In talking with many of my submissive friends, there seems to be general consensus that we share.  It’s an idea that we that seems so obvious, but lack on it strikes fear, disappointment and often times resentment.  In the BDSM community, in D/s relationships it’s a common thread of communication, but sadly, sometimes it’s something that lacks.

Accountability.
(n)  the state of being accountable,  liable, or answerable

It means, there are rules, everyone knows the rules, everyone is clear on the repercussions for breaking the rules. Lastly, it means, if the rules are broken, those repercussions had damn well better be carried out.  As a submissive, I rely on the fact that I will pay for my missteps.  I will absolutely suffer for my infractions.  Not because I am such a horrible person and every infraction is the biggest thing in the world- but because this is what I have agreed to.  I am an adult.  I made an agreement to enter into a relationship with a power exchange.  I have given myself to my Sir and I have agreed, consensually, to take deference to his decisions within the lines of what we have negotiated.  What I mean by that is, there are some things for which he holds no claim- my family, my children, my job.  The rest, all the way down to whether or not I cut my hair… I am to defer to his decision on.

If I decide to behave outside of this agreement, then I am behaving in a way that is non-consensual to our agreement.  I agreed to accept his collar in the spirit in which it was offered to me.  The spirit of obedience, humility, transparency and my identity as a slave.  When I behave in a way that is outside of that spirit, then I am acting in a way that is non-consensual to our agreement and I have, by taking his collar- given up my right to do that without repercussions.

I rely on that.  I trust it.  I know in my heart that if I start acting up, I will have consequences.  I am accountable for my behavior.  If I go out to a party with lifestyle people, get drunk, act a fool and start bad mouthing my Sir, I can be damned sure that I will pay for that.  I will accept my punishment because I am accountable for my behavior.

However, I also trust that my Sir WILL make me pay for my infraction.  He also needs to be accountable and responsible.  He has laid down rules for me- and if I break them, I trust him to not let me slide.  I trust him to NOT let me get away with behavior that is unacceptable.  I trust him to punish me in whatever way he deems appropriate.  If he fails to do that, then he is behaving in a way that is equally non consensual.  I agreed to accept his collar, he agreed to enforce the collar.  Just because I don’t LIKE the consequences does not mean I should not have them.  I have spoken to a few submissive friends who have said things like, “I wish he would push me harder.” or “I don’t understand why I have to make this decision- isn’t he the Dominant?” or “It doesn’t matter, he isn’t going to do anything about it”

It’s tragic, in my opinion.  It shows a lack of conviction in the Dominant.  It makes us lose respect for our Dominants.  As a slave, I expect my Master to keep my ass in line.  As soon as I lose faith in the idea that he will keep me in line- should I wander off, I have no choice but to drift from my role as a slave.  Why should I hold up my end of the bargain, if he’s not going to?  It’s human nature to push the boundaries- and if I have nobody to push back, then it’s chaos.

This past weekend I forgot something I was instructed to bring with me.  It was a sex toy that he wanted to use in our play this weekend.  He mentioned it several times during the day- don’t forget this.  Be sure to have this.  I had packed it in my purse.  Then about 5 minutes before I left the house, I had a brilliant idea to NOT bring my purse with me to the dungeon.  I grabbed my drivers license, my ATM card and my phone.  I didn’t need anything else right?

WRONG.

In the car ride, it occurred to me that my butt plug was in my purse.  My purse was sitting on my kitchen counter.  Damn.  Crap. FUCK!  So I told him this- and he shook his head at me.  He said, “Pumpkin, I reminded you several times.”   He really didn’t seem angry or irritated by it and he was silent for a few moments before he said, “I will think on the appropriate punishment for this.”

Wait?  Punishment?  My mind was racing, why am I getting punished?  He isn’t even mad.  He doesn’t care about this.  It’s of no consequence really.  It’s my ass!!  What is the big deal?  Jeez- what a hard ass!

I asked if we could go back to get it- and he said “No.”  I got quiet, and even when he reached over and held my face and said, “Pumpkin, I’m not mad at you- but there are consequences for your actions.”

I replied with a sincere, “Yes Sir.” and waited for my fate.

As it turns out, the punishment was not so horrible.  I was to approach his mentor and ask her how she punishes her slaves for an infraction like mine.  I realized this would do two things for me.  It would make me admit to another dominant that I respect that I had screwed up and was paying the consequence for it and it would also give me an idea of what punishment might be in store for me if I were to make a similar mistake again.  I accepted this task, but when I went inside to speak to his mentor, she was already busy and would be for at least an hour.  I went back outside to report to him that this was the case and he said I could talk to her later.

Then he said he will be inside in a bit and we can play.

“A bit” turned into 20 minutes, 35 minutes, 45 minutes.  I went outside to check on him, and he said, “One more smoke.”  I knew this meant another 20 minutes.  I went inside, turning my pouty face away from him.  I felt that I was being made to wait- that I was being punished farther than what he said my punishment was. I felt horrible.  I felt like my infraction had so hurt him that he didn’t want to play with me.

I know, you’re thinking, it was a fucking butt plug right???

Well, to understand my thinking, you have to understand me.  I strive for perfection.  I hate punishment.  I hate being in trouble so much so that I will usually do whatever it takes to anticipate things that MIGHT get me in trouble so I don’t have to hear those words or that feeling of someone being disappointed in me.  He knows and expects my obedience and he so often tells me how awesome and great I am.  All of a sudden I can’t remember something so simple, and something that I really ENJOY.  What the hell is wrong with me?”

By the time he came back inside, I had beat myself up to the point of tears.  As soon as he looked in my eyes and asked what was wrong, I started to cry.  I apologized over and over.  I told him I was so sorry that I was forgetful and distracted.  I was sorry that I was being selfish and not wanting to carry anything tonight which is why I left the toy at home.  As I cried into his shoulder, I thought, He’s going to leave me someday because I can’t follow the most basic orders.

He immediately pulled me aside.  I sat down at his feet and he let me cry, and then he talked to me.  He reassured me that I was not to let this ruin my night and that it was not ruining his night.  He said I was a very good girl, and that he is so proud of how I behave all the time.  That I honor him constantly and how much he loves me.  I know that he realized just how hard this was for me.  He now understood that I really WASN’T kidding when I told him how hard I take punishments- not because I don’t want to suffer my consequences, but because I just have the state of having done something that required consequences.

I sat with him and cried a little longer until I felt better, which included some time for me to feel guilty for making him deal with me and my crying fit.  Then I got up, brushed my dress off and we went outside.  He then turned to me and said, “My mentor is available now.  Why don’t you do what you’ve been instructed and then we can move on with the night.”

I thought for a second, “Oh- I STILL have to do that?  Doesn’t he know that I’m sorry enough?  Haven’t I suffered enough?”  I put my bottom lip out at him for second and then I immediately realized it the greater lesson of the night.  Just like I am accountable for my behavior, so is he.  He gave me an order and if he didn’t make me carry that out- then he was not being accountable.  I respected him even more for this.  For me, accountability is the state of being responsible for my actions.  It means that my mistakes are mine and not anyone else’s.  It means that I know what my expectations are and that I will suffer the consequences for failing to meet those expectations.  For my Sir, it means almost the same thing with a few minor situational adjustments.  It means say what you mean, and mean what you say.  It means, don’t make promises you don’t intend to carry out.  It means, don’t make threats you won’t hold to.

Tears and regret do not negate accountability.

After I spoke with his mentor, I went back outside and reported to him, her answer.  Then I hugged him and thanked him for holding me to my punishment.  I thanked him for his conviction and his accountability.  I highly doubt that I will forget my toy again, but the lesson here was a much bigger one than I expected.

Submissives are not the only ones who have a bargain to uphold.  We are not the only ones who must act according to our station.  We want, we need and we crave for our Dominants to have conviction.  We want our Dominants to give us boundaries, and hold us up to them.  Without that, the submissives take over the dungeon, so to speak- and the role of the Dominant becomes useless.  I am sure I could speak for many others, but for myself – the thought that my Dominant would fail to do the job that he has agreed to do is almost a worse infraction than I could ever do.  The Dominant sets the tone, the Dominant drives the relationship.  If the dynamic is allowed to run off course, I think the consequences and potentially bad outcome of that are far worse for the Dominant than any punishment I may have to be accountable for.

I have a lot of questions. I think if asked every question I had, SirX would have to start limiting the number of questions I can ask every day.  Most often my questions would fall under the categories: Can I do this? Did you like that I did that? What do you think of me?

Looking at these questions, I think, oh no, it’s all about me. Shouldn’t I be asking things like, “How can I serve you better?” oh crap- another *I* question. Geez girl, you must be the most selfish slave ever- all you think about is yourself- surely you must be doing it wrong.

In the class I spoke of in my past article, the instructor commented on her slave saying, “Did you see how nicely I ironed and folded you pants Mistress?” eagerly holding them up, to which she responded by smacking the pants to the floor and saying something along the lines of, “Yup!”

What I got from this, is that a slave should not draw attention to their service. Wow… the attention whore in me is already aching from that sentence. Last night I wrote something that directly pertained to my relationship with Sir, and how I feel about it. I posted it online, and then proceeded to say, “I wrote [this] Sir, did you see it?” He did not reply to my question. I feel that this is probably the same as the smacking the ironed, folded pants to the floor. Sigh.

My mind raced for a while after we stopped talking, and I thought maybe I should not have said that. Maybe I should have checked with him before I said those things about our relationship. What if he doesn’t want people to know about me. (yes, I really thought that!) And Oh no, I did that thing where I drew the attention to myself, and am asking him to validate me. Again!! Crap. crapcrapcrap.

Of COURSE he saw it. He watches me. He sees everything, oddly, but doesn’t point everything out. If he had a problem with it, he’d have said so. However here I am with another- you guessed it- question. It’s an *I* question. But that’s no shocker there now, is it?

So how do I go about NOT drawing attention to my service when I want to be noticed for it? I want to say, “Look what I did, aren’t you pleased with me?” Furthermore, I want him to say, “Oh Peanut, that is the most flat and perfectly folded pair of pants I have ever seen!!!”

That’s not right, is it?

It’s like when my cat kills something and leaves it for me to see. She looks up at me with those big eyes that say, “Mama- here! Now love me!” She’s a cat, that’s what cat’s DO. It’s not as if she can do much else, the lack of opposable thumbs and all. She does what is in her nature to do; she kills things, brings them to her owner, and presents them, wanting a good scratch behind the ears and some assurance that she’s the best kitty ever. It’s a gift, it’s her way of saying, this is what I can DO for you, so here… ta-dahhh… here’s a dead bird!  However, what do I do when she brings me dead things? I scream. I freak out, get pissed off and irritated. This is not something I ever asked of her. I didn’t teach her how to catch birds. Stupid cat, why are you bringing dead things into the house?? I take care of you and this is how you repay me? The cat, of course, can’t understand why I’m so irritated when she brings the dead bird in the house.

My service should not be akin to laying a dead bird on his feet. It is in the cat’s nature to do such things. I feel service is in my nature, but it’s a choice to give this to him. Service is a choice. I do it because it pleases me to please him, and I am grateful for the internal strength and confidence I get in doing things well. I need to remember that when I am asking him for needless validation. SirX does not need dead birds. We are in this relationship because he knows that I want to serve him. We have discussed this at length.
This, I suppose, is what training is for. If I want to present him with neatly ironed and folded pants, you can be sure that he has already taught me the exact way that he wants his pants ironed and folded. Once mastered, there is probably no question in his mind that I will do it exactly the way he has taught me, every single time.

Why do I need special points for doing it right?

This is the faith he has is me. He has faith that I will do correctly what he has taught me to do. He did not choose me because I serve- I serve because he chose me. I need to simply take pride in my role, do things as instructed, and know that he appreciates me for it.
I think I also need to stop letting my cat go outside.

Weeks ago…
“I want you to have an orgasm,” he said. We were mid argument and his statement startled me.

“What?” I asked, with more that just a touch of tone.

“An orgasm, Pet. I want you to come for me.”

I wasn’t in the mood. This wasn’t the time. I was not feeling well and I was upset. Things had been strained since I’d been home and I just didn’t want to. Subdrop and all the new poly issues we were facing- not to mention a bad cold. It was one of the rare times that sex wasn’t on my mind. I just didn’t FEEL like it. I wasn’t feeling subby. I was feeling resistant and resentful. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be poly. I wasn’t sure I wanted to share. I wasn’t sure that anyone was listening to my fears. With all that, I just wasn’t feeling like I wanted to have an orgasm. I didn’t want him to make me have one.
“Master?” I was going to ask for mercy, let him know that I REALLY didn’t want to, “Master I just don’t know that I want to.”

He sighed heavily, an annoyed sigh that let me know that he didn’t want to have to explain himself. He said in a very firm voice, “I am not asking you Pet- I’m telling you. I think that you need this. You are not trusting me. You are not listening to what I’m trying to say and I want you to relax. This will help. Do what I’m asking. This is neither punishment nor reward, but it’s an order.”

I pondered that idea. An order.

He had never really given me a direct order before. Not without reason. Not like this. What kind of a controlling mind fuck was this? Proving that he owns me? Testing to see if I would follow his orders even when I don’t want to? Why now? What was the point?

I decided not to argue. Arguing would take longer. It was like back in the days of my first marriage when I didn’t want sex, but it was easier to just have it than to argue about why I didn’t want it. Regardless, it wouldn’t be bad. What orgasm is bad??

However, I was not in a good place. Our relationship has been in a scary place. It’s in an uncertain place where I don’t feel my feet firmly planted into the ground. Poly is scary and poly is hard. No matter whom I talk to, no matter what I read, or how much I rationalize things in my head. The result is the same- it’s scary and it’s hard. I don’t know if it’s for me. So far, it was making me feel lonely and unheard and that isn’t what I wanted, not at all.

So why this? Why the orgasm? What was this going to prove? I was angry about it and feeling as if he was REALLY not listening to me now. I lay in bed that night and cried. I didn’t want to do this. I felt that maybe he was abusing his power and that he wasn’t listening to my feelings. That he was trying to put a band-aid on any hurt I was feeling with an orgasm. Isn’t this what we agreed we wouldn’t do- use sex to hide from the truth? I considered my options. I considered safe wording him. I considered lying. I cried and cried, confused about everything until I fell asleep.

When I woke in the morning, I pondered what to do. He was expecting my text soon and I needed to tell him that I had either complied with his orders, or why I hadn’t. Why didn’t I want to? He simply wanted me to have an orgasm. Usually I had to ask. Why was I hesitant?

I decided to go ahead and have one. I took my Hitachi and pressed it against my cunt. While the strong familiar vibrations felt good, my body, my brain was resistant. I felt violated and hurt. I fought back tears and allowed my body to get lost in a much needed orgasm, allowing myself to feel good that I was doing as I was asked. It means something to me to obey orders. When I finally came, I was no longer crying, but my body thrashed and surrendered back to my submission. I felt humbled and proud of myself for serving him as I was asked to. I felt blanketed in the safety that I have become accustomed to. I was no longer confused, but I knew I needed to know. I asked him later, why, Sir? What was it for? It was important for me to understand.

“Pet,” he said, “I was not trying to hurt you or make you feel small. I really felt you needed to break out of the state you were in, and I needed to assert control. You have been sad, afraid, not trusting me. I needed you to remember your submission. It made me nervous to do it, but I know that you needed to relax, and you needed to trust me to love you. Do you, Pet? Do you trust me to love you?”

The truth is, I do. The goal of this was not just the orgasm. My submission is not about kneeling when told to kneel and coming when I’m told. It’s about trusting him, even if I don’t understand. I don’t know how other people make these relationships work. I don’t know how other D/s couples resolve issues. For us, we return to the place where we know it’s safe. In our space, we can talk about anything. We can resolve anything, even if it is just to agree to disagree.

“Yes Sir,” I responded, crying now for a different reason, “I trust you.”

A popular TV show that discusses the topic of sex offenders suggests that victims of molestation are groomed to it. That they are led to trust their molesters to the point that they feel it was their own fault. I can’t be sure that I’m any more or less damaged for acknowledging my sexual trauma. Knowing myself though, I knew I would need to go through something to deal with it. Not just a mental acknowledgement but something physical and tangible.
The belt was a hard limit. After being belted for the last time by my step dad, I vowed to never let anyone ever hit me with a belt again. Strangely, since the realization that he in fact DID feel me up when I was drunk, I began to have fantasies about being belted. It’s the only real trauma I have ever really claimed to have as a child. I was 12, too old for the belt, and it was excessive punishment for stealing $5. It was not right, to be 12 years old, and having to pull down my pants and lay down on a bed so my mother’s husband could beat me. It was even more disturbing to know that the night before I was lying across his lap while he rubbed my bare back.
I remember feeling fear and a loss of control. It made me feel small, and worthless. My parents had always spanked- but this was the first time I truly felt that I had been beaten. I remember screaming. It was fear, true fear. I wonder now what he was thinking, but really I don’t want to know.
So somehow in my mind, I needed to face this. I wanted to face him somehow. Be in control. When my Dom and I would talk about fantasies and the things that make me hot- the belt always comes up. I don’t know much about sexualizing abuse. It seems twisted, but the belting seems more significant. It’s my last grudge. I feel that I have to face it. I have to face the belt.
At the play party we went to, Sir had me on the whipping rack. It was our second time on the rack that night, and the first time he had just caned me. By this time, the party was in full swing, and we were relaxed and having a wonderful time. He took the belt and threw it over the rack, so it hung in my face. A mind fuck. I’d known he had it with him, I’d asked him if he would bring it. We had talked about it, and I only needed to tell him when I felt ready. So earlier in the evening, I’d picked it up out of his toy box and handed it to him. No words were spoken.
Leaning over this padded A frame I felt the bouncing of the cane on my ass and thighs. Each strike getting stronger and faster. My moans increased and decreased with his speed. It goes from a quick whack to a sharp sting. Again and again and again, harder and harder. Whackwhackwhackwhackwhack until I was standing on my toes and my moaning became a high pitched screaming plea.
He stopped and reached for the flogger. It came down on my back and shoulders. I moaned and curled my toes into the baseboard. The flogger on my upper back and shoulders is a heavenly thuddy pain. It’s a more heavy pain that with repetition starts to burn. It’s a hot burn that melts into my hungry skin.
When I opened my eyes, the belt was no longer hanging in front of me. I knew it was coming. I was ready. I could face this. I was horny and wet. I was safe with my Dom. I could stop at any time. I didn’t have to be afraid. It was pain, and pain was my safety. Pain was cathartic and freeing. It wasn’t about punishment here. It wasn’t about $5, or about the fact that my step dad overpowered me. He wasn’t here to tell me I was a whore for letting my 13 year old boyfriend touch my breasts. He can’t hurt me anymore. Never again.
I felt it touch my skin. The thick leather rubbed across my ass. I breathed slow and heavy. He leaned against my skin, my sore red skin.
“Are you my little girl?”
“Yes, Daddy,” I answered. It was the first time we’d used these names all night. He was making me feel safe. He was reminding me that I was safe. I needn’t come out of my headspace. I was safe and he would protect me.
The first lick came across one cheek. I gasped out loud. My subspace vanished almost instantly. My body tensed. My eyes opened wide and welled up. Helpless and afraid. Oh God.
The second lick came across both cheeks. I heard his voice. I saw his face. I remembered his tirade of insults. You fucking little slut. You are good for nothing.
“Pet?” I looked down to see Sir in front of me. His eyes were concerned, he was touching my face. I blinked my eyes and long rows of thick tears ran down my face. “Oh Baby,” he whispered, “Baby, we need to stop.”
“No!” I cried out. I wiped the tears away. I couldn’t let it be this way. I could not let him win. “I’m ok. I’m not afraid.”
He kissed me, “Pet- you don’t have to. You decide. YOU decide. I’m here now and he can’t hurt you ever again.”
I nodded, wiping away my tears, “Please… I’m fine Sir.” I am not sure why I forced myself to continue. I needed it though. I needed to walk through this fear, and turn it into pleasure. I needed to prove to myself that he hadn’t broken me. That he hadn’t changed who I was to become. That I was not affected by what he did. That he didn’t abuse me. He didn’t molest me. He didn’t hurt me.
I knew that Sir was uncertain, but he knew why I needed it. He was cautious and I heard his voice cracking when he said, “Ok Pet. But look at me. Good girl. You decide.”
I braced myself against the rack and felt the next strike. It was harder than the last two, coming down across my cheeks. I felt like I was being stabbed. The tears poured from my eyes, it was happening again. My step dad, that son of a bitch, was haunting me. He was laughing at me. I could hear him.
The last lick connected with my flesh, and somewhere from within my soul I cried out, “Daddy, please No!”
He was at my side immediately. He cradled my face, and hugged me, “Oh my baby, my girl. It’s ok now. It’s me. I’m here.” He comforted me, and guided me to the chair. He sat down and pulled me into his lap where I curled into his arms and sobbed. “I’m so sorry, Sir. I thought I could… I thought…. I wanted to…”
He quieted me and hugged me tight, “Oh baby….” his voice was like a blanket, “You are safe with me. You are my girl now. I will protect you.”
He held me for a long time, kissed my cheeks and wiped away my tears. Maybe I was not ready yet to face that demon. Maybe it was too soon. Then again, maybe I will never be ready. Perhaps I will never be able to face the belt.
Maybe he DID change who I was to become.
I can’t change that back. I can only decide where I go from here but it’s up to me. I decide.

For many years, I’ve been known as Bad, Bad Girl. It was never meant to be a name, or a handle. It was the name of the blog. When I first started writing, I wrote in first person. I was talking to you, so I didn’t use a name. I made one up for a while, but it never stuck. Many of my readers have watched me go through relationships. They have witnessed the ups and downs of my marriage and other relationships.
Many pick up in the middle, and my life, like any good soap opera does not need too much introduction. You can pick it up anywhere. Follow along for a few episodes and you’re caught up. The slut drama is always good entertainment. I have been more than happy to be your hostess.
I’ve have changed though. My readers see it. It’s hard not to miss. I belong to someone now. I’m in a D/s relationship that makes me truly happy, even if it is from a distance. I’m owned and wanted and special to someone and it has changed the way I see myself. I see myself the way that he sees me. Or at least I try to. There are times that he refers to me as Bad, Bad Girl, and I admit- I don’t like it. I almost cringe that he would see me like that. That shameless slut who was fucking random men I had met on Adult Friend Finder and sites like that. No, I’m not that girl anymore. Anymore? Well, who knows? I’m sure it would be easy to fall back to those ways- but I don’t know. I feel different, and I just can’t see myself climbing in the back seat of my car with someone who wasn’t at least my friend. Someone who would at least send me a text message on my birthday, assuming they knew when my birthday was.
I have been wrapping things up with the men who I felt deserved it. Some doors are still slightly open, as I don’t think that Sir and I will be monogamous at this distance, even though I choose to be right now. However, it is all very well established that I am not ‘on the fuck market’ right now- and the few men that doors are open with, understand, respect and are happy for me. The ones who don’t deserve it, they probably haven’t noticed my absence. It’s not surprising.
There are two relationships that where the door is still somewhat open if I choose to venture out. I’m in no rush to jump into bed with him, but Jack is someone that I enjoyed the company of. For the 45 minutes that we would spend fucking, there were 3 to 4 hours of talking. He’s someone I respect. The guy from work, The Brit, is the same way- he’s just a good guy. Since I told him about my relationship with my Sir- he has been friendly and supportive. He stops by my office at least once a week and offers to pick me up a soda from the vending machine. He tells me, ‘that guy better be treatin you right or I’m gonna have to go find him!”
Those men I would call friends. Those men I would not be ashamed to tell Sir that I was going to spend time with, sexual (probably not) or otherwise.
I won’t go over the list of men, but I did give him a list of the men who I considered worthy my time, and why. It’s a hard thing to try to justify why someone is worth your time when you have spent a long time feeling that you were not worth theirs. However, part of my submission is standing with my chin up and valuing myself. Being a submissive is not about bowing down as is I were ‘less than, afraid of, or inferior to.’ It’s strange that I would need someone to remind me that I should do this, and why. My friends have been telling me this all along. Of course, often times we find that our friends don’t have any answers either. We are equally screwed up and our self esteems are closely on the same level though sometimes it manifests in different ways.
As the months have passed, I find myself much more in control. I have less shame. I’m not on the hunt for emotional gratification that I seemed to create out of sex. I can look back now, and see that if I wasn’t yet, I was on my way towards sex addiction. I realize that my destructive behavior stems from some disturbing revelations I’ve have about my father, my co-dependent relationship with my soon to be ex husband and abandonment issues that fester in both. These are things I am working through, with myself, in discussions with friends, Sir, family, my Sir- and maybe a professional. Maybe.
The last thing I needed to get rid of was photographic evidence. Yes, I have proof of my dirty little not-so-secrets. Somewhere along the line, in order to prove that I didn’t care about my behavior, I started taking pictures of it. There are lots of pictures, with lots of men. Most of the men you’ve read about and I allowed, sometimes asked for photographs of their dicks in my mouth, among other places. I kept them in an online file folder- right next to my school work. Lately it has been an ugly nagging reminder like a dirty old crack pipe. Every time I open the file to retrieve my homework, I’m looking at the icons of pictures of me with cock in my mouth- cum on my face, you get the gist. I thought to delete them, but I’m not sure what held me back. I knew I wouldn’t look at them with any sense of fondness. I wouldn’t use them for anything. They were just there. It felt as if they were everywhere.
They were taunting me. Haunting me like the ghosts of sluts past. Pert of me rationalized that I should not get rid of them just because I have a new man in my life. It is part of my story, part of my journey. My whole blog is just a graphic recount of tales, erotic, funny and dysfunctional. I may have made some things up, but I certainly didn’t leave anything out. Sure I can hide behind ‘it’s all fiction’- but not when there’s picture. No, the pictures are color reminders of a downward spiral. I discussed this dilemma with my Dom. I told him how I felt about the pictures- that some are some what artistic or even pretty , but most are just graphic and shameful. He asked me to show him one. Show him what behavior I thought was so shameful. I went to the folder and opened it, looking through the pictures and realizing that I was disgusted and ashamed. I knew I needed to be rid of this. The fact that I asked these men (some of whom I hardly recall) to take pictures, that I saved them, that I kept a rather LARGE folder for them. It was twisted. Not that keeping pictures of lovers is wrong. Nor that taking pictures of having sex is wrong. However, these pictures represent a person I don’t want to be anymore. They represent sadness, depression, disrespect, self loathing, and my own self-destruction.
I sent him the link, with the log in and password. Then I called him. I asked him, “Sir will you please remove them for me. I just can’t seem to do it myself. It’s not me anymore. Please do not judge me. It’s not who I am. It’s not who I ever want to be again. I don’t ever want to see them again. Please, take them away.”
He heard my tears and quieted me. “Yes Pet. I will take care of it.”
It was like a huge weight was lifted. He would simply take away what I did not want to carry anymore. I have said so many times that he simply lightens my emotional burden. He didn’t tell me how many he saw. He didn’t make comments on the photos or the videos. He said nothing about it at all. After a few minutes of silence, I saw pop up windows for the application telling me folders had been changed. He said, “It’s done Pet. It’s over now.”
Just like that, I’m new again. I don’t have those nasty reminders telling me I’m no good. I don’t have to worry when I go to do my homework that someone is going to see my cum splattered face. I behave in a way I don’t have to be ashamed of. I don’t have to justify or make excuses for it. With some trust, some bravery and a few clicks.
All of that mess is gone now. It’s behind me.