We may have watched the movie, but the reviews were all on me.

Rating: 7.0/7 (2 votes cast)

The movies were picked and I was excited that Master had asked me to chose a film that I would like, one just for me. Eagerly I placed the plastic case upon the shelf and had engaged in a sympathetic conversation with the sniffling sales assistant. I could tell by her glossy eyes and scratchy voice that she too had been held hostage by one of the numerous autumn germ bugs. Some how during the exchange I made the comment that Master was not feeling up to par either.

"Yes. So many seem to have the sniffles. He is sick as well." I made certain my head was turned in the direction of Master as I spoke.
"I am not sick. I have a runny nose. I am not sick." His voice was deeper, hoarse and I saw the same wet reflection I had witnessed while speaking with the associate.
"Master, yes you are. You are not feeling well." I believed my tone to be soft, loving and I simply wanted to demonstrate my understanding of Master's ailment.Which is why I was surprised when Master curled his finger in a come here motion, followed by a whispering hiss as his eyes glared into mine.

"If you ever argue with me again, in a public place, I will spank you right where you are." His words penetrated through me and although he never raised a hand my face stung as though each letter that escaped his mouth was a smack against my cheek.

I was quiet. Then I smiled. My nervous curling lipped grin which allows a slight uncertain laugh to slip past my tongue. (A very long time ago, whenever I was upset I would become defensive, raise my voice, be sharp with my tongue. Somewhere between 2001 to 2006 I exchanged that very reactive response to one of tears - every time I was confronted with an argument I found myself welling up. And just as a shift occurred during those 5 years, in the past year those tears have transferred into laughter. A maniacal clown laugh, quiet but definitely oozing in sarcasm.)

As quickly as I laughed I paused, turned to face the young lady who helped us, said thank you and for the first time since moving in with Master, I walked, purposefully towards the exit door and pushed the heavy glass open, disregarding one cardinal rule Master has instilled in me: to always wait for Master to open all doors, whether coming or going.

I was infused with rage, embarrassment and sadness. As I walked towards the car I could hear Master reminding me that he was the only one who had keys and in the same condescending manner, he curled that wicked finger, demanding my return to his body. Unlike my physical composure, Master appeared calm as he reached for me, wrapping his arms around me. I could hear Masters voice but the rage that filled me caused each sentence to be muffled, impossible to decipher and although I know I spoke, I am uncertain as to what exactly I had said. What I do know is that I was silent driving home and I was withdrawn as I sat before the laptop, unwilling to engage with Master and much to my dismay I was deeply saddened by the interaction which transpired while at the video store.

Many hours later Master sat next to me and with a calmness I did not recognize, Master encouraged me to analyze my behaviours, my response to the words he had shared with me while we were out. I nodded, mumbled a sentence or two and then spent the rest of the evening and all through the night pondering exactly what he had told me to.

I do not believe there is a gene in our DNA for care giving but this trait definitely has been passed down through my family. As far back as I remember my grandmothers were always tending to their husbands and children. I spent the vast majority of my childhood and adolescence observing my mother tend to every household demand, every tear and moment of laughter her children and her husband experienced. I witnessed my sister dote on her husband and then spend four years barely sleeping as she lovingly tended to every possible need her special little boy had. I grew up surrounded by women who catered to their husbands and children; who made lunches and chicken soup when sniffles were heard. I was raised to care and tend to others, especially when someone had become ill. I babysat at the age of 10 and was a nanny for numerous years. I volunteered in shelters and while in Australia worked in a long term facility where I had the honour and privilege to spend time with a person during his/her last few hours life. I became a therapist and surrounded myself around those who wished for assistance. Everything I did, everyone I was with, the boyfriends I shared relationships with were men who not only liked my caring side, my attentive nature, but who sought it, demanded it.

When someone I love does not feel top notch I want to care for them. I understand constant attention is unnerving. Like many I too want to be left alone, for the most part, when not feeling well but having someone say they wish I felt better or having someone make me chicken noodle soup is a kind offer I accept. I believe no one likes to see his/her loved one feeling yucky and as I walked through the video store with Master, hearing his sneezes, seeing the expression behind his glassy eyes, I felt compassion for him and absolutely hoped he felt better so very soon. When I was expressing that Master was sick, I did not make the statement with the intent to disrespect or to come across as argumentative. After seventeen hours of contemplation, I still can not pinpoint exactly what my motive was when I spoke those four words. My intent was love. Plain and simple.

As for my startled response, I believe that comes from feeling attacked for caring. I still am bewildered as to why it angered Master for me to say what I did. I have rationalized that it is not what I said at all but simply that I had not agreed with him or better yet had not silenced myself after his first response. (Master does dislike repeating himself.) My anger was ignited because of my interpretation of Masters words but was fueled by Masters promise to publicly spank me in front of others. Even now as I can feel his breath sear my flesh and my breathing quickens. To be treated as a child, in public, is by far one of the most insulting feelings for me. Yes, there are times when I feel "little". Times when knowing Master is there to protect me, shield me, soothes me but I try to stand firm in the reality that I am not a child, that I am grown woman. When Master speaks in such a manner I want to revolt, I want to have a temper tantrum and that is exactly what I did when I opened the door by myself; when I withdrew, turned inwards and emotionally blocked him while I felt heated, vulnerable. And my actions of binding my heart from his words, from his affections, from him is what made me sad, still makes me sad.

I do not want to shield myself from Master. I want to turn to him. I want to find solace with him but when I remove my heart from the moment it is impossible to do so. And when I feel vulnerable I retreat. All I wanted was to show love for Master, to "take care of him" and all I managed to do was be a part of an argument.

But why did it happen? Why? That three little word has caused me much grief throughout my life. I can recall my mother, frustrated as she was trying to teach me fractions, "you do not need to know why, you just need to do it". But I did need to know, or rather I wanted to and I felt as though I needed. I have asked why a million times. Why this, why that? I want to know the purpose behind something before I do it, before I try it, before I believe it, before, before, before. This one little adverb has been the bane of my existence and I am finding it brings many moments of confusion and anger for me. I want to know the why behind Masters choices and when I do not know the why I allow myself to become frustrated.

Why do I do that?

The concept of my why questioning kept teasing me last night as I sat on the sofa and Master placed two pillows on my head. They were there for only a second or two when I decided to tilt my head and allow the down filled cushions to fall to the floor. Master looked at me rather confused and stated, "who said you could move those"? Without pausing I stated, matter of fact, "you did not say I could not remove them". In my mind there was no good reason as to why the pillows were there and thus could be moved. The "why" factor for me was "why keep them when I have not been told to and why did you put pillows on my head". Those were thoughts running through my mind; however, looking back I realise that there does not have to be a why when it comes to Master. He does what he wants because he wants to. I guess his answer to my why is "because".

Why did Master not want me to say he was sick? Really not the point. Point is he did not and he told me not to say so. And I did anyways. Why did Master put the pillows on my head? Because he wanted to. There is no why, only because.

I am not exactly certain what I am taking from this experience. What I do know is that I feel sad for my reactions. I feel sad that I am struggling with understanding what it means to be his slave. I am sad that I feel as though I am not learning and growing and instead constantly questioning.

Although I do not have any valid answers after all those many hours of analyzing, what I do know is how much I love Master and how I do not want to take him for granted, for him to ever think I do not want to obey.

Recently Master and I had a conversation about needs versus wants. I stated I do not need him but rather I want him. I stated that wanting far exceeds needing because that shows just how much I desire him in my life. And I have never wanted him more than I do now. More than ever. Stronger than ever.

~His

Slave musings