He didn’t leave bite marks, but my flesh is sore. I turn my head, and I feel the zing of pain – an aftershock less painful but just as pleasant as the initial bite.

I giggle softly out loud as I remember turning to expose my neck to Him and asking Him to bite me. In response He gave me a peck on the cheek and paused – before sinking His teeth into me.

The smell of sex lingers. I inhale with my eyes closed, remembering His hot cum filling the back of my throat. I sucked His cock until right at the last when He started fucking my mouth. My own motions were incongruous with His until I stopped mine and focused on keeping my throat open and forming a sphincteral opening with my lips that allowed Him to use my mouth as He would my pussy or ass.

I lie in bed reflecting on the day before with my wrists crossed above my head as if He were holding them there Himself. I spread my legs instinctively. The cool air brushes my nipples as I imagine His lips and mouth doing the same.

I drift to sleep with a smile and think about how happy I am to be owned.

I remember the first time I heard his name. I was preparing for a job interview. The hiring manager was briefing me on who might be some of the people on the team who would interview me. She said he could ask tough questions, so be prepared.

I remember the first time I saw his face. I’d been invited to the work holiday party for the job I was about to start. He was one of many people I did not know yet. (He didn’t end up being one of the interviewers.) He was there with his girlfriend. He caught my eye, but it was the briefest of moments…the kind of moment that we have many times over with any one person and think nothing of at the time.

A couple of years later, we were talking more. He seemed to go out of his way to talk to me. Again, one of those things one might not notice at first but then suddenly catches on that it is different than usual. I’d furrow my brow resisting wandering thoughts about him. No, he’s a co-worker. He’s just friendly. Back to work.

We went out for drinks. Tequila tasting. The fine stuff. He opened up a whole new world teaching me about the various types of tequila, the ones he’d tried, the ones we should try that night. Casual. People go out for drinks all the time. I had fun. We hugged good night. See you Monday.

He shared a newspaper article featuring another place that served fine tequila in the City. I glanced at it. It sat on my desk for a long time. Busy. I’m busy with work, you know.

He told me randomly one day that he had a dream about me. Another fleeting moment. What? That jarred me. Really? I’m not making this up in my head?!?

I finally returned the newspaper to him some weeks later with a note that said we should go and check this place out sometime. Before I could blink, the note was back on my desk with a reply that said, “Anytime.”

The whole time I was driving to meet him, I thought that I would have sex with him that night. It wasn’t a giddy, anticipatory feeling. It was a knowing…the kind of knowing that makes more sense in with the benefit of hindsight than it does in the circumstances of the moment. I told myself, “If it happens, great; if not, that’s fine, too.” It wasn’t about rational thought, though. It was more like a magnet…an attraction operating at a level that I had yet to comprehend.

That was fifteen years ago. Little did I know the man I was sleeping with that night was my Master.

I’ve always seemed to struggle with my needs vs. another. It’s been this way since I was little. How I learned to deal with this was to be extremely flexible, figuring if I was flexible in meeting someone else’s needs, my own would somehow get met.

It’s a strategy that has never really worked. How could it? At the very least, it makes my needs a guessing game for another person and – at its worst – it makes that guessing game a minefield of my pent up emotions.

This past weekend was such an instance with Master. What should have been a simple conversation about the logistics of getting together turned into me exploding about not feeling like a priority.

When a land-mine like this goes off, my first instinct is to retreat. Fear takes over, and protective instincts kick-in. From the outside, I’m just very quiet – while boiling inside.

So, I didn’t “explode” until almost 24 hours after Master let me know his schedule was not going to work out.

Master both firmly and compassionately replied to me, and all He said did more to meet my needs and soothe me than I could have imagined.

In His message, one of the things he expressed was, “I wish I didn’t sometimes disappoint you. It is an unfortunate inevitability that makes us both a bit sad.”

My first thought was, “You don’t disappoint me.” The way He said it came across as He was somehow falling short. That was the opposite of how I was feeling – which was that I was falling short (unworthy, really).

I then looked up the word disappointment, which is “fail to meet the hopes or expectations of.” It really made me think about what my expectations are, and how my unexpressed needs end up turning into high expectations and demands on another when they finally are expressed.

I’ve struggled with my behavior of bending to someone else’s needs at the expense of my own and how it reconciles with my submissiveness. It’s always felt like murky waters – that I was acting this way because I’m submissive…so how could I change it? Never has it been clearer to me than right now that this behavior is NOT part of my submissiveness. It’s borne out of past hurts and feeling unworthy; it really has nothing to do with the present moment. In fact, I wouldn’t even call it submissive behavior. It might be an oblique way of topping from the bottom (trying to manipulate a situation to meet my needs) but really it is just unproductive – no matter what the relationship.

In a recent post, I wrote how I’m still struggling to sort out my instinct to serve and submit from my habit to please at the expense of myself.

The word “compliance” popped into my head a few days after I wrote that post, and the light bulbs started to go on.

As a child, compliance could have been my middle name…at least that is how it looked on the outside. On the inside I was the rebellious child. I might look like I was conforming but really I was just trying to get whomever (usually parents) off my back. I didn’t really act out my rebellion in many overt ways, but I created a distance (and to some extent isolation) so that I felt the freedom I wanted to feel.

I got rewarded for my compliance, and I enjoyed the praise. I felt like I’d figured out the magic formula: I could comply and be the good girl and get their positive attention while not really giving in and doing my own thing, even if it was only in my mind.

There was a flaw in my magic formula, though. While I’d figured out how to please them and still not give in, I also felt invisible. I often felt like my parents didn’t get me or understood my point of view. Sometimes I’d get quite angry or sad and stew about how they didn’t understand me (which I’m sure you can only imagine how that was exacerbated by regular teenage angst as I grew). Instead of expressing myself, though, I kept quiet. I’d comply and retreat further in my world.

Without them knowing, I’d do my own thing. I figured what they didn’t know didn’t hurt them, and I could easily show compliance if I needed to. For many years, I thought I’d pulled the wool over their eyes. My mother has told me now as an adult that she knew I’d say one thing to her and do another. I was never really a bad kid, so for her it was a matter of picking her battles. Could she force me to do something if I was being so willful?

I felt such relief when Master first uttered the word submissive to me. For a woman who fights between wanting to be seen and feeling invisible, I felt both seen and heard in a way I’d never felt before. It’s been easy to associate all my past people-pleasing behavior to my submissiveness, but – for the first time – I’m starting to distinguish between how I comply vs. how I submit.

When I first named and started actively exploring my submissiveness, I worried a lot about being a doormat. My journal from that time is riddled with the question: “Am I being a doormat? What’s the difference?” Vanilla folks seems to confuse submissiveness with being a doormat, so I guess it is not surprising that this is where my questioning started.

I don’t worry about being a doormat these days, although there are times when I wonder if I’m expressing my needs well enough.

I learned pretty early on to squelch my needs. Expressing needs turned into being needy which equated to being a problem. I got lots of praise for being a “good girl,” so suppressing my needs became second nature.

Conventional wisdom says, “Take charge of your own life and don’t be a victim!” and “Don’t blame others; make different choices!” But the hard part about behaviors learned as a child is that stuff was really done to you. The choices and abilities to “defend” yourself were limited. And now – as an adult – it is easy to get confused.

When we hear stories of abuse of children, we don’t question that they are victims. Blame is clear and easy to place on the adult who hurt the child. But what happens when those victims grow up? Why do the behaviors a child learned to protect themselves become dysfunction, co-dependence or any other word we can come up with to disparage our now adult behavior? I guess the theory is that if we make it “bad” then we will be more compelled to change it.

I find it very hard to accept responsibility for my behavior and habits that I do out of self-protection. The irony of these habits is that they are ultimately self-destructive. Sometimes it feels like I’m in an old-fashioned fun house where I’m dealing with a distortion at every turn.

Sometimes my submissiveness doesn’t make this easier to sort out. I’m less confused than I was 14 years ago, but I’m still struggling to sort out my instinct to serve and submit from my habit to please at the expense of myself.

Before Master locked His collar on me, I had it in my possession. Over the course of a couple of weeks, I progressed from wearing it around the house, to wearing it for a few hours out during the day to wearing it full time (unlocked). I had to report on my experiences. This was my last report. He collared me the next night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

During a bodywork session today, the therapist noticed my collar. He looked up close and touched it. I smiled. And that was it. He didn’t ask about it, and he didn’t say anything.

I have to admit that made me mad. Not at him. I was mad I was going to have to report to you that “nothing happened.” It proves the points you’ve been making that I’m more worried about what people will think than what they will actually think. And even though I agree with your points, something in me wants to prove my points – to justify my fears and all the feelings that go along with them.

I can feel anger welling up inside me…and I’m trying very hard not to direct it at you. I felt it on Saturday when I shared my fears about my family. I was mad at your curt (although very Domly) responses.

When I read your “OK” response, I was seething. Did you just not want to deal with me and these feelings? Were you dismissing them? I know you don’t do that, but that wasn’t stopping these irrational thoughts from picking up speed.

I was wearing the collar. I’d worn it at home all day. And I ripped it off when I read your “OK” response. It was almost midnight. I knew my assignment to wear it non-stop would start on Sunday. But in that moment I wanted control. I wanted you to respond a certain way. I wanted to be right. I wanted things my way.

I left the collar off for about an hour. I put it on when I went to bed. I was fighting with myself – both wanting to be angry and to let it go. But I’d already decided I was going to carry out my assignment as directed and – by God – I was going to wear the collar no matter what! I was NOT going to push a panic button on my first day of wearing the collar full-time.

After getting through Sunday and writing my report, I did feel better. My anger seemed to subside, and I was hoping it was momentary. Then when you wrote back that the report was humorous (and serious), I thought, “I wasn’t trying to be funny!” I felt the anger swell again. And it swelled more with each e-mail message you sent last night.

I sat here last night and wanted to rip this collar off. I didn’t want to give you a single ounce of control at that point!

I didn’t rip it off, but my will was not letting up. I was going to keep control by not giving you the satisfaction of taking it off! (and now I’m laughing at myself while I write this…)

In the shower on Tuesday morning as I’m washing around my collar, I admit I’m panicking. I’m not taking off the collar but I’m panicking. I wonder if I’ll ever be ready for you to lock it. I’m wearing it right now with the instructions to not take it off, but the truth is I still have the power to take it off. I can make the decision to take control back. Even though I might suffer some consequences, I still have the choice. I still have my own will.

I’ve tried not to fantasize too much you locking the collar on me but – in a word – I’ve imagined it to be “sweet.” You’d lock the collar with some nice fanfare, and I’d happily submit to this next step of our journey together.

With the water running over me, I noticed I was just standing there staring at the shower floor. I’d been in a trance. I was fantasizing about you taking me by the hair, pushing me to my knees, exposing my neck to you and with your strong hands grabbing my throat and locking your control around my neck. I imagined that I was crying and telling you I wasn’t ready yet…that I needed more time to get used to the idea. Without words, you did not indulge my fears. You just took me forcefully and locked the collar.

I indulged this fantasy while driving home Tuesday night. After locking the collar I collapse and just bawl. You let me cry but you don’t leave me alone. You spread my legs and start fucking me. You comment on how wet I am for someone who said she wasn’t ready to be collared. You fuck me; you bite me; you spank me. In between sobs I’m saying no, but I cum over and over again and my resistance wears down. You fuck my mouth; you fuck my ass. You cum inside me and on me. You mark me as your own.

When you’re done, you let me lay in your arms. I’m not crying…I’m not fighting. I know my will is no longer my own. I’m Yours.

…

There is that part of me that wants to hold on to every bit of freedom I have and is not going to let it go easily – if at all if you leave it up to me to let it go.

I want to be taken. I want to be claimed. I want to feel your power over me. You don’t want to rule by force (and I don’t want to be ruled by force), but I want to feel your power over every cell in my body and know my will is Your Will.

Sometimes I think He is more comfortable with my independence than I am.

It’s not really that I’m uncomfortable with my independence. Quite the contrary. I’m very familiar with it. It’s the drive behind actions such as moving out-of-state to go to college and starting my own business. It’s demonstrated in my thirst for knowledge and continual learning. It’s my strength when I know that circumstances around me aren’t quite right, and it compels me to transform my world in search of my desires and ideals.

It’s also what I cling to when I feel out of control. It’s where I retreat when I feel stuck. It’s what I lean on when I think I have nothing else to lean on. It’s in these moments I feel uncomfortable with my submissiveness.

For most of my life, my submissiveness has been something to contain…to manage. Submissiveness is not valued in society in general. Top that with early experiences where one’s submissiveness suffered abuse, and it becomes something you just want to hide.

When I hear His voice, I don’t want to hide. Quite the contrary. I feel a deep sense of freedom when I follow His direction…freedom to be who I am.

Sometimes the way I respond to Him utterly surprises me…not in what I say or do (although that can be surprising in and of itself) but in its naturalness. I respond from such an honest and pure place. There’s no struggle here – no crisis of confidence. I just am.

So, what’s happening when I do struggle? He always says I have a choice. It seems so contradictory. I know it is my choice to submit, but after that am I not supposed to be relieved of the struggle over choice?

When I find myself ”overly pleasing,” I’m either so anxious to be pleasing Him that I think more will be even better, or I’m not sure I am pleasing Him so I start fishing for what will. I also find myself saying in these times (either explicitly or implicitly), “Tell me what to do.” It’s in these moments I feel uncomfortable with my independence.

He told me early on in our relationship that submission is in the mind and doesn’t require chains to enforce itself. I didn’t fully understand what he meant at the time.

My submission is not something that comes from external command. My submission comes from deep within me. It’s not something I have to chase or capture. I just have to connect and allow. What emerges is the clay which He has the opportunity to mold and shape through His direction and discipline, bringing form and substance to my essence. As my essence takes the shape He envisions, my independent choices reflect my submission to Him.

He knows this better than I do, but my understanding is budding.