Master removed my collar the night before last. I’m no longer his ‘slave’ and he’s no longer my ‘Master’, so I guess I really should be calling him M. He is M and I’m K. Officially, that’s all we are at the moment.
The issue of my slavery had been a pink elephant between us since I announced a few weeks ago that I didn’t want to ‘do the slave stuff’ anymore. We hadn’t really talked about it and things just went on fairly normally between us – I was still wearing the shiny thing and he was still expecting me to be pleasing and obedient. I knew it was something that we needed to talk about, but I’ve always found those deep and meaningful discussions involving D/s types to be not the sort of thing you want to do around the dinner table. It’s hard to have a conversation that goes something along the lines of: ‘You know that slave stuff? Well, I don’t want to do it anymore. kthanxbai!’ so we just sort of ignored it.
But I was still thinking about things and realising just how much I didn’t want to do it anymore as each day passed.
The night before last M decided that he wanted to ravish me while I was in bondage. I was sooooooo not in the mood for it, but I didn’t say anything as he rummaged around for wrist cuffs and padlocks. Then the ravishing started and with the ravishing comes word porn and its associated questions of, ‘What are you?’, ‘What are you for?’ etc. etc. I know the answers he wanted and normally I would have just given them to him, but something about the whole situation just tipped me over the edge and so I told him the real answers and what I was really feeling.
Then he stopped and just stared off into the distance and said,
‘You’ve got to make the choice. Either you are a slave or you aren’t.’
And I stayed silent.
So then after the longest pregnant pause in history where there were things dancing behind his eyes that I couldn’t read, he got up and started rummaging around in the kitchen.
I knew he was looking for the allen key so I got up and told him where it was. And I just stood there while he took the collar off and placed it on top of the kitchen cabinet.
And I was completely okay with it.
Every other time in my life that my collar has been removed, there has been wailing, crying and gnashing of teeth involved. This time there was nothing because I knew it no longer belonged around my neck.
Actually, more than anything, without the collar I felt relieved.
Why? Because I feel the shiny thing gives me a lot of pressure. There’s a constant pressure of why aren’t we playing? Why aren’t I enjoying ouchie things? Why don’t I like service? Why don’t I feel like a slave? On and on the questions kept tumbling around in my brain and the resulting pressure had really been gnawing at me for quite some time. I wouldn’t exactly say it was the pressure of feeling like a ‘phony’ but I do know there are slaves out there, and I know I’m not one of them.
Of course, you can say it’s all about a person’s definition, and you can call yourself a slave and do absolutely nothing, but I’m pretty anal as far as words go. M used to read a blog of a chick who is bald after having electrolysis on her head, who is covered in tatts & piercings and works for her Master as a stripper. I’d define her as a slave, whereas I’m clearly not. I’m sure everyone has different cut off points for what defines a slave/submissive/bottom, but to me, there has to be some sort of ‘level’ differentiation.
I’m not saying it’s a bad thing that I’m not a slave, just that I feel silly calling myself one when I’m so clearly not. Submissive? Maybe in certain areas. Slave? No.
I’ve been married and I’ve been a ‘slave’. The only difference was instead of a wedding ring, I had a shiny thing and inside it was exactly the same. I’ve always been submissive sexually and within relationships. I don’t have a problem cooking and cleaning because I’m the woman. I enjoy a bit of rough sex and bondage. I don’t think any of that qualifies me as a slave and I don’t see anything there that I couldn’t get in a normal relationship.
So why call myself a slave and try to be something I’m not?
On the same point, I don’t understand why M has always wanted a ‘slave’ and won’t accept anything less than a ‘slave’. I believe as a ‘free’ person I’ll still be doing pretty much the same stuff as I would as a ‘slave’. I will still wear the boots, tie myself up, make his coffee, put his socks on. I don’t see that as ‘service’ per se. I see it as living together and compromising by doing what he and I enjoy. I don’t think we have to be master and slave to do that sort of stuff.
Last night I also had a bit of an epiphany while we were talking. I was talking about how the need and the burning desire for the collar had just melted away from inside me over time. M said,
“That’s because you’ve got your needs met.”
And I realised that he was 100% correct. My whole drive to be a slave was bound up with my need to feel wanted. I wanted to feel safe and secure in the strongest, most unbreakable way possible and to me, that was by being someone else’s property and becoming their slave.
But without being a ‘slave’ I’d found the exact level of security that I needed with M. I knew he wanted me. I knew he felt very passionately about me. I knew that for four years, his feelings toward me hadn’t changed and so my need for the collar just dissolved away.
From the very beginning of our relationship I had a strict policy of not lying to M. He has been the only person I’ve had a relationship with and been 100% honest with. I’ve told him about all my issues and hang ups and quirky little things that make me, me and he accepted them without a qualm. It’s been wonderful and exactly what I’ve been looking for all this time.
I also realised that all that bending over backwards to do things I didn’t like or enjoy because I was trying to make myself appear worthy enough to want were unnecessary. I used to be a bit like gumby – bending myself in impossible ways because that’s what I thought I needed to do, but as I felt M’s levels of acceptance rise, even though I was telling him truths about me that I thought would send him packing, it became harder and harder to bend, harder and harder to do things I really, truly, from the bottom of my heart didn’t want to do. And with that came the realisation that I have limits. There are things I will say ‘no’ to and I’m talking things above and beyond the normal 3L’s (children, animals and unlawful acts) which pretty much puts the final nail in the coffin of my slavery.
Slavery is a state of mind. I can’t get into that state of mind now and it doesn’t matter how many times I hit myself over the head, my square peg won’t fit in the round hole. That’s not who I am and the constant hammering has been making me tired. Emotionally. Dead. Tired.
That’s why the other night it all kind of bubbled to the surface – I was tired and had had enough. It wasn’t the best way to go about it and I wish we could have just sat down like two adults and discussed it. I don’t know why changes in D/s relationships have to be all emotional and dramatic and take place in drama llama central, but that seems to always be what happens and this case was no exception (although, as I said, there was no wailing and crying that gives you blistering headaches for days afterwards.)
I’m not exactly sure what going to happen now. I love M and cherish our relationship together, but he ultimately wants a slave. I don’t know what I ultimately want. We’ve both got some serious thinking to do about compromises and future paths. In the meantime, things will be pretty much the same around here – he’ll call me bitch and have his way with me and I’ll answer every single one of his demands with, ‘Do I look like your slave buddy boy?’ (just like I normally do.)
As I’ve always said, the collar is just a shiny thing and what counts is inside.