I just got back.  I was reading through the comments from my last post, eyes getting all tearful.

Kaya said to go ahead and grieve.  That’s it, pretty much.  I am grieving.  We had a good run, him and me.  It wasn’t all bad.  I know there’s no future there, and it’s sad.  You work all your life to enjoy your retirement, when the kids are finally gone…  Well…

He has seven years to retirement.  But I couldn’t imagine spending that much time with him.  Things are just not the same.  We cannot seem to enjoy each other anymore.  I’m sad about that, but that’s the way it is.

I’m doing it again.  This stress, these emotions have me wanting to close myself off from everyone, Master included.  Well, only when he wants to smack and pinch my nipples, lol.  I had a lot of little trouble submitting to that yesterday.

Master pushed me back onto the bed and pinned my arms, admonishing me to “Keep them down”, when I moved them to cover my chest, knowing what was surely to follow.  We struggled like this for a few moments because I was having none of it.  Finally, in an uncharacteristic outburst I cried, “I don’t want you touching me!”

As you can imagine, this did not go over very well, and I soon found my head, face, back, shoulders, and every part of me being slapped.  Master pinned both of my wrists to the bed over my head and began slapping my face in earnest.  Then, he held me down by my throat.  I choked and gasped, but didn’t cry.  Inwardly I was still feeling stubborn; resistant.  I was pissed.  I was not in the mood to be objectified at that moment, and thought, “How insensitive!  Doesn’t he know what I’m going through just now?”

He didn’t continue in this vein for very long, rubbing a sore shoulder briefly before ordering me, “Up.”

I stood up and Master lifted my top, removed my left tit, promptly clamped it, tucked it back inside my bra, picked up his keys and said, “Let’s go.”

I cried, incredulous, “Not like this?!!”

He didn’t respond, and in fact looked stern, like, I’d better not give him any more lip.  I picked up my purse and put a huge frown on my face.  The clamp was pinching, but so far was tolerable.  I just didn’t know for how long though.

We drove in rush hour construction traffic, sat through a few very long traffic lights, and while it seemed to take forever, arrived at a restaurant only a mile or so from our hotel.

He parked, and as he was getting out of the car I quipped, “How about I just stay in here?”   He motioned for me to come, so of course I dutifully followed, by now feeling the clamp much more acutely.  Inwardly, I hoped he wasn’t going to have me switch nipples, and rather worried about that.  I worried too, if this was just the beginning of my punishment, or if maybe he was taking another frustration out on me.  (His executive assistant had failed to book him a room for the night.  We were lucky to get the last room at another hotel a few doors down from where he usually stays.)

I worried some, but at the same time, I wanted whatever he had to dish out.  I was his slave, and this is what happens when I fuck up.  Bring it on.

We sat at the bar and he ordered us drinks, so I knew I wasn’t in huge trouble; a drink is a pretty nice treat for a wayward slave.  Maybe he had some sensitivity after all.  I took a big gulp of my wine.  I wanted to get drunk, lol.  Not so sure that was gonna happen.

He looked at me, still serious.  “Take the clamp off.”  I peeked around to see who was in eyeshot.  Not too many.  I dipped my chest below the level of the bar and fished around with some difficulty, trying to locate the clamp.  It was sort of on sideways.  Finally catching hold of it, I released it, my face to the bar, cursing under my breath as the blood flow painfully returned.  I handed the clamp to Master who set it on the bar for all to see.  (or, at least the bartenders)

“You can stop pouting now too.”  I considered his words.  Was I pouting?  I was dealing with the pain and knowledge I’d done wrong.  Is this considered pouting?  I know I wasn’t happy.  Maybe that’s what he interpreted as pouting.  I took another gulp of wine and tried to relax my face.

We both needed to unwind it seemed, and half-way through our drinks our conversation loosened up.  I shared with him how I had been feeling.  My fears about the relationship; about relationships in general.  Master listened, but never agreed with me.

I told him I didn’t feel the least bit like a slave most of the time, and in fact felt I could Domme him.  That is, until he called my bluff.  “Go ahead, give it your best shot.”

Game, I grinned, pointed to the floor and told him to kneel; albeit not very convincingly.  He just laughed at me and said, “Is that all you’ve got?”  I said, “Well, maybe not you”, meaning, I could be very Domme, just not to him.  I giggled and sipped more wine.  He went on to explain the far-reaches of his mastery over me and I could see a gleam in his eye.  I always get nervous when I see that face.

I knew what he was saying was true.  He is the only one who can make me bend my knee.  For that reason, and that reason alone, he is my Master.  No one else has ever been able to do that consistently.

He went on talking, but my mind was wandering, until I heard him say, “… right here.”  He was pointing to the floor far below where I was comfortably perched on my bar stool.  Instantly, though I hadn’t been completely tuned in, I knew what he’d said.  Again, I quickly scanned the room while begging, “Not here??”

Persistently he pointed where I had pointed him to earlier.  With only the slightest hesitation I slipped from my perch and onto my knees on the floor of the bar at the foot of his bar stool.  His hand went to my hair, and I rested my cheek on his thigh, my eyes closing.  I was content and not the least bit self conscious.

“You know this is where you most want to be.  This is who you are.  Doesn’t this feel right?”  I thought about it.  He persisted, “I asked you a question.  Doesn’t this feel right?”  “Yes.”  I replied quietly.  “What?”  “Yes.”

I remained kneeling long enough to catch more than a few odd glances for sure, until finally, Master allowed me back up on my bar stool.  I cannot believe he can do that.  Thank goodness we were far from home, I thought.

These public displays of subjection always serve to drive home where my place is, and that it’s the best place for me.  For some reason I feel good for having done that.  For having knelt down, showing my submission in a very public way.  I feel proud.  It’s a good kind of proud.  Master cherishes me for it.  And it further binds me to him.  This is a very intimate thing.

I must never forget that Master will do this no matter where we are.  It doesn’t bother him in the least.  It cured my cockiness.  My un-slaveness.  And it settled me.  It was just what I needed.

When we got back to the hotel room, there was much cuddling and comforting of the slave.  There was also much worshiping of the cock.  Very restorative.  Very good for both of us.  Master told me he loved me.  I relish those utterances, because he reserves them for special moments.

As I go through this very trying time, and as I am emotionally in turmoil and upheaval, Master continues to show me who exactly he is to me.  He shows me who I am to him, and my realization is so very healing.

I don’t know why I get myself so turned around.  Why I think slavery is bad for me or that I’m a bad slave.  I only know that Master has never been of that opinion, and he continues to prove me wrong, sometimes in the most poignant ways.  I should expect this from him by now, but he always surprises me.  Maybe I’m just a slow learner.

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