In one way or anotber then I suppose that I have always been quite a combative person. Not hostile, but certainly quite guarded and alert. Part of it I think is the films I watched and the games I used to play, and part of it is probably down to my past.
I entered this world a sweet and hopeful little thing, just as any girl does. I thought my parents were my friends, I thought my friends were my friends. I even thought friendly faces were my friends. I’ve since learned that that is not necessarily the case.
Growing up, I learned that the same friendly doctor who gave me a sticker would also poke me with a needle or send me away for God alone knows what painful/degrading test, and I was used to being sent to my bedroom for so little as coming home from school ten minutes too early, having a different opinion or even just breathng in the wrong direction. I became wary of people, and I learned that being combative kept the scary people away.
For the most part then I can and do trust now, but like an anxious dog, I need to be allowed to build up trust, I need to be allowed to approach and see that people are safe. I need to see that people aren’t really out to hurt me before I can let my guard down around them. The more I’m controlled and forced, the more I resist. For me, patience and respect is everything.
And that is fundamental to my submission – I simply cannot bring myself to submit to someone that, I feel, doesn’t respect me. Equally, as a partner.
I was reminded of my such reaction this week.
Earlier this week Bill shared a post from a relationship with a former submissive and, far from feeling envy then I almost balked at the idea, though I just as swiftly chided myself for my apparent lack of respect. Five hundred words why I deserve to be his slut? I’d never write such a piece and namely because, to be totally honest, I already know that I’m quite the catch, so if he doesn’t want me then that’s totally okay.
“You want this, I want this. We either do, or we don’t. It’s your call” I smile as I take a sip of my tea. “That’s fifteen words. It’s at least an effort, Sir.”
But that, paradocially, is perhaps why we work. That’s why our relationship is so fun. Going down without a fight? That’s just never been my style. Not unless… anyway.
If there’s one thing that I love about the Fifty Shades films (besides the music), it’s Dakota’s Ana. She is my twin, my doppelganger, albeit two years younger than I. She’s brunette and blue eyes like I am, she’s a hopeless romantic like I can be and she’s not afraid to speak her mind and say no. She’s witty too, and she’s disrespectful when she feels disrespected.
When it comes to pleasing her partner though, she’s all for it. Similarly, she just needs to be allowed to do it on her own terms.
“No rules. No punishments. No secrets” I whisper to myself. Well, that would be divine.
Some rules I can do, I suppose, but they have to make sense. Arbitrary rules don’t wash with me. You want to be pleased? Well, I like to be pleased, too. Do I get to set some rules as well then? No? Ah, well…
The rules that I have with Matt are, some might say, quite logical. No self harm – well, understandably, he’d much rather torture me himself if I need pain that badly. No negative self-talk – because nobody ever feels stellar after telling themselves how useless and pathetic they are. No saying c*nt or t*at – that one’s mutual, neither of us like those words. No touching Daddy’s toys – would you trust a whip-wielding brat? Really? It’s self-explanatory methinks.
“You know this Brotherhood thing that seems to have formed lately?” I ask. Matt nods.
“Well I was thinking, if your little alliance has a name, then really the other side needs a name, too. So I was thinking, how does The Resistance sound?”. I smirk at him, he knows I’m not being serious.
“The Resistance?” he laughs, “that sounds like the name of a ship”. I stiffen.
“Ah, no, she was The Sumisa,” I sigh, the humour in my voice now gone. “She remains lost at sea” I say, I smile weakly and he reflects my smile – he know the pain of the past still hurts.
“Still, whatever she be called now, you need to know just one thing” I say, Matt cocks his head as though encouraging me to go on.
“This time, resistance will not be futile.”
On Friday I received a small grey package pushed through my letterbox. I was told that a book was on it’s way to me, so perhaps it was the book I should be expecting. I retrieve it from the mail cage behind our front door and sat down on the sofa to open it.
The Pet Shop by K D Grace, on the front is a young woman in a leopard print eye mask. I roll my eyes at the implication, I know exactly what Bill is getting at – I’d previously mentioned a curiosity about pet play after my viewing of Love & Leashes.
I couldn’t, could I? Could I?
If I’m being completely honest, then the book had failed to grab me in the first chapter. It’s FemDom male sub (or at least initially) and, being a female submissive/brat/kitten, I sort of felt at odds with the idea. I’d had a male sub before in my Domme/switch days, two of them in fact, and both times I’d been left feeling a bit uncomfortable. I’d still read it out of respect and for the kind gesture, I’d decided, but right now I had other things to do.
Not too soon after putting the book away to focus on said other things, it was back out of my drawer. I was sure already that I could see how this story would end up, but now I had to be sure. I had to know.
Thanks to Matt working until 8:30PM, I finished the book in one evening.
It had been titillating in places and almost horrifying in others. There were parts that I enjoyed, and parts that I definitely didn’t. Parts that felt so unhealthy I even had to close the book and leave it again for a bit. Still, I pushed on.
The idea of not speaking I found really enchanting, and I tried it out for myself for a little while, sort of in my own game. I was amazed by how much more calmer and quieter my mind felt when I didn’t need to find words for my feelings, just a nod or shake of the head would do. I could, admittedly, get quite used to that.
I became more receptive too, I realised. I was more receptive to the idea of being fucked, of being taken however my Dominant partner so desired. Right now, my sole purpose was to simply be. For once, my resistance was down.
As we watch TV, an advert comes up for a new perfume that simply must grace my collection – Carolina Herrara “Very Good Girl”. Not only is the perfume name apt (most definitely), but it comes in the most gorgeous red and black shoe-shaped bottle. I need to have to it!
“Need!” I say, pointing at the TV.
“No” Matt says coolly.
“Why?”
“Because you’d need to be a very good girl for that, and you…. ” he shakes his head mockingly. I huff in protest.
“Daddy, please!” I beg, “I’m always a good girl!”
“It sounds it” he replies. I fall silent – I suppose he has a point.
As I brush my teeth before bed, I couldn’t help but ponder something else over, something that could throw a spanner in the works of Sir’s little plan.
“Don’t you have a trophy and a certificate for handling pets?” I ask myself.
“You’re right, me,” I smile. “I do.”
