For many months after our D/s had came to a standstill, I had moments (many of them) where I got depressed and thought it was my fault, knowing it wasn’t. It’s no one’s fault at all. It’s just life that has taken over, life that has driven us to the point where we are now: Dom and sub, but with very little play. He still puts my night collar around my neck every night (except when I’m sick) and I still wear my day collar every day. He still corrects me when I absentmindedly cross my legs, sometimes uses his stern voice with me or pinches my nipples. Our D/s is not gone. It’s still there, just below the surface, ready to come out when circumstances (his health) improves.
I don’t get depressed anymore because there’s so little D/s ‘play’ in our lives nowadays, but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember…
… how, just after we made our D/s commitment, he submitted me to his will every night, whether I was tired or not. Sometimes he only made me kneel for a couple of minutes, other nights he smacked my bottom or used the cane, or he told me to sleep with the butt plug.
… how, during hotel stays he would use floggers and paddles and sometimes the cane and left me with marks on my bottom and legs. Marks I was so very happy with and which brought a smile to my face when I twisted and turned in front of the mirror to see them.
… how, on random weekends, he would tell me to wear my butt plug when we go shopping, or out for a drink, and the knowing smiles we exchanged when I sat on a bar stool and felt the plug move inside me. He knew exactly how to read my face.
… how, during play dates, he would proudly look on while another man used me, flogged me, spanked me, or while I lick another woman to orgasm and she me, because we were told to do so.
… how, when we had our private photo shoots, it would start out quite tame, and the longer we were busy, the more he would direct me into what he wanted me to do, like the image below, where he told me to pinch my nipple.
Our D/s is not gone. I don’t think it will ever be gone. It shows itself in small things these days, like mentioned above, but also in those moments when he fingers me, sternly telling me to keep my legs spread and drawing from me the words that I’m his slut, his whore, that he is all I need to be happy. He draws those words from me while I’m in the throes of passion, in the midst of an orgasm, but I will gladly repeat those words when I am sitting across from him at the breakfast table, because he really is all I need to be happy. He knows me like no one else does.
© Rebel’s Notes