I broke up with Sir.
It started one rainy afternoon on Googlechat. Sir told me he wanted to sleep with someone else in a vanilla way. His girlfriend had approved this arrangement, as long as it was ok with me. I was not asked, I was told in a fit of excitement about the new toy that was soon to be enjoyed. Suffice to say I was not as excited. I didn’t want things to change. We discussed it, reaching a stalemate on the matter. A week later I ended it.
I am now a submissive without an owner.
We’re still trying to be friends, but there are times where he wants to talk about how he’s now started to top this new girl and I try to be cool and want to know, but I soon regret it and want to yell rude words and hit stuff.
Actually, I want to be hit.
I still want to be hit by Sir. I miss the headspace it provided for me. The quiet when I could stop thinking about things and just feel the sensations that were being inflicted on my body. I miss the pleasure of it. I miss the adrenaline and the sweat and the hedonistic rush of violence and sex and anger and sweet agonised release. I miss the aftercare of cuddles and then showers while the other sits on the bathroom floor, followed by cups of tea and video games.
I miss the intimacy of our arrangement. The way he would get turned on by the slightest glance, the way I could look at him and he would itch to wrap his fingers around my throat. I miss the details of our stop words, the weeks and months we spent negotiating our limits and what we wanted to do to each other. These conversations feel like insults when I remember them.
These acts are only deliciously, transgressively hot if there is a foundation of trust. When Sir told me about how excited he was to sleep with this new girl and how awesome his girlfriend was for letting him add her to his list of women he could sleep with, I could not find myself in his enthusiasm. The trust we had worked so hard to build had fractured with this one conversation. I get my kicks by being told that I don’t matter to Sir. I started to feel like I didn’t matter enough, and so I got out.
I can bear to be fragile when I’m being played with; that’s because I can say when I’ve had enough and I get a cuddle. And an orgasm.
This particular exercise in pain and humiliation comes without safe words. Writing helps; the next chapter is on its way.