I lie in bed, my arms folded behind my head, I wait with the confident assurance of the God of the bedroom I know myself to be. She approaches the bed and kneels beside it, head bows and repeats the words made familiar by years of repeating the ritual. I wait for the question. She asks.. “May this slave join the Master she loves and chooses?”. Some nights I make her wait, curious how long she will keep her head down before she looks to read the clues in my expression. Some nights I am eager for her to join me.
This is our protocol, a thing so natural now that it is a ritual. I agree to allow her the privilege of sharing my bed and she climbs over me and pauses on top, cowgirl style, a sly grin that acknowledges that i may have her any time I desire, and perhaps hopes tonight I will take her. Almost reluctantly, she finishes crossing over me.
She must be on my right side at all times.. when we walk, in the car, at meal times.. just as she must always obey her first protocol, my number one rule. Now she is curled up under my arm, my chest as her pillow. There need be only one pillow. We will stay this way a while, and speak of things that transpired that day as our eyelids slowly grow heavy with approaching sleep. It is a submissive position, her clinging to the powerful person that she has given herself to, her head buried in my chest.
Later as we start to nod off, she will roll to her other side and I will hold her, spoon style, clutching this valued possession as if it might escape when I sleep. I have thought about this ritual, the positions we go through, and if they have significance to our sacred roles as Master and slave.
It has been a week during which my slave has been exceptionally loving in her touch. Like a kitten, she fairly purrs as she nuzzles up against the Master of her desires. Her touch is alive with that energy that is so real you feel it like electricity. It makes me wish that science had an electronic gauge for it. I am sure this week she would send the gauge over the top and bury itself off the charts.
And that brings me back to protocol one, my number one rule which I mentioned earlier. When in my presence, she must always maintain physical contact. When walking, I offer my arm. When seated it is often a thigh pressed against mine, or a hand on my leg. I am a junky for this, the joy of touch, the love that is transmitted in the touch of someone who cares deeply. Plus, this protocol is a reminder to always care, to always remember that who we are is the core of our existence and who we share a power dynamic with is nearly as important as our own existence. The touch is a reminder that the two are one. She must always strive to be an extension of my will.
As we lie there, I reflect that we must always be secure in who and what we are.. Master or slave, we must love ourselves before we can love another. When we commit to enter into a Master / slave relation, then that person becomes an extension of our identity. Just as we must love ourselves to achieve happiness, so too we must place supreme importance on the other half of our power dynamic. It is a perilous thing, the raw connection to another being with no boundaries. I know from experience. This is unparalleled in both the joy and the sorrow that can come of it. It is worth the risk though. To soar this high, we must risk falling as far. I reflect on this as I doze off, and think again of rule one. This protocol of contact is to me a constant reminder of all that I have come to understand, and a source of pleasure. Lessons I now share with my property.
So as the bedtime rituals unfold and we both bask in the warmth of physical contact, I ponder yet again on how blessed I am to reached a place in my life where I am comfortable and confident in my own skin as a sadist and slave owner. Where I know who and what I am without apology or doubt. I stroke the hair of the human being under my arm, who not only consents to be my slave, but is also blissfully happy being my property, a mere object for my use among my other possessions, and smile. Life is good.