Hello, blogosphere! However you happened to stumble across this blog, let me humbly thank you for taking the time to read my work. I am an owned and collared submissive, and have been in a BDSM relationship for almost four years. We attempt to be 24/7, however, there are small humans in the picture, so this alters things a bit. I identify as a slave, a submissive, a puppy, a little, and definitely a brat, with a capital B. There’s a long list of things I am into, and a short list of things I’m not. I refer to my Owner primarily as Daddy, but occasionally I will refer to Him as Master, especially if I am being formal. For both of us, this is our first BDSM relationship. We were amazingly lucky not only to be each other’s first, but also that our kinks have been so in line. This blog is about our journey in kink, and the ins and outs of being in a monogamous 24/7 Master/slave dynamic. Due to Daddy’s job, and the type of work I plan on going into, I’m blogging this under a pseudonym; but although the names have been changed to protect the guilty, the stories are 100% true unless otherwise indicated. I hope you have as much fun reading about my life as I have living it!
TRIGGER WARNING: This post contains content about depression, anxiety, PTSD, rape, sexual abuse, and other triggering material. Please take care while reading.
Normally, I think about what my audience would like to hear…I take that into consideration, and also think about what I myself would find entertaining before I start to put words on the page.
This is NOT that. What I am about to write, I write because I need to, because it is fucking eating me up inside, and I need to get it out.
I write it so that someone else suffering knows that they’re not alone. I write it so that selfishly, I can feel less alone…I write it to help you understand, and to help me heal.
Before I dive into this post, I would like to recount for you a text that I sent to my Daddy this morning. I think it will help you understand the frame of mind I am coming from:
“Look, my days are already shit. I don’t want to have to be constantly fighting with my brain and rationalizing with myself that half the thoughts I have are irrational and crazy. But I HAVE to do that. But I don’t want the added stress of teaching you the ABC’s of depression & anxiety, and trying to explain something to You that I barely fucking understand. I am literally fighting with my brain. Its all I can do. What would be helpful is if You cared enough to research it on Your own rather than forcing me to have the additional stress of explaining something I only half understand to You. And I did feel like You yelled at me this morning. I’m sorry that my body is my fucking enemy too, and I can’t get wet for You. I’m sorry that my body and my fucking brain are working against me, so that I don’t feel safe anywhere or with anyone, not even myself, and especially not myself. I’m sorry that I can’t take criticism right now because my thoughts are filled with messages of worthlessness and guilt already. I’m sorry that the only thing I can think is that everyone would be better off without me. I’m sorry that my mental illness has been passed on to my daughter. I’m sorry that she had a panic attack last night and I didn’t know. I’m sorry she tried to come to my room, but froze in fear because she hallucinated there was a man with a knife there in the shadows. I’m sorry I copulated with douche bags who also have mental illness issues and that she started out at a disadvantage. But most of all I am sorry that I don’t know what to tell You when You ask how to help BECAUSE I HAVE NO IDEA. I am doing good to get out of bed and make it through the day. So please stop asking. The fact that I have no fucking clue only makes me feel that much more hopeless.”
Last night I let Daddy in. He’s the first person I have EVER let in this far. God bless Him for trying, but He was clueless. “What triggered this?” He asked….”A chemical imbalance in my brain” I say. “How long have you been dealing with this?” He asks, concern in his voice….”As long as I can remember….” I respond. Then He asks “Why didn’t you ever tell anyone, maybe they could have helped?”
This is where things get real. This is where the fucked-upedness began. Why? Because I wasn’t safe as a child, that was why. My mother was an alcoholic. Sure, she was great at keeping secrets about me going to raves or taking drugs….but to trust her with anything REAL? Nope. No thanks. I’ll lock that shit up tight and forever, thank ya very much. One time she asked if my Dad had ever touched me….and she was grateful when I said no…
and no, he NEVER did, but the look of relief on her face that she didn’t have to deal with that made me decide to not tell her that my neighbor had molested me. That I was a sweet eight year old girl who was spending the night with my best friend and bragging to her step-dad about how much I knew about sex because I watched The Ricky Lake show…and later woke up to him fingering me. I didn’t tell her about the other neighbor that forced me to do sexual things, and it was this pattern that started my negative self-image.
My dad? Why didn’t I tell him? I was deathly scared of him. He was a cop, and tall, and fucking mean. He screamed at me, and NEVER praised me. He beat me, and told me corporal punishment was legal. He DARED me to call the cops. He told me what a fuck up I was, and I believed him. He said the only way I would listen was if he got an inch away from my face and screamed. I walked on egg-shells constantly, and learned what a worthless piece of shit I really was.
I lost my virginity to spite him. A culmination of being used sexually at a young age, and being taught that I was good for nothing, and could do nothing right. Sex would be my secret revenge. I was 15, and I hardly knew him…I said I was walking the dog on Christmas Eve, and he picked me up in his car and took me to his house. Insane Clown Posse was in his CD player. I lost my virginity to a song called ‘Super Balls’ –and if that weren’t bad enough, it skipped the entire time; my romantic foray into womanhood set to “Ain’t no bitch too fat…..ain’t no bitch too fat…ain’t no bitch too fat…”
It was after that that I learned to use sex to make myself feel better. Finally, I had something of value, something that others wanted from me. It was also around this time that I jumped into heavy drugs. I won’t be specific here, but let’s just say, as long as it didn’t involve a needle, I did it. And let’s be clear…I wasn’t afraid of needles. I just knew that if I took that step, I would never recover.
I grew up, got thrown out of my house by my loving father, and ended up marrying a man that I can only describe as having the worst traits of my parents combined: A verbally and physically abusive alcoholic. I went into the military to save myself from the drugs—I knew I could detox during basic training, and that’s exactly what I did. You see, while there is a ton of tragedy in this story, let us not lose the moral along the way: I AM STILL HERE, GOD DAMN IT!
I got pregnant at my first duty station. I was in a male-dominated job that some asshole recruiter had lied to get me into, and I loathed it. The douche-bag husband left. I was alone. I was in a new place with no safety net, or support system. The depression and anxiety were awful. I started having auditory hallucinations. I was referred to a psychiatrist. I took the MMPI twice, and scored sooooo fucked up both times that my tests were deemed unusable. The douche-bag came back intermittently. He was there to reassure me what an awful person I was…and that I was a worthless whore.
Desperate for love, I started having an affair with my boss. Then one night, a couple of my co-workers came over…one thing led to another and I got raped. No big deal, right? Sadly, I was pretty used to being treated like this…and I was totally good with burying it all the way down, because that seemed to work for me. But my boss convinced me to report it, and swore he would stand by my side. SURPRISE! He didn’t. He left me high and dry, to be humiliated, victim blamed, and stripped of my dignity. During the time-line that the trial was taking place, I went further down the rabbit hole. Alcohol was my everything. I needed it to function. It eventually led to me making decisions so incompetent they took my child..my baby…my only reason for living, and placed her in foster care. That was both the worst, and the best day of my life. I remember it so vividly, if I close my eyes, it’s like I’m re-living it. They decided it was best to institutionalize me. They gas-lighted me, and told me I asked to be kept in the room with the padded walls. I DID NOT. My mother, who wasn’t in the greatest of health at this time (see above, re: alcoholic), had surgery, during which she bled out. I requested to see her before she died, but was denied. My dad even called the mayor of the town he lived in, and called put in a red-cross call…..but those ass-hats still said no. So my mother died, with my abusive narcissistic father by her side. They finally let me out, and shortly after, I separated from the military on a medical discharge, primarily: PTSD. PTSD from what, you ask? The rape. The rape that my rapist got off scot-free from? One in the same. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, the same military that determined I had suffered PTSD from the rape I endured also determined there wasn’t enough evidence to convict said rapist. Bravo!
Skip ahead a few shitty years, and I’ve gotten my act together enough to reclaim the love of my life: my daughter. I met Douche bag numero dos around this time, and became pregnant with my second love about a year later. About two years after that, I couldn’t put up with the cheating, lying, and drug use anymore, so I made him leave….
I’m skipping something important though, because just before he gets kicked to the curb, I meet Daddy. I’m not going to go into the story about how I met Daddy, because if you’ve read my previous blog about my collaring, then you know a lot of it already.
All of this occurred before I turned 30. And obviously, this is only the condensed version. My point is, that I overcame all of this. I am a college graduate. I have two beautiful kids, who are smart, talented, gracious, kind, and a blessing to me every single fucking day. I have overcome several addictions, and more than once might I add…..so the next time you may feel tempted to wonder where it all started, this is it. Some know most, but none know all.
My life now is cake compared to what it was then. I know I “shouldn’t” be depressed. I realize my life is good. I’m tired of being asked what triggered it. IF I FUCKING KNEW, DON’T YOU THINK I WOULD BE TRYING TO FIX IT? DID YOU EVER CONSIDER MY BRAIN IS JUST FUCKED AND OCCASIONALLY MALFUNCTIONS BECAUSE OF ALL THE ABUSE IT HAS SUFFERED OVER THE YEARS? I mean fuck, not only from my abusers, but also from all the toxins I have dumped in it. Why does everyone keep asking me WHY? Why does everyone say I need medication? I have been on medication, legal and illegal. Why do I have to be responsible for something I’m not in control of? Why does everyone keep asking me questions I don’t have the answers to? Why won’t anyone just fucking hold me? I don’t want your advice. I want to be reassured that you love me even if I’m broken. I need to know that even on the days that I am glued to my bed because the demons in my head are holding me hostage that you still care, that you know I am a human being, and I deserve love? I can’t speak to anyone else’s situation who has anxiety/PTSD/depression, etc. but for me, THIS is what I want. Because my illness lies to me, and it tells me that I’m not worthy. It doesn’t matter if I know rationally that they are lies, it’s my brain, and it knows me better than anyone, and it knows exactly what to say to make me think that you’re out to get me…and that I’m incompetent for not knowing my triggers, and that if I was really worthy of your love, that you would reassure me rather than grill me.
Mostly, if you’re reading this, and you don’t me that well, I want you to understand that looks can be deceiving. I’m pretty. I know this because I’ve been told it enough times. But behind my smiles could be genuine happiness, or they could be a mask for the pain. Sometimes you’ll know which is which, and sometimes you’ll only think you do. This is true for all humans…so think before you judge.
If I let you in…if I give you the privilege of knowing which is which, for God’s sake, tread lightly. Give me love. Don’t victim blame. Understand I don’t have all the answers…but I don’t expect you to have them either. If I let you in, it’s because I want you to know that I’m hurting….I want you to know that I’m human. I want you to know that while all I may show you is the strong, capable, badass version of myself….that there is a scared, tortured, uncertain little girl underneath, who just wants to know she is worthy of love.
I am strong and independent and unbreakable.
I am weak and needy and fragile.
I am Wonder Woman.
I am nothing.
Four years is a long time. One thousand, four hundred and sixty days. Okay, I’m being dramatic; it won’t be quite four years for another month….you get my gist.
Whenever we met: FIREWORKS. I thought the initial high of being in love would never end….it was well over a year and a half before it did. But it did, and slowly, lust was replaced by comfort, and hot scenes traded in for Netflix binges under the covers.
Over the past year or more, things have deteriorated. Sex turned to talking, talking turned to fighting, fighting turned into crying and breaking up, followed by making up. We have repeated this pattern almost every month for the past year.
Slowly but surely, the collar that I once touched for security and strength became the albatross around my neck. It literally felt like it was suffocating me whenever the anxiety of my precarious relationship sent me into panic attacks or deep depression.
I didn’t want the power exchange. I didn’t feel like I was exchanging anything so much as he was taking it and dangling it just out of reach.
I felt cheated, slighted, jaded, and numb.
For the past few months, it’s really gone down hill. We didn’t talk for over a week while he was on a business trip…I hardly noticed. We couldn’t be in the same room for better than 15 minutes without an argument ensuing.
It came to a head over and over…and over again. We’ve called it quits three times this past week. Three! He wants to work it out…..I am trying, God knows I’m trying……but love can only take you so far. The communication, the trust, the sex….the bedrocks of our relationship are all in serious jeopardy.
I’m not even cautiously optimistic….just cautious.
I have no idea what things will look like moving forward. I’ve committed to giving him time to fix the things that need fixing…beyond that, the future is unclear. I do know that as I move forward, with or without him, that I will always be grateful for the person he helped me grow into being. I wish I had some more cheery news, or a steamy story to share with you all…but I simply don’t. I am lost, and spinning….trying to find a corner to hold on to for dear life…..
Let’s preface this writing by letting you know that I am in my (very early) 30’s, and Daddy is in His late 50’s. For me, His age has never been an issue. For Him, it was only an issue insofar as He had to get used to the nasty stares people would give us out in public, and when He had decided He was really in this for the long haul, He had to let go of the guilt that He was, barring some freak accident, going to leave this earth many years before I am.
Lots of people look at us, and immediately draw this conclusion: ‘Oh, she must be a gold digger.’ It’s shitty because, those nasty stares I mentioned to you earlier…well I’ve gotten them when I wearing a wife-beater and jean skirt, and I’ve also gotten them when I was wearing a smart dress, tights, a trench coat, and glasses. You see, people look at us, and they just assume. Also, there’s this thing called confirmation bias in psychology. It means if you assume something to be true, your brain will then look for details to corroborate that scenario. There are some fascinating studies- I encourage you to look them up. I digress…
Anyhow, a couple of weeks ago, Daddy and I were out at a party. There was a couple there we met, and one of the first sentences uttered was “How did you get one so young?” Now, there are a million snarky comments Daddy could have lobbed back, but instead He just chose “Well, as I’ve already been told tonight, I’m a lucky mother-fucker!” This broke whatever tension the question may have caused, and the night went on without a hitch.
Daddy kept coming back to it after that night, though. He was hurt, and couldn’t wrap His mind around why someone would ask him such a question. Thinking about it with some perspective, this person was only asking what many others would have just thought about, drawn their own conclusions, and shot us dirty looks…but they didn’t…at least they asked.
Anyone who knows me now, knows what a badass I am. I pay my bills (on time), I take pride in the way my house looks, I balance my college classes and homework with chauffeuring two bunheads to three ballet classes a week, and still manage to occasionally find the time to cook healthy meals, exercise, and keep a long-term DD/lg (Daddy Dom/little girl) dynamic alive and well. Maybe it sounds boastful, but it’s true. Daddy jokes with me, whenever I get a bit too arrogant, and says I’m on my ‘haughty horse,’ to which I reply with my best horsey-whinny.
Now, you may be wondering what the hell this has to do with the story, but bear with me…I’m painting a picture.
Now that you are thoroughly convinced of how awesome I am, let’s go in the way-back-machine, and take a look at me almost four years ago, shall we? When Daddy and I met, I was on my way out of an abusive marriage. My ex was addicted to drugs, and cheated on me repeatedly, despite me agreeing to an open marriage, with my only stipulations being that he tell me where he was going, and that he used protection. I guess those requests were too hefty, because he clearly couldn’t tolerate them. I was trying to get my life together, but failing quite miserably. I drank regularly, in an attempt to try and escape my stress, smoked like a damn chimney, and was generally a sad sack. I at one point had even enrolled in college, but failed my second semester, after allowing myself to be pulled into using drugs again with my ex….that was really a turning point for me, actually, because I said I would never allow drugs in general, and this one in particular, to be a part of my life…that I wouldn’t allow them to ruin my children’s lives the way I had let them ruin my own.
Even after that decision was made though, and after I met Daddy, I continued to flounder. Daddy became concerned when every two days I was asking him to pick me up another 750 mL bottle of Crown Royal. Not being a drinker Himself, He couldn’t understand how I was consuming so much alcohol- He thought I was having parties after He was gone. What He would later realize, is that I had been drinking so long and so heavily, that this was really my main form of caloric consumption. When we met, I was 108 pounds, medically underweight for my frame. I barely ate when we were together, and sometimes, if I did manage to eat, I would get sick afterword- not intentionally, mind you….my body was just riddled with so much anxiety and alcohol that it couldn’t even process the nourishment it was getting. After Daddy had visited my apartment a few times, He asked me what the stack of envelopes sitting on the desk in living room were for. “They’re bills,” I said, matter-of-factly. “Why aren’t any of them opened?” He inquired. “Why bother opening bills that you can’t pay?” was my reply.
Are you starting to get the picture? I was a wreck. This is only scraping the surface too, I haven’t even went into the other crazy ex I had, or his psychotic stalker girlfriend, or the other drama that seemed to be constantly swirling around me like a tornado, ready to swallow me up whole at any second.
Daddy knew me then. Daddy loved me then.
Whenever I screamed, and criticized, and pushed Him away, because I had no idea what real love was…He stood by me. Whenever I got trashed, and made poor decisions, and told Him things about my past He probably would have been better off not knowing…He didn’t leave. Whenever I fell, over, and over, AND OVER, He gently picked me up, dusted me off, and told me how much He believed in me. He stuck it out through a thousand mile long-distance move, through me quitting smoking, quitting drinking…through every single stumble and triumph. He quite literally has had a front row seat in watching me become the magnificent woman I am today. The kind of love He has shown me is awe-inspiring and life-changing. Even more credit is due Him, because it’s not like He loved this wonderful girl who hit a rough patch…I was in the midst of fighting for my life when we met. He somehow saw through all the pain, the drunken debauchery, and failed plans…and He saw my potential. He quite literally loved it out of me.
I am not saying Daddy is a saint. I realize He too is human, and has His faults. We quarrel. We have turned our relationship into an emotional roller-coaster more times than I would care to admit. But my point is this: Our relationship was never built on the basis of His money, or my age…our relationship was borne and sustained because of this man’s incredible gift to see past my chaos and understand my potential, and my realization of what true love looks like, and the infinitely enlightened decision to hold on to it, come what may…
The air was ripe with anticipation. I had never been to The Big Easy before, or really anywhere as far as vacations were concerned. “This is what happens to good girls,” Daddy said, as we made our way through the opulent hotel lobby. To say it was the nicest hotel I had ever been to would have been an understatement. Opulent chandeliers, ornate and intricate furniture, and a grand piano in the lobby all proudly stated that this place was dripping with grandeur. We checked in, and then consulted with the concierge about a package that was supposed to be arriving (my collar.) I was sad when it hadn’t arrived yet, but couldn’t wait to get out into the streets of New Orleans, and see what they had to offer.
The walk to Bourbon street was short, maybe a couple of blocks. In my naiveté, I had decided on heels, unaware of the torture this would cause me later in the evening, as most of the streets were made of brick, and far from being even. We set out, and were immediately drowned in the richness that could only be New Orleans night life. Drinking on the street is legal here, so solo cups were in abundance. You could tell the night was young, as the streets were not yet as crowded as a can of sardines. We hit Bourbon Street, and that’s when I knew what Daddy had said was true: Bourbon Street hits your senses when you happen upon it- literally; your nose is burned by a smell of what I can only is imagine is bile and broken dreams…the smell of nights not remembered and temptations fulfilled. The neon lights lit up my senses as we strolled the strip, deciding where to spend our evening before the big event. There were bars everywhere, and since this was back at the time when I still drank, I decided to indulge myself in a little something called a ‘hand grenade.’ This tall drink certainly earned its reputation as the night wore on. Ever the wonderful Master that He is, Daddy stayed sober, so He could be alert to any danger that may befall us in an admittedly sinful town. We trolled the strip for a few hours, doing the things you would imagine tourists to do- bars, strip clubs, lingerie stores, and the like.
Daddy asked if I was ready, and I said I was, although in reality I wasn’t sure. The anticipation of the night was causing my stomach to knot, and I was as anxious as a child on Christmas Eve. We began making our way back to the hotel to gather our things before we went out for the real reason we had journeyed to New Orleans in the first place, making a stop along the way to get some medicine to sooth my anxious tummy. By the time we arrived back at the hotel, my feet were killing me, but unfortunately for me, the heels were also a part of my costume change. I took off my street clothes, and put on a teddy. It was black, and had been purchased with our escapades in mind. It was made of a see-through gauzy material, with a halter neck, and a plunge that went right down past my navel, where it connected to the bottom, which really, was just a swath of material covering the front of me, as the back part of it was a thong. Connected to the teddy were garter straps, which I fastened to my fishnet thigh-highs…and of course, the shoes were my trusty six-inch black suede stilettos that had been with me all night. Over this titillating outfit, I wore a black and white trench coat…it was the only thing covering this outfit that screamed sex from a lobby full of well-to-do vacationers who flitted about the lobby of our hotel. We made our way out, our destination conveniently about a block from the hotel, which was wonderful for me, as my feet were really beginning to ache. All at once, we were there, or at least, we thought we were. The address was correct, but it was a very plain building, with seemingly no activity happening inside. Daddy pulled on the door, and it opened, beckoning us inside. This was the reason we had come: to go to The Jasmine Club.
Being very new to the BDSM scene, we weren’t aware of many places that we could (publicly) act out our kinks, but through loads of research, we had found this place…which had a dungeon! After paying our admission fees, we walked in, and felt the place out. We started on the main floor, which housed a dance floor, a bar, and a stripper pole. Then we made our way up to the second floor, which had a theatre room (for showing porn, of course,) a voyeur room, and a string of bedrooms for couples in the mood to express their affections. Going up the stairs to the third floor, there was an offer from not one, but two gentlemen, graciously affording to help and take care of my needs. Daddy, being the greedy and loving Master that He is, politely declined, and after briefly touring the third floor, which was mainly more beds in an open area, we finally managed to make it to the fourth floor- The Dungeon. There was a man there, who said his name was Trauma. He said that he was there to help us out with any of the equipment, or to answer any questions we may have. As we looked around the room there were paddles, and floggers, and wrist cuffs- oh my! So much for the senses to take in…my anticipation rose to heights I previously did not know existed. It was in this giddy state that it caught my eye- the suspension points. Being tied up and suspended had been extremely high on my fantasy priority list since I had read about it over ten-some years ago…however, this was the first time that the opportunity had presented itself.
I looked at Daddy longingly, leaned into Him, and whispered ‘can we?’ He seemed tentative, mainly because, since He was not Himself familiar with shibari, He would have to entrust this part of our scene to Trauma, a man He’d just met. Lucky for me, Trauma was able to convince Daddy of his credentials, explaining how dedicated he was to this art form, and how after two diligent years of practice, he still considered himself a novice among his mentors. Trauma asked for a few minutes to set things up, so Daddy and I wandered around for a few more minutes, our heads filling with images of where the night would take us. When we came back up, the scene was set. There was a padded area, on the floor, with miles of rope upon it, and behind it, a wall full of every implement imaginable with which to beat someone. On the opposite side of the room, was a rich red leather couch, and a blanket, meant for aftercare. On either side of the couch, there were black wooden benches, for onlookers who wished to enjoy the show…and in fact one or two had wandered up, adding to my already heightened nerves. Trauma suggested music to help me focus, and after a bit of back and forth, we decided on some traditional Japanese music, sans lyrics. He turned on the powerful speakers, and as they began to hum their sweet tune, I instantly melted into the moment. I heard commands being given to me: my safewords were green, yellow, and red; there would be check-ins every few minutes and I was to give a color as an indication of my current state. The process of tying me felt like a timeless eternity- I bent and swayed to the will of the rope, and grew wetter every time it tightened and bit my skin.
Before I knew it, I was suspended in midair. I felt marvelous and daring. I heard Trauma ask Daddy ‘Do you want to disorient her?’ and then a split second later, I was spinning through the air, as though I had just stepped on the tea cup ride at Disney Land. As I spun, I noticed more people had gathered, but by this point, I was in a dream-like state, giddily intoxicated with my current situation. I was still spinning when Trauma told me to stretch out within my binding, and as I did so, I began to slow down. He gave me another great push, and told me to fold my limbs in, which made me swirl incredibly fast- it was as if I was on some fantastic roller coaster. This pattern repeated for some time, and with every spin, I sank deeper into ecstasy.
Just when I thought I was at maximum capacity for physical stimulation- it happened. Daddy had picked up a paddle, and I was now receiving hard strikes against my bare bottom. There were ten of them, first a smack on the bottom, and then a spin…and the pattern repeated. After the first set of blows, Daddy slowed my spinning to check in with me and ask me what my color was: I was green. Then it happened again: SMACK, spin, SMACK, spin, SMACK, this time with a different paddle…and after ten more, I was slowed again, and asked if I was okay. I was in a total state of sub-space, a spinning, bound pile of goo, floating gently through ecstasy. I made it through a mind-boggling 90 blows until I finally called yellow. Daddy then repeated the process one more time, and we were done.
It took some time to take me down, and untie me, although I largely unaware of the process; I was still floating on the cloud that was of bliss that had been our scene. I counted the number of people that had gathered in the room as I wrapped a blanket around myself and sipped on the water that I had been handed- there were twelve. Twelve people that witnessed what was likely one of the most intimate and bonding experiences I have ever had. There was one lady, with a blunt black bob and a thick French accent, that told me that it was the most beautiful thing she had ever witnessed. It was like art in motion, she told me. Her words captured my feelings, and my eyes teared at this beautiful and heartfelt comment.After I was mostly settled, Daddy took me back to the hotel. My collar still hadn’t arrived, so we cuddled close and simply spent the night together.
The next morning, we ventured out early, and indulged in what now is one of our ultimate pleasures: the hot tub. This particular hot tub was not unlike the rest of the hotel- spectacular. There was a rooftop pool, and the flooring was the soft foam material often used in kids’ modern playgrounds; it’s spongy, and doesn’t scrape, nor does it get painfully hot in the summer heat that New Orleans is known for producing. As we basked in the warm glow of the sunshine, and talked, we noticed one particular couple, not twenty feet from where we sat. They were laying side-by-side in the pool chairs, but they may as well have been on different continents. Both of them were totally engrossed in whatever petty thing had caught their attention on social media- both were wholly unaware of each other, as well as the picturesque setting they were enveloped it. All they saw were their phones- not each other, and certainly not the beautiful fountain opposite the pool, or the awe-inspiring cathedral across the street. Daddy looked at me and said “Let’s never be like them, okay?” I shook my head vigorously, and said “You took the words right out of my mouth.” Then He beckoned me closer, to straddle Him, so we could be closer. We kept talking, but His hand slipped under the water, and untied the bright yellow bow that held together my string bikini. My eyes widened, and I looked at Him in shock, my eyes searching for an answer. He returned my gaze and simply said “Shhhh” as His hands discreetly found my sweet spot. I was amazed by His boldness- it was broad daylight and we were outside, where people sat less than twenty feet away. I was also extremely turned on, the exhibitionist in me instantly dripping with longing. Before long, I was cumming, biting my lip in an attempt to be quiet, and pressing my forehead into Daddy’s in order to stay steady. Still reeling from orgasm, Daddy looks at me and says “get on.” I am surprised but immediately obey. “What if someone sees?” I ask, but He quickly reassured me: “Don’t worry baby…I just wanted to feel you for a little while; we’ll be careful.” And we were. To my amazement I rode His cock in the middle of the rooftop hot tub without catching so much as a sideways glance from the other pool dwellers.
When we had finished ‘relaxing’ in the hot tub, we decided to go to the concierge desk one more time, to see if our package had arrived. To our delight it had: my collar was finally here! It was beautiful- baby pink and silver chain mail, with a silver locking heart clasp. This seemingly innocuous necklace was the culmination of everything that had led to this point and all that I wanted in a relationship: to be Owned. We took it upstairs, and Daddy asked me if this was what I really wanted. I assured Him again that it was…that I had an overwhelming desire to belong to Him. He instructed me to undress, and kneel in front of Him. When I had, He lovingly placed the collar around my neck. I will never forget when the lock snapped into place- the feeling that it gave me. It was as if I myself was a lock, and His hands fastening the collar were the key, and I literally felt the tumblers fall into place as He secured it around my neck. I felt transcendently happy…for I finally belonged…I was, truly and wholly, HIS.