(A journal entry from May 7th, edited for publication.)
I was away, in my own head.
In the imaginal, I was yours. You’d given me to Yvonne for a night, who in turn used me very, very roughly, late into the night. The next morning, she met with you for coffee, slave girl in tow — who’d been very good, she assured — and you received me back.
In the real — just minutes later — you addressed my subconscious, asking me to let you protect me in my dreams.
And in a funny way, you just had. As Shae has written before me:
I can’t not be submissive, whether owned or unowned, whether actively dominated or not, whether bound or free. My constant inclination is to submit to any other person around me, which apart from a slave master or mistress, is dangerous and leaves me susceptible. For me and others like me, there is a saving grace in being owned by another, for then I am protected from my own submissive vulnerability.
Being given was protection, for in that world I was yours to give; the comfort of being given — that of knowing one’s place to begin with.