The Dictionary, Page Twelve

Capture, now what was I thinking?  Capture, of all things.  The dictionary of my submission -- the words meaningful to me as I relate to my Tasdron:  capture is word twelve.

Not roleplay, no -- this is not a game.  Not slavery, no --  a slave to my passions, I am not, and I govern my passions with the desire of a saint.  Surely to cupcakes I had something in mind when I blurted the word "capture" for page twelve of the dictionary.

Oh indeed, oh yes.  Oh for the very certainty.  Yes, and I remember precisely why, too.  I remember a day -- early, early in my understanding of this lifestyle -- when brave old Sir Will set me down in a new and unfamiliar sim, greenery everywhere, with some delicate iron chairs and a table for two.  I was honored to hold his attention for the twenty minutes we had for talking and enjoying green nature.  (I am always honored when someone of sublime humanity invites me for a small time to enjoy an idea or two, and I have been very lucky with how many of those people -- people of sublime humanity -- I have been able to meet.)  What we talked about was preserving -- holding time in a bottle, as it were.  How afraid I had become, at that time in the year, of time slipping away and vanishing, and taking everything I love with it.  It was an anxiety easily quelled, in fact, and brave old Sir Will's picture in my photo album proves it.  "Why do you take pictures?" he asked.  "I need to capture and then hold on to moments," I replied.

When I frame it, snap it, save it, and treat it, it is mine for however long I say so.

Memory is unreliable, and dreams are easily influenced.  The taste of the tea at the time of a special moment is a taste I could try with all my might to recapture, tomorrow.  And of course, that taste, that perfect chemistry just so, just right, just there in that moment now gone, that taste is precious and flown.

So I take tea every day, for every moment.  I won't take any chances of missing out.

* * *

What happens, though, when the moments are perfectly collected, and the visuals perfectly captured, and the words and associations catalogued carefully and with pristine attention to every detail worth remembering -- and then the feeling fades... What happens when the chemistry that coordinated all of my feelings of submission suddenly changes, changed as a vial of blood poured into the clear, pure glass of aqua vita changes the look and meaning and value of the intoxicant?

The chemistry that made me crave the pain; the chemistry that made me crave the care; the chemistry that made me crave the naked vulnerability and steadfast rules and limits.  The chemistry that made me open myself to surrendering to another.  How do I recapture that chemistry?  I have gone all vanilla and happy.  There is great love, there.  There is placid, easy conversation.  There is intelligence and connection.  There is beauty and truth.  There is all such goodness but -- what of the chemistry that made me crave the sting of a riding crop?

My submission changes with every new day.  I am no less submissive simply for not craving pain.  I am no less submissive simply for not craving a passionate violence in fantasy.  I am no less submissive. I am simply... chaste in thought, now, as well as in deed.

There is no capturing chemistry as one captures its look.  Chemistry boils and bubbles, forever changing.  The species named "Submissive" does not change with the flowing, floating fury of volatile chemicals always at play.  I'm still me.  I'll be fine.

* * *

And I have valentines chairs to sit in for when you get home, by the way.

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.

Pain and forgiveness

Forgiveness redux.  The task is not complete.  We did a ritual of red markings upon my body, and that begins a journey I did not anticipate.  The paint has faded but I remember my task, and the pain is changing.  Pain and Paint are words I link, now, and things make sense to me.  I do not know if you intended this link, but it has happened anyway.  Painted pain fading.  At least, changing.

And this book has done things that we will need to talk about, also.  This is the picture in my mind when I imagine the book, and how you will always come for me.

* * *
Inigo could not stop his sudden tears.
"Now you are watching him fall.  Look -- look at him -- watch Domingo die --"
Inigo began sobbing out of all control.
"Tell me what you feel --"
Inigo was barely able to speak the word:  "Pain."
"Yes, right, of course, pain, killing pain.  That is what you should want more than anything, an end to your pain."
"...yes..."
"That pain is with you, every moment of every day?"
"...yes..."
"If you think of ending your pain, you will kill the six-fingered man.  But if you only think of revenge, he will kill you, because he has already taken the thing on earth you treasured most, and he will know that, and when you battle he will say things, he will taunt you, he will talk about your pathetic father and he will laugh at your love for a failure like Domingo, and you will scream in rage and your revenge will take control and you will attack blindly -- and then he will cut you to pieces."

* * *
When I am not imagining love and connection, I imagine ending pain.  But not really.  When I am not imagining love and connection, I imagine changing pain, a transformation.  Another metamorphosis, another pretty butterfly wing emerging.  A different pain.  I imagine feeling something different, something reserved, something never yet experienced.  Putting pain somewhere on my body and letting it feel what it is like to split open and bleed.  And then, deriving pleasure from it.  I would say, a well-earned pleasure.  Time enough.

Not every day.  My submission is not characterized by this.  I am more love than agonizing.  But, for a special treat, the agonizing must flow.

I know now what I must do.  I knew we would figure it out.

Jealousy, Part Two

The fundamental premise of my study of jealousy was that feelings of jealousy contradict feelings of belonging (from a submissive's point of view) and feelings of being the significant voice in the life of a loved one (from a dominant's point of view).  By that I mean to say, the extent to which a person feels like she belongs, or feels like she is the primary influence, is the extent to which a person is not feeling jealous at that moment in time.  Jealousy is defined as an anxiety over the possibility of losing someone (or, from a dominant's perspective, losing someone that we feel a type of ownership over).  The feeling that we will be replaced by someone else, in other words.  The feeling that, even though it hasn't happened (and may never happen), the possibility is undeniably and damnably distracting.

Feelings of jealousy contradict feelings of belonging.  Feelings of jealousy contradict feelings of significance.  Where this leads to is the "imaginary" part of jealousy.  It is an anxiety: if it were a wholesale loss of someone, then the feeling would be properly termed as "grief."  If it were the wholesale deception and adultery proven, then the feeling would be properly termed as "rage."  But it is neither; jealousy exists in the nebulous realm of the imagination, especially if nobody is talking about it.

If jealousy exists in the nebulous realm of the imagination, then it suggests to me a very interesting thing: jealousy also contradicts the three tenets that hold up the D/s lifestyle, those being safety, sanity, and consensual relations.  If the dom or the sub (or the Master or the slave) are in the wrecked throes of a jealous rage, all inside their imagination, it calls "sanity" into question and the mental preparation required to properly command or obey.  It calls "safety" into question and the trust one requires to come face to face with a man with a whip (so to speak).  It calls "consent" into question because, well,  is the person really here and present when she agrees to the scene if she is mentally occupied with sorting out her jealous reactions and stifling her jealous behaviours?  Is her consent valid if she is preoccupied with trying to figure out how to confront you - appropriately -  about her fears and anxieties?  Jealousy begins in the mind, but it ends in behaviour: everyday actions that look like everyday actions (baking, shutting a door) but are, in fact, the body's reaction to what the mind cannot ignore.  The body cries out when the mind is in pain, after all, and the jealous wife who bakes a little more furiously and the jealous husband who slams the door a little too loudly are just begging for some good, heart-to-heart and face-to-face communication of the "please listen" and "please focus on me" variety.

Discipline as Shaping

It was an awakening to understand the difference between discipline and punishment.  I have long known they were different words.  I have long understood the connotations of each word.  I had even come to accept the common usage of these words in the D/s lifestyle.

And then, listening to Sir Dwight speak about the Master's perspective of pain in discipline and in punishment, suddenly I realized the difference between the two.

And then suddenly I realized how erotic seems this word, "discipline"... and what a killjoy seems the word "punishment".

Suddenly the demarcation sizzled its boundary.

I resist punishment.  I do not remember the last time I have ever required "punishment."  I resist the word so strongly in terms of my own character that I outright reject it.  "Someone who strives so honestly," I think to myself, "surely must not be deserving of censure or punishment."  Because I do strive; and I do care; and I do persist in my seeking.  I do wish to please; and I do wish to make sure that the pleasure I bring is meaningful and lasting.  My heart, in other words, is the heart of a submissive giver.  I come to realize this more and more with each passing day and each key learning.

On the other hand, do I require shaping?  Of course I do.  Do I require a firm hand to guide me? Absolutely, I do.  Do I long for the experience and expertise of a strong Dominant to shape me and guide me?  Without a doubt in my mind.  (And would I be turned-on-and-lit like a Christmas tree if that shaping and guiding involved careful and inventive discipline?  God... yes, yes, yes.)

Am I certain that the frenzy of submission that I feel right now needs to dial down a notch or two before I commit to anything long-term, lest I get myself embroiled in a situation that I wish I hadn't?  You bet.   Because each time I enjoy a "eureka" moment I do frenzy-up and start fingering my collar.  I can feel my knees weaken and my mouth watering.  I can feel all the unruly, undisciplined parts of me begin the cartwheeling and hooplah that make me feel so "out of control".

The irony is, I know I am quite capable of reining in my own bridle.  I know that I am composed, integral.  But what I ache for... what I wish for... what this whole thing is about, really, is to have someone who knows me (me...) well enough that he can do it for me, sometimes.   With elan.