This series of entries celebrates V and thinks through lessons learned and ways I matured while in service to her. However, tracking these developments has been a challenge as most lessons were subtle while growth occurred in ways I’ve yet to process. So it’s likely I’ll return to add moments and thoughts to one or all of these posts.
In this final installment, I’ll recount a few significant moments that helped define who V is to me and serve to illustrate why I value our connection.
The Winter Visit
I got a chance to spend three days with V in the dead-of-winter with Christmas about a week away. I’d give up a considerable chunk of flesh to get that kind of time with her again. If that’s meant to be, it will be some time from the present. But, the first thing I would say is she was always the one who traveled. Most of the time, she was in my ‘neighborhood’ and fit me into an already busy schedule. Indeed, V’s abilities to juggle responsibilities, schedules, and expectations are nothing short of astounding. Consider this: she owned three collared submissives and kept a toy on the side, yet I never felt neglected. To the contrary, under stressors that would overwhelm most people, V remains in contact, in control, handling all of it with grace.
While she’s always been gracious about doing the traveling, the fact I was unable to reciprocate bothers me immensely. That it was damn close to impossible for me to reciprocate is immaterial to my feeling guilty. She will, of course, shrug at this – so please understand all these pangs are self inflicted. However, the fact remains, V has never been anything but generous with her time, energy, wisdom, and compassion. I already knew this from time spent with her remote and in person, but the winter visit was special.
Three days of constant contact will teach you a fair bit about someone. Yes, I know it’s a short span of time. But with other visits measured in hours, three days of being under her thumb was luxuriously long. And it was enough time resolve something I began worrying about as soon as the dynamic got traction: transitioning between public and private as her submissive.
It’s hard to explain my anxiety unless you know just how different I am with my Domme than anyone else. Essentially, I’m unable to turn off who I am in public. Although I’m not rude, I’m perpetually scanning sight lines, exit routs, body language etc. Though somewhat diminished with age, this behavior remains hardwired into how I function. Also, I hadn’t gone this deep with a Domme since I was fifteen. Adolescents aren’t known for their introspection, yanno? Given the time span, I was leery as to how the protocols and differences in head space would work thirty some years later. Would I be ‘neutral’ or unwittingly rude coming in? Would I feel exposed and intolerably paranoid going out?
Although V took pains to reassure me, I remained skeptical. The submissive aspects which manifest in private seem downright antithetical to how I behave in public. So I was pleasantly surprised to discover just how painless switch gears was. Once again, she was right. None of those public-to-private transitions fucked up my head space, and it soon became clear that living as her submissive full-time wouldn’t bring on an ontological crisis. Okay, I never really thought it would, but I had reason to worry given how radically she’s alters my mental state. But the entire time I was with her, I only had one moment of shock: that was when V called my name.
We were trying to check out of a packed grocery store. I was headed he wrong way and about to cost us more time in line. (So much for Mr. Situational Awareness, right?) Seeing me veer off course, V called my name. Hearing it, I nearly jumped. I’m sure she found the look on my face amusing. Given the fact, she used my name twice while I was collared, hearing her address me by name was unsettling. It was unsettling in a good way because I’m one of few who V doesn’t address by their given name. Collared or not, I’m honored to remain as such.
Another memory from that trip I’ll always treasure occurred during an evening we spent together. We were hanging out, enjoying each other’s company, and V was using and occasionally abusing me. The entire evening was an event itself as it was so fucking intense. The ‘play’ wasn’t really all that hard, but the energy exchange was crackling and little moments hit bone.
Like when she came out and just looked at me where I sat naked on the end of the bed. I was suddenly self-conscious as though it was her first time seeing me. Watching me blush, V didn’t say anything, just grinned, but the look in her eyes burned, and I melted.
Like the way she moved, and handled me – physically and mentally – it takes a strong woman to make me feel like I’m small enough to curl up in the palm of her hand.
But one moment really stands out from the rest – After hours of play, when I lay curled up next to her, beaten, fucked, sated, and stuffed with a fat steel plug, I suddenly felt anxious and exposed, and started to crash. V knew it immediately and lay behind me, wrapping me up and nudging the plug with her knee as she spoke, lips inches from my ear:
“You’re fine. You’re my boy. My precious boy. My Alpha.”
And hearing those words and feeling owned, loved, and safe, made me indescribably happy. She kept repeating them. Not only was I settled, I was flying.
I’ll always treasure this memory. That Domme who I love, respect, and adore named me as her Alpha will always be a point of pride. One might think the memory would be bittersweet given how I’m out of collar. Not so – that memory will always be one of my favorites no matter what happens down the line.
Not Her Boy
Of course, V has released me from her collar, and the memory of the last time I saw her remains as unpleasant as the prior memory is sweet. She had to be in town approximately two weeks after releasing me. We met up and spent some time together.
I’m grateful we got that time, grateful everything didn’t just end with the click of a phone line going dead. While I’m not going to describe every moment of this evening, I’d be leaving the narrative incomplete without describing at least two of them.
V said she wouldn’t hesitate placing me back in collar again – if and only if – I am local. Understanding I crave reassurance, she’s reiterated this several times and the the door to that possibility remains open is truly a comfort.
However, she was firm with me once when I said, “I’m your boy, just out of collar.”
“No – you are not my boy,” she said. “You have to accept that.”
“I want to hear you say those words.”
I answered her without skipping a beat. But when I spoke, it was the first truly dishonest moment we ever had together. Because those words fucking hurt. They hurt bad. V knew they’d hurt just as she knew them to be necessary. So in that split second, I opted to put the mask on. The mask which gives me the ability to show the world what I want it to see and nothing more. It wasn’t instinct – it was a choice. I obeyed but I did so without betraying a glimmer of what I felt.
“I am not your boy.”
“Say it again.”
“I am not your boy.”
Having said his both times with a stone face makes me a lousy submissive and a shitty person. Owning my actions doesn’t make them any less lame or make me feel better, just like V accepting my apology and forgiving me has done little to stop me feeling like Judas Iscariot.
Not one to leave needy boys adrift, V has made sure I’m alright while slowly breaking off frequency of contact. She probably thinks I don’t notice, but I do. But that’s okay because I know her and everything she’s ever done or made me do that was ‘truly’ painful has been for my own good. There’s always a door open for me and a place at her feet. If I never go out there, we’ll remain close friends and keep in touch. And I’m making progress toward that weird ‘friend place.’ She tells me I’m making progress, so I know it’s true.
And V has her own battle to fight looming. The last thing she needs is to have me moping in the wings or blowing up her phone with emo text bombs. She’d put up with it while on chemo if I needed it, but that’s not what she needs. Regardless, She’s gonna slay this bitch. Whatever the fuck ‘it’ is inside her is fucking dead. Just hasn’t got the memo. But winning will require strength. Luckily, strength is a quality V’s got in spades, and I look forward to celebrating the announcement of remission with her soon.
Which leaves one last thing to say: Thank you, Ma’am. For everything that was, is, and will be. I’m a rich man to have you in my life.