He went home that first weekend – something I adore about him. His need for routine and his love for his family. He has had his car fixed at the same place for years and he cannot take it anywhere else. Same with his haircuts. He has a barbor back home who cuts his hair as he likes it – he won’t go elsewhere. This old school habit of living by what you know to be the best is wonderful, but it means that for the first few weekends of our existence together he left me to deal with his car.
That first weekend was hard but we made it work. We were still very much exploring the sub/Dom lifestyle route. Whilst watching a film with a friend on that first night, he called me with the command to go into the bathroom, take down my panties and play with my clit while he counted down from 20. He then called 15 minutes later and repeated the process. By this time it was midnight and I text to say goodnight. He called me, only this time he talked me through all those things which I love him doing to me and all the nasty, delicious things he wanted to do with me when he got home before starting my countdown from 25, interspersed with “Naughty girl” and “Bad sub”…so wet.
‘3…2…1’ couldn’t come fast enough.
The next day he sent me into town with instructions to buy a wooden handled body brush from the Body Shop. My mind was mystified until I saw the image he sent me. Its long, thin, heavy wooden handle and nice round firm head made this one paddle brush I did really, really did not want to get on the wrong side of. As I walked into the busy town, talking to him on the phone I found myself feeling embarrassed at using the term ‘Sir’. I felt my cheeks flushing as passersby overheard me and I stopped saying it. He asked if I was self conscious of calling him that in public, and when I replied yes, he broke into a sex filled tirade of filth, describing what he was going to do with me, how and when and where and every little details of how it would feel – before declaring he was walking through town himself and feeling incredibly turned on, not just at the images he had created, but at my discomfort at revealing myself as being a new little sub in public. I stopped for a while and listened intently to his words feeling the flush spread and becoming aware of the zoned out expression of lust on my face being obviously apparent to the vanilla public around me. If only they knew the sordid truth going on down my phone…how I wish they did know. As we ended the call, I replied “Bye Sir” a little more confidently, having been built up to feel proud of my new status as sub. Who cares what the world thinks.
I am proud to be his.
I went around a few shops before starting to feel quite dizzy and tired and ill. I bought lunch and sat down for ten minutes. I text him and told him and an urgent and worried reply quickly followed, telling me to eat lunch, drink plenty and take care of myself. I spotted my mum in the crowd and replied, “It’s ok, I have bumped into my mum…she’ll look after me now”. His reply made my heart jump: “I don’t like that someone else is taking are of you…they can’t do it as well as me. It’s made me feel odd, but I know that is not what you meant. It’s my own issue”. His absolute confidence that he could take better care of me at that moment than my own mother made one of the first stitches around my well sealed, healing heart snap and a tiny shred of trust flicker in. He cares, I thought.
Trust is a dangerous game I had learnt though. We’ll see.
I carried on with my duty and bought the paddle brush. A most attractive girl served me, and knowing what that paddle was to be used for as she placed it into the bag for me made me shiver a little inside. A lower tension released and I felt myself get just a little bit wet in reaction to her pretty face and my handing over money for my own punishment. This was not aided by his own reaction to my tale: “She knows what a bad little sub you have been and was looking at you thinking, ‘this poor little sub is to be punished later’”.
At that moment, I almost wished I could ask her along as an audience!
That night I had an assignment. To write about forms of punishment – from the cane and crop to the paddle and the hand. The differences, the histories, the results of such punishments. Then he asked me to number them in levels – 1 being the worst offence, to 3 being a mild misdemeanor. My emailed response was met with a positive reaction before another assignment arrived to research aftercare options. I enjoyed that – I loved the idea of being stroked with a luxurious cream on my hot, sore backside knowing that my punishment had been dealt with and I was back on an even keel. A warm bath filled with soothing oils to keep the skin soft also appealed, as did having my hair washed, being gently dried after, and put to bed with a story. Feeling safe and secure meant the world to me having been made to feel anything but for years. I loved the idea of punishment, but the need and absolute requirement for love afterwards could not be ignored. Inexperienced in this I may have been, but natural human and sub instincts know what they require to be mentally healthy. I need affection and adoration. I made this clear in my list of favorite aftercare ideas.
He sent me photo of himself. Just his head and bare shoulders and it may sound silly but even through a photo I could see that look he gives me when he demands me to submit. He had told me once that he knows exactly when I am ready to submit because my eyes change. I feel it when it happens…that beautiful peace comes over me, I feel my head fall back ever so slightly and my entire body let go, ready to be used and loved, and punished and adored. My worries and insecurities leave me at that moment and I am entirely his.
I wanted him then…just one more sleep and I’d be in his arms,
and at the receiving end of that paddle.