One small typo = one big sin

I made a mistake.

You would think it a very small mistake. Nothing more than a typo. One little letter that made one day into many. Not such a big deal, you would say.

But that is in your world.
In my world, it is a sin.
One little letter
is one big sin.

So I was scolded, in so many ways. And I probably would have been caned, except that I'm home with a very bad cold and we never risk spreading germs.

I feel really awfully sick. Stuffed sinuses, runny nose, cough from the drip, chills now and then, sore throat, utterly exhausted... I sounded so bad when my supervisor called late this afternoon that she was the one to tell me that I shouldn't come in tomorrow either.

I was in no mood to be scolded. I was sick, and Monday night started a round of progesterone which does nasty things to my mood. I take my relationship with the sadist very seriously, I in no way look at it as being a game, and when I say he owns my body and mind, heart and soul, I mean that. It isn't something that we turn on and off.

But this afternoon, I nearly had to gag myself to keep from saying aw, c'mon man, enough already, it was just a mistake, I blew it, I didn't see it, I read it over and did the spell check and I was sick and exhausted and unfocused and I didn't see it and c'mon, stop already, you know damn well that I know I'm not supposed to make typos. And why. Give me a break!

The words were at the tip of my tongue. And if it had been last summer, perhaps even last fall, they might have slipped out. And that would have been it. The end.

But they didn't slip out. I struggled and wrestled and worked my way out of my inner tantrum and back into my submission as his fury poured out of the phone. I held on with my fingernails to the crumbling edge of the cliff until I managed to pull myself back up on the ledge. And oh! Once I was there I looked out over the beauty surrounding me and said yes. It is all worth it.

You might easily think that in some ways I live a very unchained existence. There is so much that he does not control. But bit by bit I am willingly offering him more control. Of my own free will. Because I want to. Because it feels right.

I do what is required of me, exactly as instructed, grateful at being given the chance to serve. And when I mess up I accept the consequences, however painful to my body and heart, however extreme others may think them.

Because I deserve to be scolded.
I deserve to be corrected.
I deserve to be punished.

And in the end, not only does it mean that I give him what he wants and expects. In the end, not only does it mean that I become a more valuable and pleasing property, a treasured pet.

In the end, it is better for me.
I realize my potential and dance in the warm sun of his approval.
For such joy, autonomy is a small price to pay.