“Today, you will give something to me.”
“A small thing, of your choice.”
“Take a single moment from today.”
“A break from work. A piece of meal or snack. A song you like to hear.”
“Something you enjoy.
“Today, just once, skip it.”
“Turn away from it; have the choice of enjoying it, and leave it alone.””
“Not as a punishment.
“As a gift.
“You are giving up a little pleasure for me.
“You are saying, `My Lord, I would rather please you than enjoy this moment.
‘I want to suffer, today, just a little bit.
‘For you, my Lord.’
We like to speak of submission as a gift, we use phrases like, “The most precious gift, the gift of yourself.”
And in many ways, this is true.
But in our hurry to see the consent, the willingness behind the bond—we insult you. And we insult me.
Your submission is given.
But so, too, is it stolen.
So, too, is it taken.
And so, too—most of all— it is won.
Stolen— as I learn more about you, learn how you react to me, learn what I want to know, push your buttons, find cracks in your armour. I find what makes you tick and use it to steal you away from belonging to yourself…and into belonging to me.
Taken— as I push you, as I demand more of you, as I extend my dominance by putting you in situations where you must submit, or back down…when my instincts tell me, this time, though you don’t know it yet, you will submit. You’ll give me what I want to take from you.
Won. As I prove myself to be someone you can trust…someone who wants to share this world with you, someone who can give you what you need…and pull from you what you need to lose.
Keep me a journal.
Write in it every day. Give me those moments of your day; give to me a piece of your time.
Every day, take a little while to think about your submission. Never be afraid to question what we do. Never be afraid that you will write something “wrong”.
Your time is your gift, and it is my due.
This journal is my gift to you, in return.
Face to the floor.
Balance your ass on your heels.
Turn your face to the right, so that your left cheek kisses the floor.
Now pull your hands out from under your face, and clasp them behind your back.
To whom does this body belong?
Bring your hands to the blades of your feet, right hand to right foot, left to left.
Touch them with your fingers, feel the skin.
Think about how these things are mine.
Trace a path over the body. Go slow, be steady. If touching a certain place excites you, think about how, were it your own body, you might linger. But it is not, and you will not.
Trace legs, ass, pussy, clit, asshole, thigh, stomach, breasts, neck, jawline, cheek, upper back, spine. Return arms to their previous place. Lock them there, as is proper.
The first time you do this, stop there.
The second time, and at your will afterward, continue thus:
Stand up— bring your hands to the floor on either side of you, raise your head, push up with your arms, unbend your knees.
Spread your legs.
Straighten your head, face forward.
Push your arms out, straight, to either side, fingers together, palms down.
Close your eyes. Don’t move.
Begin tracing your body again, using your mind and not your fingers. Try to feel the touch of your mind on each part of your body.
“This is not mine.”
“This is yours, sir.”
Breath fills, suffuses, infuses.
It changes with our emotions, our exertions, our state of wake or sleep.
Breath can be used to change moods, give us strength, help us drowse.
Breath is powerful.
Take a deep breath. Feel it, feel it lift your shoulders, watch it swell against your chest, let it swell your belly a bit as well.
Slowly, let the air out of your body. Try to take at least fifteen seconds exhaling.
Hold it, the emptiness.
Slowly inhale, at least ten seconds.
I want you to do this for me a few more times. As you do so, think of me. Think of how this, too, is an offering to me. Try to feel the air as a part of me, filling you, subsiding, filling you, subsiding.
This exercise is likely to have a calming effect.
Use it as needed.
Isn’t disrobe a lovely word?
Strip for me.
Do not be fast, shedding your clothes without thought. Do not be slow, like a stripper.
Removing clothes, putting them on—this is something we do every day. It is automatic.
Today, don’t let it be.
It’s not your nakedness I want. Let vanilla boys hold their breathe for that. I enjoy your nakedness— but fully clothed, you are more naked before me than any erotic dancer they might hope to purchase.
Today, as you take off each piece of clothing and set it aside, reflect that you are doing so because you have been told to.
Think about how your nakedness belongs to someone else. Think about how clothes serve as a buffer, as a requirement for public life, as a barrier to sex.
Think about how that barrier does not exist for me. Think about how, when we are in private, the difference between you, clothed, and you, naked, is a single word from me.
Think about how, in essence, you are always naked to me.