Slave Girl

I had told a friend that just because Michael called my new necklace my public collar that didn’t mean that I was a slave.  I told her that just wasn’t our dynamic.  She said she knew that, but then reminded me that it’s just a word, slave that is.  And she said that my necklace only held whatever meaning I (we) wanted it to hold.  Wise words.

Then Michael came home.  It was so nice to see him.  He’d only been gone since early Monday morning, but I’d been so spoiled the last couple of weeks, getting to see him so often, that it had seemed longer than that.  There were small displays of domination from the time he got home and honestly, I couldn’t get enough of it.  It had been stressful taking our daughter to the hospital that morning to have the scope done and a bit of PMS had kicked in too which never helps matters.  After the kids went to bed we snuggled up on the couch to relax and watch a little television together.  He could tell that something was bothering me, that I was uneasy, restless, and he wanted to know why.  At first I tried to tell him that I didn’t know, but that didn’t fly.  And so I took a deep breath and asked him if he would talk to me, tell me how things are between us, remind me of our dynamic and how it works.  He looked at me for a moment and then pushed the ottoman back and put his feet on the floor and directed me to kneel in front of him.  As I knelt there, he talked to me, telling me what our roles are, and what he expects of me.  Then he kissed me deeply and motioned for me to rejoin him on the couch.  But, I still felt restless.  I sat on the couch next to him gazing at him instead of watching tv.  He looked over and wanted to know what I was thinking.  And so I told him, “I guess what I really want is to feel owned, not for you to just tell me that I am.”

We snuggled a bit longer and then he asked me if I thought the kids were asleep yet.  I said I didn’t know.  Before long he sent me on my way, to get ready for bed and to check on the kids.  He joined me upstairs shortly, climbed into bed, rolled me on my back and pushed my arms up over my head.  And so the domination truly began.  He started off with his hands roaming all over my body, pinching, pulling, grasping, rubbing.  And then the story telling began.  He’s such a good story teller.  His hands continued their quest as he whispered an erotic tale in my ear.  He had me quite worked up and seemed intent on bringing me to orgasm, but I didn’t want that.  He was perplexed, until I told him that I really wanted to wait and enjoy that release together.  He seemed satisfied with my explanation and moved onto other things. 

At one point he called me his little slave girl.  Well, I had said that I wanted to feel owned, hadn’t I?  But, I’m not sure how I feel about that word, slave.  And so I asked him what the difference was to him between being submissive and being a slave.  He said that me being submissive to him means that he takes the lead and I follow, that I listen and obey.  Then he said that as a slave I should try to go beyond that, learning to anticipate his wants and needs and being more open to being pushed out of my comfort zone, stretching my limits.

His explanation made me think, though more so now, reflecting on it, than then; because honestly, he kept me in the moment for the rest of the night.  When we finally collapsed together on the bed I could’ve easy fallen right off to sleep.  I had asked to feel owned and he had delivered.  It was the reconnection I’d been longing for, the closeness, the intimacy, the domination.

So…slave girl…hmmm…still not sure how I feel about it.  It’s just that the word slave has a somewhat negative connotation to me.  It’s not that I’m not open to the term; it’s just that it will take a bit of getting used to.  At this point I’m still wrapping my head around it.  Perhaps it seems silly, since I am collared after all, but I had managed to carefully avoid thinking of myself in those exact terms.  My friend is right, it’s just a word, and it can hold whatever connotation I, we, wish it to hold.  Michael may call me his little slave girl, but I know he’d never think less of me because of it.  Now I just need to see if I can embrace the term and manage to not think less of myself.


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