There's a bruise on my neck. I knew there would be one. The spot has been tender for days. I knew there would be one and I wanted one. I've been surprised there hasn't been one before this.
There's a bruise on my neck. I can hardly see it. I have to angle my head up and try to catch the light without creating shadows with my chin but then I can't look down into the mirror to catch sight of what must by now be a little greenish.
When the philosopher put his hands around my neck it was a guaranteed trip into subspace. His hands needed only hover over my throat and I felt the chute open and I was sliding fast. I loved it. They would close around my neck but never press hard. He didn't need to. The threat alone would do the trick, just as the threat of horrible spankings, of merciless canings, of (shudder) branding, would hoist me up and over the dam and tumbling down into a body-wrenching, soul-rending orgasm.
It was magic, it was art, it was a dance, and it was beautiful.
It was totally safe.
I think I am still totally safe. What collector would risk the very existence of a valued object that he pursued and won and brought back for his own? So I don't expect he will strangle me to death. But oh, the glorious steps along the way...
I am not allowed to write about what happens during my torturing tutor's visits, about what he does to me, except as specifically allowed. And I was allowed to just this once, which should give you at least a taste. Of course, given that my life as my demonic dom's pet could be subtitled The Perverted Education of Kitten, things progress from lesson to lesson, a progress I will not detail until and unless I am instructed to.
Still and all, there is a bruise on my neck. And in the earlier post I spoke of his chain and his hands. And my neck. And I stand naked before him and offer my neck in trust and obedience and frank adoration, and there is such intimacy in such pure trust and things become a little hazy and I am never afraid and he has shown that I need never be afraid and I look in his eyes and I'm never afraid. Not from this.
And then he gives me my life. Not in giving me back my breath. That's easy. Anyone can do that. But he gives me myself. Myself as a writer. I still struggle with my neuroses and my whole alphabet of mental disorders and my stubborn feelings for you-know-who and on and on... I won't bore you with the mundanities of my silly life. They mostly don't cast such big shadows any more. Mostly.
But I feel strong. There's the strength that comes from submission, feeling taller, prouder, such an odd thing when it comes from submitting one's will to another. But then it's a strength that comes from saying yes, this is who I am, this is how I live best, knowing that someone is looking after me, to one extent or another, whether by making sure I get to bed on time or making sure I'm not tossing away my talents, which he believes in.
So therefore I believe in them. Which makes me stronger.
He takes me seriously, my menacing muse, my perverted professor, and he makes me better. He makes me work. He focuses me. He told me I'm beautiful and I looked in the mirror and I saw it. He says I'm a writer, not just someone who writes, and I look at my poems, I look in my mind, and I can almost see what he sees. He believes in me, I am his treasure, he takes a cloth to me and he makes me shine.
And he takes my breath away.
Thank you, Sir.
Thank you for giving me my life.