The Dictionary, Page Fourteen

Claiming, for the fourteenth word in my dictionary of submission, is one of those words that necessarily involves two people.  Words like "discipline" or "chastity" or "service" do not necessarily require someone other than me to be in the room.  I may perform these words in solitude as part of my lifestyle.  But, the act of claiming -- this is an act that requires two people:  the one who declares and the one who is now possessed.

To celebrate, I sport Lola's Tangos in their two-fold enormity, nearly breaking my back from how pendulous and full they feel.  (They are as large as my head, and they could be larger still if I choose!  Unreal.)  The large-breasted phenomenon that sweeps through Second Life right now is hilarious to me.  But I digress.

I remember the anticlimactic declaration of an RP official who said that, after long and arduous negotiation so many years ago, Tasdron could indeed claim me and I could now officially consider myself his.  I remember the ceremony of the brand that almost could not be, all because of more RP shenanigans.  I remember the "going home" with him and the special rituals, the idea of ritual that would come to characterize the flavour of our interaction henceforth.  I remember, outside of RP, a companionship ceremony that we conducted for ourselves in the privacy of his own land, under a flowering tree at the mouth of a cave.  And another, in the dark, as we stood upon stones in a sparring arena, equals in each other's gaze.   I remember a long, long absence ended by a sudden return, and Tasdron reclaimed me in a house I kept just in case of such an incident.  And then a long, long absence after which the bell tower came into sight.

Once, I wrote that it mattered not whether "he knew" I submitted to him.  The very fact of my submission was in my mind, after all, and even if he had no idea, I could submit to my own heart's content and behave in such a way that demonstrated my submission -- whether or not he accepted it.  In this way, it is similar to O in the Chateau:  the men try and try to enslave her, but she repeatedly declares her submission to their will.  It doesn't matter what others think, in other words: my own demonstration and my own behaviour define me.  Just as O is submissive and not a slave by her very declaration of submission, so am I, even in my own mind, even during the vast emptiness between "claimings."

But, when the time comes for him to make his claim, then something even more meaningful happens.  I am not just me alone in my own imagination: I am now me, alive and real, in his also.  And his mastery is not my imagination: it becomes more and more real just as my submission becomes more and more dynamic.  That declaration -- like a wedding vow or a sworn vendetta -- is one of the few remaining utterances with the power to change a person's state.  So few words remain in language that will physically and permanently alter a person's state:  "I submit," and conversely, "I claim you" are words that hold such power -- almost as magic transformation.

I now return to my svelte and lean silhouette, putting the tangos away.  (The sexually-charged world astonishes me, honestly.  Sex sex sex.  Tango tango tango.)

The Dictionary, Page One

Everything changes with The One.

None of the old rules apply.  None of the old limits.  None of the old fears.  None of the old anxieties.  None of the old wondering, waiting, hopelessness.  None of the old, "That could never happen."  None of the old, "You won't find what you're looking for."   None of the old, "That is impossible."  None of the old, "Nobody wants that."  None of the old, "You will have to change things in order to fit."

Everything changes.  I paraphrase Tasdron: the D/s lifestyle only appears as a debasement of the submissive personality when the submissive gives herself to a dominant who does not feel curious about her, protective of her, intimately aware of her, and determined to provide for her the sheltered love that she seeks (whatever kind of love that is).  The erotic mind -- the mind finely attuned to the apprehension of desire and need and pleasure and love, and how these manifest at the time and place and point of the mind's position -- opens like a flower under the loving gaze of The One.

Intimacy, connection, submission, worship, chastity, adoration, service, creation, representation, rendering, capture, surrender, claiming, ritual, frame, solid, eternal, earthly, heavenly, sinfully, humility, revelation, giving, taking, ornamental, mastering, skillful, privacy, shield, ourselves, perfection.  I could write a dictionary of submission that was built just for me and me alone because of how Tasdron dominates me, and these are the words that would  -- in fact, that will --  headline each page.

Eyes to mine, butterfly

We discussed past pains, past lives, past futures and past things abandoned.  And, then, ceremony number two unfolded, unwrapping something that I was not expecting.  I should have expected it: there was a little sound of something delicate, the tinker bell flutter of metallic music hidden inside red velvet.  I heard it in my mind's ear but I did not process the implication until -- there -- I see the dainty pouch and the emptied contents.

My hands were bound behind me, a precaution that forbids me common expressions of worship.  I must be more inventive with my gratitude.

This is the balance: even though there is evidence everywhere of my submission, there have been days recently with nothing overtly to do with submission and dominance.  This is the balance: after so many days, formality and ceremony.  Balance, after such a stretch.  Counterbalance and harmony in two/two time.  A renewal.  A progression further.  A proof of love and a proof of devotion.

Balance.  Counterbalance.  Harmony.  And a little velvet pouch with delicate utensils, and the thinnest, sweetest chain barely there, and more powerful than a magic wand.

I watch as you clean the needle: you use fire to burn away the impurities, and you use alcohol to purify the steel.  Your swordsman-quick piercing of the skin, and it is done and I have no hands to cover my breasts, because my wrists are bound behind my head, my shift dangling from me like a black and gold flag, and it's too late and all finished anyway, like magic.  It is done and I gasped long after you finish.  I beg to be able to look and see for myself, because my eyes were locked on yours and unmoving.  "You will not close your eyes," you said to me, and I did not.  I looked at you the whole time.  "Eyes to mine, butterfly." And then I felt the needle pierce.  And then a second time.

You say:  "When you are naked, I will see this sunlight and it will remind me of your fire. When you are displayed, men will see this diamond and know my hands are upon your body already. And when you are not naked, you will feel me, ever with you, beneath your clothes."  

I'm allowed to do this, to feel this, to have this.  I'm allowed to experience this and balance this and cling to this.  I'm allowed to revel in this feeling and I am so grateful.  Two diamond suns pendant and gleaming, clasped with a fairy-light chain that makes the daintiest noise -- so dainty, almost invisible...  But I know it is locked there, and I feel it minute by minute.  I must be more inventive with my gratitude.