Allow me to be your can­vas.
Splash my body with your fears.
Coat me in col­ours of disappointment.

Title me your myriad of insecurities.

I am your mosaic,
paint me in lash­ings of rage -
Your dynamic expres­sion of release.

Then wash me in your strength.
For I shall never stain.
A con­stant com­pos­i­tion of love.

~His

Many years ago a very good friend of mine described me as an enigma. I was puzzled at first, pon­der­ing why she would con­sider such an adject­ive to describe me, espe­cially since I believed I was an open book. As my social net­work grew I con­tin­ued to hear that famil­iar sen­ti­ment and although I still dis­agreed I merely nod­ded my head in a slow yes gesture.

I pro­ject a par­tic­u­lar image to those I do not wish to invite into my dec­ad­ence. I often por­tray myself as a well groomed, polite, intel­li­gent, con­ser­vat­ive lady. I do not cuss in pub­lic nor do I engage in alco­hol related activ­it­ies. I most cer­tainly cover my mouth when I yawn and I appar­ently have learned to release only the quietest girly like sneezes ima­gin­able. I express myself in a con­cise fash­ion; artic­u­lat­ing full sen­tences rather than frag­men­ted slang and abbre­vi­ations. I do not speak of sexual rela­tions around a lunch table nor do I kiss and tell.

I am not a prude; how­ever, I am a believer in “right time, right place”. I do not wish for my fam­ily and co-workers to know the inner work­ings of my slave­ness nor do I wish to divulge my sexual con­quests regard­less of how many of them have shared such details with me. To the out­side world I gen­er­ally appear as a rather sexu­ally reserved indi­vidual; how­ever, every now and then I real­ise my secret is not as safe as I once thought. The other day I was speak­ing with a co-worker of mine whom also hap­pens to be a pro­fes­sional pier­cer. During our con­ver­sa­tion I relaxed my reigns long enough to share that I have a pier­cing. Immediately her lips curled into a sly grin and she released a laugh. “I knew it!” she exclaimed. I was watch­ing her care­fully, read­ing what glimmered behind her green eyes. “Know what?” I had asked cau­tiously. At this point she leaned in closer, obvi­ously respect­ing my need for anonym­ity. “I knew you had your nipple pierced. I can see it in your eyes. Oh you come across as inno­cent but just under the sur­face, you are wild. You just hold it in. Tightly.” I laughed. One of those just-got-caught-sneaking-into-something-I-shouldn’t-be-in laughs. She knew, I knew, my secret was revealed and yet still safe.

Years ago this expos­ure would have placed me into an abysmal frenzy. Now though it is moments like that which give me the free­dom to relax, to not take myself too ser­i­ously and to allow those grossly heavy and overly restrict­ive restraints to slip off of my psyche. I would not have guessed that what I desire lingers just behind my dark pools. Although I found my co-workers words play­ful what she said triggered a part of my sexu­al­ity that sur­prised me. All this time I thought I was clev­erly con­ceal­ing who I was, when in real­ity I have only been mis­lead­ing myself.

I con­tin­ued to pon­der what my col­league had said and I had to ques­tion, was I really that trans­par­ent? Thankfully I came to the con­clu­sion that I am not neces­sar­ily trans­par­ent, I am merely sexual. As I flipped through my book of memor­ies I found numer­ous occa­sions where my engage­ment with a per­son, whether male or female, was emphat­ic­ally sexual. One such memory that comes to mind is the day I met my pre­vi­ous gym trainer. “T” entered my life via work. We had engaged briefly; how­ever, he con­tin­ued to linger around, catch­ing snip­pets of a con­ver­sa­tion with me as I ten­ded to my duties. I was not alone in my work envir­on­ment, numer­ous female asso­ci­ates were linger­ing close to the main foyer, try­ing to catch a glimpse of his spec­tac­u­lar form. Initially I was far too con­sumed with my work duties to take notice of him; how­ever, as our con­ver­sa­tion star­ted to expand I dis­covered I was flirt­ing with him. Suddenly I was mak­ing excuses to pick some­thing up or drop some­thing off just to bump into him again. I felt power­ful as we con­tin­ued to exchange insig­ni­fic­ant mut­ter­ings and after sixty minutes of “T” hov­er­ing around the entrance I finally asked him if he would like to join me for lunch. I felt empowered and I knew my sexual vora­city was full throttle. I flir­ted openly, ensur­ing my breasts looked pretty in my rather reveal­ing blouse. I was cer­tain to walk a little slower when he was behind me, cer­tain he was watch­ing my form as I climbed the stairs.

“T” and I spent three hours (a much exten­ded lunch) con­vers­ing and for half of that time I felt lib­er­ated, dec­ad­ent and although I would not have iden­ti­fied my con­fid­ence with sexual prowess, look­ing back I real­ise it was exactly that. Half way through our lunch “T” leaned in close, allow­ing his chest to brush against me. His eyes cast down to see mine and sud­denly I felt like prey. His smile was illu­min­at­ing but it was not friend­li­ness I wit­nessed behind his brown eyes, it was lust. “T” leaned down, allow­ing his lips to pause beside my ear and when he spoke I froze. “You express your­self beau­ti­fully **********. I can not take my eyes away from you, you exude sen­su­al­ity.” Two little sen­tences. Just two tiny phrases com­posed of a mere sev­en­teen words and yet it stopped me instant­an­eously and I was speechless.

When con­fron­ted with my sexu­al­ity I stumble back­wards, crawl­ing into a dark and well hid­den corner. Moments prior to “T’s” for­ward remark I was alive, vibrat­ing with sexual energy; how­ever, the minute his words burned into my flesh I froze, slammed on my brakes and hit reverse. He wit­nessed my trans­form­a­tion and imme­di­ately stepped away from me, offer­ing me space to com­pose myself. When it first happened I had told myself my response to “T’s” advances were drastic due to my rela­tion­ship with Master. Looking back I know bet­ter. I did not hold my sexu­al­ity host­age out of fear of betray­ing my rela­tion­ship, I did so out of fear of allow­ing it free.

I have been aware of it for many years, most of my life actu­ally, my first memory was when I was five. I had been play­ing with my Barbie dolls and without real­ising my actions my pretty blonde girly toy had white bread ties fastened around her wrists. Should I have been spied by a judg­mental eye I would have been imme­di­ately rushed to a ther­ap­ist where I would have been probed for details of abuse. Thankfully I am not aware that any­one ever wit­nessed my private moments of play and I con­tin­ued to “tor­ture” each dolly with Ken tak­ing full advant­ages of each girl. As I grew my desires intens­i­fied and Barbie no longer quenched what I wanted.

Soon I found myself liv­ing in my mind cre­at­ing a fantasy land which involved expli­cit sexu­al­ity. I shared my world of ima­gin­a­tion with no one, hord­ing all my desires to myself. Even as I began to develop and boys tread upon my path I with­held what I craved, offer­ing little more than a kiss to my poten­tial suit­ors. I was pet­ri­fied to let my secrets spill from my lips and so, slowly, I pushed my sexu­al­ity down.

Deep down. Buried. Locked.

There were moments through­out my late teens, early twen­ties, where I would allow my guard down, believ­ing I had all that lust cap­tured. I would be engaged in intim­acy, shar­ing a kiss, feel­ing a strong hand in my hair, an assert­ive tone lick­ing at senses when sud­denly it would appear, full force in my voice, in my eyes, released in my breath. In those moments I would panic, pull back and stifle all arousal that con­sumed me. I knew I would not be able to con­trol it and there­fore I removed myself entirely from any form of a rela­tion­ship. Instead I ven­tured into an asexual world of uni­ver­sity and work. Year after year I would drown myself in real­ity, pla­cing all my focus on a career and although I am proud of all my accom­plish­ments I was starving myself of true release.

Cautiously I re-entered the dat­ing world and luck­ily I stumbled upon a few gen­tle­men who I felt safe with, whom I allowed to explore a little of my sexu­al­ity. Still, no mat­ter how much I trus­ted those gen­tle­men, I failed to trust myself and even­tu­ally I par­ted ways and once more mum­mi­fied my sexu­al­ity, pla­cing it in the deep­est recesses of my soul. I was never free from my internal struggles, fight­ing the tugs at my mind, my heart, my limbs, my cunt, con­stantly in battle with who I wanted to appear to be and who I was deep inside.

Much time has passed since the little girl in me was col­lect­ing bread ties and now my toy box is filled with ties made from leather, made of chain. The days of play­ing with the Barbie no longer exist, now the bar­bie lives in me, wrapped in the chains I have acquired. I have not fully come to terms with what lingers just under my skin, right behind my darkened pupils but I have, much to my sur­prise, allowed it to come out and play. Well, not so much allowed but have had it pulled from me. The first time I became con­sumed by it was with my Master. We were at a friends house and we were plan­ning on spend­ing the night. The even­ing was quiet and my Master, my friend and I were all enjoy­ing each oth­ers con­ver­sa­tion when Master offered me a very deli­cious alco­holic bever­age. I was hes­it­ant in accept­ing the toxic potion for I knew it would beckon the dolly and bring it out, full force. Still, without much, if any encour­age­ment from my Master, my arm stretched before me, accept­ing the wicked elixer. I recall with great clar­ity the sen­sa­tions that swept through my body as the sweet tast­ing poison seeped deep within my body. As the ruby red mix­ture stained my lips I knew I was no longer present, that the dolly had sur­faced and was in full force. I can not recall much of that even­ing; how­ever, Master has described to me, in great deal at how I trans­formed from a rather quiet and play­ful girl to a raven­ous fuck­toy beg­ging for Masters cock.

My second encounter with the dolly was just before the new year (of this year). Master and I had been intim­ate, kiss­ing and pet­ting which even­tu­ally moved to man hand­ling and fuck­ing. There was a dis­tinct moment when Master had his hands around my neck where I released a most primal growl and I knew in that very instant I was van­ish­ing and the dolly was sur­fa­cing. Once more I can not recall much from that even­ing but when I woke, Master was kind enough to relive our experience.

Only recently, I have born wit­ness once more to the dolly, push­ing its way up, pound­ing against my chest, scrap­ing at my vocal chords. The dolly is strong and stubborn.

If I were to re-read all of my entries in this journal I am most cer­tain I would find a few more moments when the dolly has awoken and I have slipped away. One would think that by now, after shar­ing as much as I have I would feel open to my desires, embrace what claws at my chest and cog­nit­ive trans­mit­ters but alas, I find myself still fight­ing. I have been fight­ing it down for so long that I no longer can restrain it. And the real­ity is I do not want to.

I have always known who shall win this battle and per­haps that is one of the reas­ons why the war has been last­ing for so long. Looking back over the years, I bare wit­ness to the times when I removed my rules and expect­a­tions and allowed myself to embrace all that I craved and it is in those times that I was at my hap­pi­est. Recently a gentle voice shared great words of wis­dom encour­aging me to find peace with the dolly. I want very much to do just that.

I may come across as a well groomed garden, flowers intric­ately placed in rows, but what lies beneath is a flurry of wild flowers stum­bling over moun­tain sides, blos­som­ing in its freedom.

~His doll