I had a bad day today. I won’t go into details, but I was overworked, overstressed, and just spinning my wheels. I had to — and I can’t emphasize enough how sick to my stomach this makes me feel — admit that I can’t do everything. That I was spinning my wheels.
And I was so stressed about it that my arms broke out in hives, and my chest tightened and I had an anxiety attack of massive proportions. (See kids, this is the flip-side of being a freaky type-A.) I was pacing. I couldn’t think straight. I was probably more stressed than I can ever remember being. I don’t know that I was on my way to having a heart attack, but I suspect I could see it on the horizon.
And after I got it all straightened out, as I felt the weight lift off my shoulders even as they the cords of my neck twisted like serpents and the my gut spewed acid reflux, I called my wife.
And we talked. And we talked about nothing. We talked about a coworker of hers who came out to us about being into BDSM and poly and all of these other yummy things. We talked about the fact that I’ll be up to see her day after tomorrow. And then, she got the Voice, because she knew I needed to hear it, and she told me that she was going to take care of everything. That I had too much going on, and she was going to take all of the weight off my shoulders, and whip my ass. Beat me. Fuck me with the strap-on. Piss on me. Make me disappear into a smoothly running worshipping-machine, where all thought and individuality disappeared, and all that was left was Her. That’s the image she painted in my head.
And my muscles unknotted and the acid reflux went away, and I’m still stressed, but God it was good to know she was there. That she knew what I needed, and what I needed is to turn the brain off, to just be a cock and a set of nerve endings, and those nerve endings are going to flare with pleasure and pain and all I have to do is worship. All I have to do is give up, to surrender, to do the one thing I can’t do at work or in my public persona. To allow myself, for a few glorious hours, to be weak. And weak is so good. To be owned. To be obedient and honest and quiet and secure in the knowledge that she’s taking care of everything.
That’s what D/s is about to me: being weak. Giving in. Surrendering. I can’t give in to the people around me at work or in my public life, but there’s one person who I can give in to: Her. My Mistress. And because I allow myself to be weak and owned, she takes care of me, and all I have to do is obey. Physically, I can be as strong as I want, but my soul: she wants to own it. She wants to own me, every fucking inch.
And she does. At this point, I’m like Pavlov’s dogs when I hear the Voice. I know it’s my Mistress talking. I know it’s time to stop thinking and start listening. And it feels so good to shut down, to just trust and obey. To choose the evil queen, the wicked stepmother, the sexy Bond villainess over Queen and Country. Yes, that’s it: to allow someone to be strong and cruel and hurtful and not fight it, to just let her do it, to give up, surrender, and let it happen.
To be weak. She let’s me be weak. And it’s the best feeling in the world. That’s why 24/7 is such a dangerous attraction for me: because it would be an opportunity to be weak all of the time. But I can’t — I won’t — do that. I fought too hard to learn how to be strong. But once in a while…it’s good to be weak.
I don’t know why I’m saying this, but I just know this is how I feel: this is what it’s about to me.
