A Letter To Sir


I have openly written about being in a closed poly unit.  I’ve spoken of my wife of a decade now who has split personality and the subsequent babygirl I got from that.  I probably have droned on endlessly about both of my wives and my husband.

They are the center of my world; both in kink and outside of it.  Everything I do is for them.  In turn, they keep me sane.  It is hard to explain a dynamic like ours when it is so heavily intertwined in poly, D/s, and traditional marriage.  

So, here is a gentle reminder of my break down:

Master and his wife “A”

Myself and my wife “B”

Funnily enough, those are their real initials; which is why I find it so amusing to break it down like that.  It seems as though I am marking them like items on a shelf, when really I am just giving them privacy…as I lay our life bare in this article.

The four of us are together as a unit.  Master holds Head of Household rights with all of us.  He is my Dominant.  He is my babygirl’s drampa.  Wife “A” is Grandma to my babygirl.  And the rest is up for exploration and communication.  

Don’t worry if you are confused…we find ourselves in the same boat often.  We will save you a seat.

Now that I’ve given a gently confusing reminder of my Dynamics, we can continue with the show.

I am writing about the responsibilities, rights, rules, and hardships Dominants must deal with.  I’ve been told, and seen plenty of internet pictures, about submission being a gift. I’m not entirely disagreeing with that statement.  I was very selective on who I gave my submission to. And it was hard fought. But, in return, I seek guidance, advice, pain, pleasure, and emotional stability.  Submission doesn’t seem quite like a gift when I add on all the requirements that are attached to it, now does it?

My Dictionary

Previously., I’ve written extremely personal articles because experience is what helps me explain why I live the way I do.  It allows me to show you, with both my own words and your imagination, how my dictionary was written.

My dictionary is filled with words like 

“Blanket Consent”

“Diddy”

“Drampa” 

“Dealer’s Choice”

“Power Trip”

“Your Dragon”

“Beast”

And so many more. 

These are words that matter in my life.  Each one is defined in my dictionary but has probably never existed in yours.  And that’s ok. 

I also have three words I define uniquely from you.  I know that for a fact.

“Mister” — This started as an inside joke that my wife made about my Master.  It then generically moved to an acceptable form of address in a vanilla setting.  Now, it is both a term of endearment and has probably replaced his name in the minds of those closest to us.  

“Sir” –. This is an action word to me.  It is the form of address that I use when I need something.  It is what I use when I want to try something, get advice, or am answering in punishment.  It is my acknowledgement that I am still in the real world, still present, and still fucking needy.

“Master” –. This is the culmination of peace.  I use this address when I speak to others.  It stands as evidence of what we have both committed to.  It is what I say when I have centered or sunk into sub space (for what little I say at that point anyway).  It is simply a statement of where I am and who he is to me.

In any of these roles, He must govern himself and me.  For the record, I despise the term “role” because it implies, he is acting or taking up a character.  Regardless of what I call him, he is simply himself.  

Reflection of Behaviours

You get told that, as a sub, my behavior is reflective of my Dom and his discipline style.  This has never been more accurate than it was a few days ago. As a part of my service, I act as a secretary and go-between for our local BDSM community.  That means, that when someone wants advice or has a question, I get a message.

I am fairly well behaved.  I don’t think I’ve been in serious trouble in more than a year at this point.  I may joke a little too far or not move fast enough or even forget my pills a time or two.  Small bits that need a single reminder and I’m good to go. But, because of how heavily masochistic I am, people seem to think I am always in trouble.  When, in reality, those marks are from fun times, not punishment.

So, I get a message that asks me, “How can I be a terrible person?  Sir hasn’t touched me in awhile and I need to play cuz I’m on edge. I need to know what you would do.”  

Funnily enough, I would never act out like that unless I was out of my ever-loving mind.  While we have many brats in our community, I am not one of them. I detest being labeled as one and I do not understand the mindset to be one.  But, to each their own.

I answered honestly.  I told her she needed to talk to her Sir and explain her edginess.  She needed to use her big girl words and explain that she felt neglected.

She did not do that.

I did not understand.

Everyone is convinced that I am mouthy, and outspoken, and terrible, and always in trouble.  I should specify that in my vanilla life, I am more outspoken and headstrong.  I am completely different at home. But the community is also aware that Master has high standards and doesn’t put up with that kind of bullshit.

If I ever acted like that, I’d be drawing from my jar as well as counting the hits to my ass in clear, concise words.

Apparently, as I’ve been told, Master has to be a hard task master because I am so bad.  I’ve had to learn to not let those words hurt me. They still do from time to time. But, if He doesn’t see me that way, everything stays right in the world.  It just bothers me that he is sometimes seen as harsh when I get to see his softer side (and his Sadistic side…I like that side the most…)

Master bears the weight of my actions, my words, my successes, and my fuck-ups.  I would say failing, but he has managed to get it into my thick skull that failure is simply a learning opportunity.

Therapist

Dominants also must be strong enough to hold their submissive above water.  I can’t speak for anyone else, but I am a certified headcase. There are few days that go by that don’t involve a text message to Master that my anxiety is high, I’m having a panic attack, or I’m overwhelmed.  In those moments, there is nothing he can do for me. I work and live in two different cities, I am gone often, and he physically can’t be there.

Yet, he finds little ways to help me.

He built me a room.  It is a landscape inside my head that He helped me build.  I know every crack in the stone, every engraving on the winged back chair, and every crumb of brick around the fireplace.  The furnishings are cherrywood and brass. The ceilings are 20 feet high and the room locks so only we can see it. It is where I kneel before him, place my head on his knees, and simply breathe.  It is how I can calm down when I am not home and I need Him.

He simply tells me to go to our room.

I can build it in thirty seconds or less now.  I use it often.

During the days I am home, if I am stressed, I stretch out on the floor at Master’s and our wives’ feet.  It gives me comfort and reinforces my place in the house.

When I can’t sleep because the nightmares are too strong or I am emotional, and I don’t have my wife to curl up to, one sentence helps me.

I ask, ever so timidly, “may I sleep at your feet Sir?”  It is a figurative question at bedtime.  We both have our own wives, who we curl to, and cuddle with.  But, when he tells me yes, it gives me the comfort of his Dominance, even when we are apart.  

Sometimes I cry, simply because I feel the need to.  Sometimes I apologize for things I had no control over.  

Most of the time, I ask his weird, off the wall questions, that make him think “how the fuck do I answer this?”

And He must remember it all. He needs to know my medications, my appointments, my triggers, my code words, my dictionary, and everything involved in my life.  He knows my job at work, my wife’s needs and wants, my babygirl’s needs and wants, and then everything involved with himself, his wife, and all the lovely gremlins we call kids.

That’s a hell of a lot to take on, simply for the “gift of my submission.” 

Drop

I know I’ve rambled on for a long time now, but I hope you are understanding why.  It is always important to remember that just because Dominants usually have fantastic self-control and stand solid, doesn’t mean they aren’t human too.  Though I doubt you will ever hear them admit it, they get sick, overworked, tired, underappreciated, and everything in between. 

My Master is lucky enough to also be a Service Top.  He spends nearly every event we host having a multitude of people on his table.  We’ve got negotiations down pat and while he scenes, I monitor him. Because, up and down headspace that comes from doing sessions with a multitude of people, comes with a hard crash.

In my experience, it has been referred to as Dom Drop and/or Event Drop.  When you get all those happy chemicals from play, and you are surrounded by all these others that do, and then it stops.  The party ends, the car is loaded, you head home, and BAM! – out of commission for a few days. Everyone is different. My Master simply needs bedrest, natural sugars (like fruit), and some cuddles with his puppy.  

Do you know that even when he is walking dead on his feet, he takes care of “his girls” first?  He makes sure I’m in a good headspace, that my wife and babygirl are settled, and that his wife is resting peacefully before he even thinks of taking care of himself.  That’s what good Dom’s do.  At least, that’s what he tells me anyway.

I figure he isn’t the only one.  Everyone forgets that subs aren’t the only ones with needs.  It is just as much my responsibility to take care of him, yet he is always two steps ahead.

Headspace

I’ve talked about this portion in the past.  I am a “catatonic” submissive (as I recently heard it coined).  Basically, it means that when I reach sub space (that deep, all consuming euphoria), I lose everything.  I forget how to speak, I lose the ability to remember my name, my body just reacts but my mind is gone. I have moments of blackout, where the scenes become jumbled and half missing in my head.  Most importantly, I lose my ability to safe word.

I’ve never found this to be a problem because I trust my Master implicitly.  However, who has to watch me for the signs? Master does. Even through his own headspace, all the chaos around us (if we are in a public play space), the energy of the room, He has to watch me close enough to know when to call the scene.  I’ve fallen off dungeon furniture a couple of times, because my body is just reacting, and he has had to catch me. He has to know, that once I’m in headspace, he can’t leave me until I come back. Why? Because coming out of headspace, for me, is an extreme sensory overload.  Everything is too loud, too bright, and too cold. His touch, skin to skin, is what keeps me grounded and helps me reconcile my mind and my body.  

I don’t know your thoughts on the matter, but I believe that is a lot of fucking responsibility to lay at someone’s feet.    –Pun intended

Earning the Right

The last examples I am going to share with you are going to make me look like an asshole.  And I am fine with that.  

These are real moments that I went through, and put my Master through, that shaped our dynamic.  

They shaped my service. 

They sealed my trust.

When I first met Master, he was my friend’s husband.  Yes, I was friend’s with wife “A” long before I met her husband.  I had also been married to wife “B” for nearly 7 years at that point.  Over time, we got to talking. He was knowledgeable and I found that to be quite a likeable quality.  Then, when we discussed our kinks, we had several things in common and it led to more in depth conversation.

One of the very first things I ever told him was, “I will bow to no man and I sure as fuck won’t call you Sir.”

Funny thing about these kinds of declarations, you believe them whole-heartedly.  I meant it. I still meant it when I asked him to take me under consideration. It took me six months to not mean it anymore.  I struggled every single day and for the first couple months, I just omitted saying anything at the end of my sentences. I was generally quiet anyway.

He told me he could see the fight in my eyes any time he pushed me to address him correctly.  However, he never forced it outside of a scene. And he would only ever ask once. Then, it would be up to me to respond as I chose.  One time, I refused to answer him at all. So, he left me alone. He didn’t say a word as he left. He didn’t dismiss me. He simply walked out.  I knelt there for nearly a half hour before he came back, my head buried in the duvet, feeling like complete disgrace. He never said a word. When he came back, he sat down, put his hand in my hair (just for comfort), and didn’t object when I turned to put my head in his lap and apologize.  That was a turning moment for me. He knew it as well. But it was more important that I realize it on my own. That’s why he left. When I whispered a broken “I’m sorry Sir,” we changed.

It took me another six months before I would crawl for him.  I still struggle with that today. Most of my issues deal directly with self esteem issues.  I also struggle with the fact that I feel fucking ridiculous crawling on the floor like I am two.  

The hardest battle, however, came with the take downs.  About every four months or so, I would push. I would get edgy and snappy and perma-pms.  It meant I needed a full, physical, wrestling match. I needed to fight tooth and nail and I needed him to win.  Keep in mind, I never said I would try to lose. It would start with a pinning, and lead to kicking, hitting, choke holds, and anything else required to win my submission.  

Then during the fourth or fifth time I initiated a take down, I gave up.  We were in the third room we’d moved to, he had me pinned on the kitchen floor, and I simply didn’t understand why I was fighting.  See, I’ve always fought. I’ve always pushed to be the best, to win, to compete.  

This time, I didn’t want to anymore.

I laid there, sobbing, by myself, for almost an hour.  I stayed in the same position he left me. I couldn’t be touched after a takedown.  I needed the processing time. This time, I wanted him to break my rule. I wanted him to pick me up and tell me it was ok.  But, he didn’t.

Because I had to learn to trust him.  I had to learn to ask for what I needed without the fight.

I needed to allow myself to submit.  

It was only after that realization, that I earned my collar.  It wasn’t immediate, no, but it was a turning point.

Those are probably the most influential moments.  I have rules set up, and moments where we’ve had to adjust them, but the fighting is what changed us the most.

So, when I talk about giving my submission to someone, it has gone to a man who let me take my time and learn who I was.  He didn’t label me as bad or disrespectful because I hesitated in my service or fought the expectations of what BDSM looks like to most people.

He’s never called me a brat.  He’s never told me he is disappointed.  He’s never asked me not to be myself.  

All he ever did was ask me to come to him.  He asked that I talk to him when I am confused, have questions, learn something, or realize something about myself.

I can say, that takes a whole lot of confidence and even more patience.

He’s not perfect.  But he is perfect for me.

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Mostly, I want you to remember that we are people first, dynamic second.  At least, in my world, that has worked best. Take a moment to observe your D-type.  Do you see the strain of responsibility? No? You probably won’t. I find they hide it well.  Just remember, Dominants are human too.

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The last portion of this article is extremely personal.  It is a letter I have written to my Master as a reflection of where I have been, whom I’ve become, and the gratitude I feel for him.  If you choose not to read this, I understand. If you wish to stay, you are more than welcome. I am far from perfect, and honestly, pretty fucked up in my own head.  But, Master has taught me a lot about myself and he deserves a chance to hear it from me.

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The Letter

Master,

There are moments in my life where I find myself to be at a loss for words.  Its not because I don’t have any, it is merely because I don’t know how to convey them in a way that they would be understood with perfect clarity.

I’ve thought long and hard about how to tell you how much I appreciate you.  Thank you has never seemed quite powerful enough to describe the positive changes you have helped me achieve.  So, I’m going to simply talk to you, as I do in my head most days, and hopefully, you get to see yourself from my point of view for a change.

You have taught me a copious amount of things.  I have started learning how to care for your leather.  I have started learning your trades, both electricity and leather work.  I’ve learned that, in the privacy of our home, you are a giant teddy bear.  I’ve learned you believe you can never get sick, orange juice and pepto bismol can cure anything, and that you are a busy body.  You’ve helped me learn to be more social and taught me how to flog my wife without hurting her.

Yet, do you know what I’ve learned from you most Sir?  I’ve learned myself.

Sure, I’ve learned how to kneel for you.  I’ve learned how to bite my tongue and remain respectful as a mode of self-control.  I’ve learned how you like your coffee, your favorite pass times, and the little things that make you smile.  I’ve learned to take care of you and our family.

I’ve learned, that to do this, I have an obligation to take care of me.

When I discovered the world of BDSM, I knew instinctively I was submissive.  In fact, I was positive I would be happy as more of a slave.  And like many, I had to explore it alone.  I didn’t have anyone who knew what they were doing.  So, I never experienced the clarity of definition that I have now.

When I met my wife, I was a doormat.  I was so shy and quiet.  My opinions were never vocalized, and I feared that upsetting my partner meant she would leave.  I apologized for everything.  I figured if I apologized enough, it would mean I could stay another day.  That I wouldn’t be left alone.

Looking back, I was apologizing for existing.  I felt I didn’t deserve anything.  I was well versed in self-flagellation.

–when I would upset my partner, I would wait until she was asleep, crawl out of bed, and start searching.  I was searching for the coldest, darkest, most uncomfortable place to sleep.  I didn’t allow myself a blanket or pillow.  After all, I was punishing myself.

–I used to cut.  I still bare those scars.  They sit like white chalk lines, describing the worst of my teenage years.  Only one is completely legible anymore.  It says “Anger”. I look at it when I’m feeling down.  I use it as a reminder that it’s ok to be upset.  It’s ok to stand up for myself.  It’s ok to feel things.  But, to never allow them to overwhelm me.

That was a hard lesson.  It was hard to learn that, like my chalk marks, they need to fade.  They are never meant to be reopened but to always sit on the edges of my memory.

I never learned to ask for help.  My wife has been trying to teach me that for ten years.  I thought asking for help brought out an obligatory attitude in people.  If I ask for something, how do I know they aren’t just saying yes to appease me.  If I ask for something, and they say no, they must not care enough.  I didn’t want to know the answer if they really didn’t care.

But do you know what question I never asked?  It never crossed my mind to ask how they could read minds.  I am an observant person.  I notice when your mood is off.  I watch when you are sick, when you are stressed, and when you are tired.  I know every movement of your body in the days leading up to a party.  So, I always assumed people could notice that for me.

It never dawned on me that 1) they may or may not notice, but I’m too much of a control freak to allow myself the help.  2) sometimes, I don’t know what I need.  When you see my withdrawal, my energy, my everything… you come up behind me and just give me a hug because you know I need grounding.  Those are the moments I have denied myself and my wife for so long.  I’ve denied myself the chance to be…human.

Submissives are one of two things on the interweb.  They are either perfection–delectible, soft spoken, mannered, beautiful, and a walking sex kitten– or they are fuck ups.  If you’ve ever encountered some of the darker CNC interactions, rape culture, and/or the patriarchy movement in BDSM, you have an idea of what I mean.  If you don’t…well, I can always show you my Tumblr.  Thankfully, your darkness compliments mine.

No one tells you how to get to the perfection part.  So, as a newbie, and even further along, I always assumed I must be a fuck up.  Well, I can’t fix what’s wrong with me medically and physically.  However, I can hide the emotional damage.  I call that compartmentalizing.  I can keep quiet, so I am not seen or heard, but I am always on hand when needed.  I can learn your mannerisms so that when you get upset, I can soothe you.  I can always smile, always tell you I’m fine.  If I believe it, I know you will.

But, you didn’t.

You looked at me with the most heartbreaking expression. 

–I was crying.  We were wrestling and I struggled.  I tweaked your shoulder.  I toughened my voice, asked if you were ok, and excused myself.  I knew what was going to happen.  You were going to get rid of me.  There wasn’t any other choice.  I had hurt you.  I had laid my hands on you and hurt you.  So, I held myself against the farthest door in the hallway, closed my eyes, and started to cry.  I had a full-blown panic attack within seconds.  I cried quietly.  After all, I shouldn’t be heard.  I knew that.  I was there when needed, then packed away when I’m not.  

Then you came after me.  Above everything else, you made me look you in the eye and asked me what was wrong.  You wanted to know if you had hurt me, why did I run, why was I crying?  All I could do was say sorry.  I probably said it five or six times before you shushed me and asked me my rules.  

“Rule number 6: I will only apologize when I have a valid reason and must state such reason at the time I apologize. “

Sounds silly, I know.  But, when my wife instituted that rule, years before you assimilated it, I could apologize for hours for forgetting to wash a couple dishes.  Apparently, limiting makes me remember things better.

I had nine fundamentals my wife instituted for my mental health…and probably her sanity.  I am stubborn. Then again, you know that well.  You’ve watched those rules dwindle to three. You’ve reminded me that, when I get overwhelmed, I have more than just you watching out for me.  You’ve reminded me that I must remember to appreciate my wife as well. Because whether I agreed with my rules or not, each of them was necessary for my journey to be a better person.  

That gentle reminder, that solid expectation, shut down my panic attack.  You were able to save my sanity with a single question.

Then you hugged me.

I never wanted to see you look so saddened again.  It was the first time I ever realized that my demons, my holdbacks and hangups, my ill feelings toward myself, bled into my relationships.  

How can I believe anyone is telling me the truth when I can’t wrap my head around the fact that I am not a disease?  

I’m not fixed.  Not by any means.  But I’m not broken either.  Not anymore.

I have been able to realize those moments when I speak ill of myself.  I can recognize that someone’s differing opinions about kink doesn’t mean I’m bad at being a submissive.  It doesn’t mean I’m not wanted nor important.

I have learned what the internet never told me; that I will never be a perfect submissive.

But, that doesn’t mean I am automatically a fuck up.

Why?  Because I don’t need to be a perfect submissive.

I just need to be Your submissive.  That means that I have permission to be broken and run down sometimes.  I have permission to have doubts and short comings and moments of absolutely ridiculous decision making.  I have permission to cry (out loud), to scream, to be angry, and jittery, and happy, and excited.  I have permission to be human.

Why?  Because asking for help means I’m learning.  

Asking for help means I am discovering sides to myself that I didn’t know existed.  Asking for help means I recognize that I have moments of absolute panic and sensory overload and anxiety.  Asking for help means I can teach another person the things I didn’t get to know when I started.

Why?  Because there is no deeper connection than when I look in your eyes and see the promise to teach, the promise to love, and the promise to trust me as deeply as I have you.

By learning, and asking, and trusting, we will always have a connection and trust so deep I never have room to doubt you.

Only when I learned that, could I allow myself to let go.  It was the first time I went catatonic in sub space.  The first time I didn’t know my own name.  The first time I told you that I didn’t want to negotiate our life.  I trusted you so deeply, I never had to second guess anything.  I’ve never had to worry about you not taking care of me.  I don’t need to worry when I forget how to talk.  Because you read my body and know my mind.

I’ve placed a great burden upon your shoulders and a greater burden at your feet.  Regardless of the trials you deal with personally, you have never buckled under the weight of my trust.

So, what I am trying to say, is…

Thank you.

Thank you for being a wonderful Mister.

Thank you for being an indulgent and loving Sir.

Thank you for being a strict and knowledgeable Master.

With the deepest respect,

Love,

Your Little Pain Slut

Comments

  1. this really touched me

  2. masodreamer says:

    you’re very brave to write about this

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