So much of my identity is wrapped up in being desired, however that desire is expressed.
So much of my self confidence
is wrapped up in how that expressed desire manifests.
But what if it never manifests?
Without those things, what then am I but a figment of someone’s fantasy, an apparition, representative of a ficticious desire which was never going to be realised.
In that reality,
I am nothing,
I have no worth,
needs stripped from me,
wants quashed under the weight of assumptive possibility.
Angry, defeated, dispossessed of my desire to suffer.
I held up my side of the bargain….
“Ask me properly, if that’s what you want”
And I did.
my submissive mind latching onto the opportunities.
reflect:I cannot help who I am.
Masochism is a large part of my submission, the two elements intrinsically linked.
To hurt, to endure, physically, mentally;the need for those things is at the core of what I am.
Yet, despite the promise to show him my whole self, the freedom to suffer never came.
question:should I abandon my needs?
I’d taken hope, and shaped it, carved His sadism into it’s facade, imagining how the evening might look.
That look he gets when he’s about to unleash the sadist upon my willing, masochist flesh. The pain, fear-laced anticipation, the look of glee on his face as my flesh canvas is painted with his cruelty.
But it looked nothing like that, in the end.
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I knew it wasn’t going to happen, the moment hope’s facade began to chip away, revealing sorrow’s shadow crouching beneath.
I just knew.
And I hurt.
He left me to figure it out for myself.
Bereft, abandoned, is how I felt.
In those moments, all confidence in who and what I am abandoned me also.
Am I so repulsive that the thought of interacting turns him cold?
Do I no longer inspire need/desire in Him?
Is what I offer not enough?
Have I been deluding myself into believing He might actually want me?
In those moments, I wanted to take my kinks and smash them into dust, make them disappear, erase them from my conscious mind, stop them from being the driving force of my desires.
I hurt, I didn’t want them, devastation clouding everything in my mind
I felt humiliated.
I’d done what I struggle so much with, I’d asked for play,
and damn the nerves jangled when I did
yet that still wasn’t enough.
All the fantasies I’d ever had of presenting myself to Him, debasing myself in order initiate play in ways which He said turned Him on, flooded into my field of vision.
They crushed me, humiliating me anew.
I thought of this blog, and all the times I’d put my whole self into my words, been vulnerable for everyone to see, all the times I’d laid myself bare for Him.
And I resented it.
I resented all the times I’d put my fears aside and knelt at His feet.
I resented everything that made me me.
I resented myself, my stupidity, in believing He actually wanted me.
I was angry, I couldn’t look at Him, but neither could I hate Him, even though I wanted to, even though the hurt threatened to consume me.
He hurt too, but neither of us could communicate, we shut down, both wrapping our pain around us, and retreating to replay it over and over in self castigation.
It wasn’t the first time play had been promised and not happened, it wasn’t the first time disappointment had been felt. But somehow this was worse, somehow, this time, it wounded in a way it hadn’t before.
It confirmed my fears, fears I’d thought existed through self doubt and paranoia, that whilst He perhaps enjoyed my company, His desire for me was no longer present, my desires quashing His own.
I mourned the reality I thought I was a part of.
In that reality, I had a man, partner, lover, Dominant, who understood my need to hurt, and who encouraged me to express it. But in those moments of destitution, I couldn’t put my faith in it being so. I doubted His understanding of just how important those things were to me, doubted my ability to make Him understand.
The impact of that night stays with me now, although the hurt is less.
It’s going to take me a while to trust Him again with my deepest thoughts, with my needs.
I’m left feeling protective of them, guarding them, desperate to hide them away.
I don’t want to talk about them, show them, or acknowledge they exist.
I want to remain angry with Him, but I can’t.
Fault lay at the feet of our lack of ability to communicate, both of us have to shoulder that.
I adore Him, and whilst calling Him Sir the following day took all my strength, I have no wish to dispossess Him of that title, no hunger to accentuate His own pain.