The Pet, the Slave Needs His Owner

Ever and anon I get private communications from kind folks praising my introspective notes on D/s and S&M. For me this kind of “truth” is purely personal. I try to weigh things with what my life experience has taught me. And be careful of the inevitable refractions of my hidden biases and blind spots.

This is a part of myself that I value deeply. It is the source of my self-respect. Though Alexandra may sometimes wish I didn’t quite try to subdivide things molecule by molecule. Not that she doesn’t respect it and appreciate the value.

Often I have regret what I’ve written. Even if I think it tolerably written there’s a small fear that a few semi-hemi-demi-half truths may have crept it. But each note is inevitably written from the perspective of the moment. The mind’s eye can see only so many strands distinctly at a time and that particular view isn’t necessarily the only one even for an individual. And especially for a pansexual polyfetishist.

My finical streak leads me to often prefer saying D/s and/or S&M than BDSM. To be mindful of the distinctions even if they aren’t always separate.

I awoke very aroused this morning. Despite the pang of desire I chose not to wank it away. The want felt good: it put me in touch with my submissiveness. Quotidian concerns have blocked that part of me lately. I feel the loss. Wanting to kneel can be heart achingly beautiful like a sunset or rose.

As I lay there mostly happily horny last night’s entry passed quickly through my mind.

And sexual urgency sent images of what I’ve often fantasized while she’s been away flickering through my mind. Being locked in a box or only a closet. Left and forgotten in the garage. Caged like a dog. The most inhuman protocols, disciplines training me to perfect slave hood.

Being degraded, humiliated I think of as emotional masochism. Your owner reaches into your heart and takes you as far down in humility as you can go. That my mind has so often fixed upon acts that I would normally think of as punishments is a testament to how much I miss evenings of submission.

And many of the physically painful performances that have haunted me of late: creams that set my genitals aflame, my nipples aching would work only if my suffering were her will. Without her sacred authority it would be impossible to endure the former.

Admittedly I can selfishly enjoy a whipping in certain contexts. Having her hurt me while we talk and maybe laugh seems like it would occasionally be fun. For a lucky few of us the erotic palette is inexhaustible. I wouldn’t trade that for vast wealth.

D/s is play. And a play - theater. But it isn’t a monologue. Without her pleasure and desire I have nothing. The pet, the slave he needs his owner.

During her absence I’ve often felt that the part of Alexandra that I worship as my Goddess is blossoming. The prospect of her returns tantalizes me with anticipation.

My beloved let me say once again how lucky and happy I am to be part of your life. Thank you for what we have done and what is yet to come.