The Collared Coed

I find it ironic that I’m a communications major sometimes, considering the problems I have with communicating my feelings. I study and analyze how people communicate. How advertising communicates what we as a society find important. I study phone sex. (I have to do a presentation on phone sex in my Human Communication class in three weeks… I officially love my major even more.) I study how people communicate in video games. My specialty is going to be international communications.

So why can’t I communicate to the person that I trust with everything? Why do I hold back my communication about my feelings? Why can’t I just be honest about how I feel? I mean, fuck, Mark knows everything about me.

I don’t know why I forget this one, simple fact; BDSM can’t exist without a connection.

I grew up in an age of increasing isolation. I grew up with AOL, literally. I had two computers when I was five, I remember my father writing out DOS run commands for me and taping them to my computer desk. I once bid AND WON a Beanie Baby on eBay when I was in middle school. I was more comfortable IMing than having real communications with people. I was in a long term, emotionally abusive relationship where real, true communication was mocked. So was Mark. We were both told in different ways that our feelings don’t matter.

I seem to be an amnesiac when it comes to the important of communication, because when I don’t feel connected with Mark, all my desires to submit fall away like petals from a flower ripped from a bush, fluttering at my feet. I feel flat.

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I really have not been doing my slave tasks or my email reports or my daily picture.

I need to remember what all of this comes down to. I’m property.

I’m still property and a slave even if I’m crampy, stressed from school, stressed from work or tired. I’m wearing a slave collar.

I signed a contract at Sir’s feet because I need this. It was my choice and my choice alone. I signed it again even after Sir broke my heart in June because I forgave Him and I trust Him enough not to break it again. I did not sign it without a lot of soul searching, deep conversation and makeup sex.

I crave this feeling of being property. I need this. I feel better with a collar around my throat. The collar Sir yanks on when He’s fucking my throat. The collar He holds onto when He slaps me. Being a slave, having no choice, gives me somewhere to just be, as Sir puts it. And that’s perfect.

If I’m really honest with myself, my collar also makes me feel safer. Safe enough to handle being slapped, punched, caned until I’m crying, cry in front of someone else in general… I had a really intense orgasm on Sunday and almost started crying from the release. I feel beautifully present and whole during a scene.

I’ve never felt so close to someone else. I’ve never been so in tune and so connected with another human being. Sir treats me very well, and even when He is hurting me… still great at it. Ha.

We had a conversation last week about where our relationship is going to go, which always scares the shit out of me. It was good to have a frank, honest conversation. I don’t want to fuck up the time we have together now, by worrying about what will happen later. Everything will work out in the end. If it’s meant to be… let’s just say everything will be okay.

I want to enjoy everything right now. Present. Present.

I’m a slave.

I’m property.

I chose this.

I will choose this again.

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I slept fitfully on the plane to California. I had rushed around all day; packing, buying food (that I ended up leaving in my dorm, oops), commuting to the airport and rushing through security. I was stuck in economy next to a man with awful breath. I was mesmerized by the movie that was playing in flight, “Speed Racer” and I listened to the in flight radio. After that was over, I was very restless. I was also starving, but I was being stubborn and didn’t like any of the airline snack boxes.

I was so, so glad to touch down in SFO. I ran to the bathroom after we were let off the plane, then I ran down to baggage claim where Sir was waiting. I wanted to jump in his arms.

We drove to San Jose and prowled around for food. Sir dragged me to a casino that happened to have a diner in it, and we had to sneak in because I’m not 21. Basically, I didn’t go to bed until 2am PACIFIC TIME. Which was 5am to my poor body.

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So there’s this girl in my writing class.

And she’s fucking gorgeous.

And I don’t want to fuck her.

She’s a freshman, which kind of freaks me out. I mean, I worked with freshman during Orientation.

She looks like an honest to god porcelain doll. She had beautiful pale skin, cheeks that are pink and the softest looking, most kissable lips I have ever seen on a woman. Wide blue eyes. Long light brown hair. And her breasts are gorgeous. She wears these low cut, square neck, innocent looking lacy tops that just accentuate her breasts SO nicely. She looks so pure and innocent and it’s kind of eerie.

And I’ve no desire to fuck her. I can’t imagine her in any sexual context. Sir says, “It’s just because you’re not a GUY.” I don’t think so.

I want to protect her. She’s a FRESHMAN. College is going to change her and I want her to know she’s beautiful the way she is. I want to tell her things that she should know about the next few years. I want to hug her, not take her clothes off and fondle her.

I notice all these beautiful girls on campus and I can definitely imagine doing dirty, dirty things to them… but not to her.

It’s strange.

Since we’re on a school theme…

I am a College Democrat. I am an insane supporter of Obama. So is Sir. Both of us were obsessive checking our respective preferred politics websites ALL Folsom weekend. (fivethirtyeight.com for Sir and OhNoTheyDidn’t Political, pollster.com and politico for me.)

Sir also took it upon himself to force me to watch the debate naked, tied up and cringing the whole time. We were in our room at Folsom Fringe last friday. He had a few rules.

When one candidate said the other’s name, He would hurt me.

When someone said SARAH PALIN, He would hurt me A LOT. He would also hurt me on Biden, but not AS much.

He would pinch my inner thighs so hard I would be screaming and wailing behind the gag, flailing on the bed. He started cheating and would do it even when nothing was happening, just because He LOVED my reaction. He would spank me. Slap me. Pinch my nipples.

I’m cringing as to what would have happened if we were together for the vice presidental debate.

“I get to hurt you whenever Palin says ‘maverick’…” I would have probably ended up a sobbing heap on the mattress, considering Palin used “maverick” one hundred and four times…

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