a fucking evil sadist.
A week ago, knowing we were going to Winter Wickedness and would be surrounded by people who we didn’t know and of course wouldn’t understand our ongoing dynamic, Skyspook gave me my training collar so that people would know I belonged to someone as I do tend to get a bit of attention at events. It seemed at that time a perfunctory measure, something to save us a bit of hassle.
I was completely unprepared for how much it emotionally affected me to wear it all weekend, to have friends compliment me on how lovely the collar looked (I love it! So dainty and pretty and very much my style – I’m impressed he picked so well). To be officially working towards making the fantasy a reality.
It is a fantasy that spans my psyche in all facets – sexual, emotional, spiritual. It is not a game – and yet there’s a playfulness to it all that engages my inner child.
I find myself seized with the depth of my feelings – emotional epiphany cascading upon emotional epiphany. I am obsessed with it. I have trouble thinking of anything else. Of anyone else.
And attachment. Attachment is not cool. I worry I’ll cling to him too desperately, lose my friends, move from the party scene, end up isolated and reviled – because it’s uncool, so damn uncool to love another person with this intensity. Or to be a sex-positive feminist woman who wants a man to make her decisions for her, tie her down, beat the crap out of her, fuck her face, come all over her, call her a whore – you know, your typical Thursday night.
But I take the leap. I take the risk. I will read, talk to others, listen, learn, do my best to trust, trust, trust… trust in him, trust in myself, trust in life.
Ack.