Sometimes a sandwich is all you need to say “I love You”.

When Master is away, His slave will play. »« Locked. Silenced. Speaking volumes.

Sometimes a sandwich is all you need to say “I love You”.

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When I look back on all the relationships I have encountered, all the friendships I have made I can not help but also think of each of their families. Whenever I have questioned why any of them greeted me, showed affection to me in a specific manner I was drawn to the home they grew up in, the people who helped guide, support, nurture and eventually release them into this big wide world.

I have often looked at a family's interactions as their own unique blue print of affection. When I first met my friend Sa, I was greeted with a very large hug and two kisses one on each cheek. Every time we were together he would ensure food was part of our exchange. I learned, the moment I met his mother, just where he came up with such a tradition. The instant I walked through the door I was greeted by a rather affectionate and robust woman. Before I had the chance to remove my shoes she had kissed my cheeks all while guiding me to the kitchen where she placed both her palms onto my shoulders, insisting I sit at the table. I barely had the opportunity to say hello, let alone to thank her for inviting me into her home, before she was placing dish after dish of everything Italian in front of me. When I had eaten all I could, when I had hugged everyone goodnight, I found my hands full of tupperware dishes, left overs for me to enjoy throughout the week. It did not take long for me to learn that Sa's family equated affection with food, with eating and his mum showered me in love by filling my stomach.

In a completely alternative world, the moment I felt the exceptionally stern and rather forceful handshake of Dwayne's father, I knew without hesitation that Dwayne's home was all about discipline and structure. I spent a great deal of time in my high school friends house and what I observed was that both Dwayne's mother and father believed strict punishment followed by a rigid routine of intense studying, physical activity and internal discipline were the keys of showing affection. Both Mr. and Mrs. C would spend countless hours going to the gym, pushing more and more weights and it was when Dwayne would supersede the added weight, when he would continue to lift even though his body was tired, that I witnessed pride and what can only be described as love. With every external accomplishment, The C's smiled, applauded and with the spoken word, told Dwayne and myself that we had "done a good job" and for the C's, those four little words were the same as saying "We love you".

An entirely foreign exchange of affection came from my friend Kay. I met Kay when I was thirteen, grade eight. I thought she was one of the sweetest and prettiest girls in school and when she invited me to her 14th birthday I was so excited. I was very aware that Kay came from a rather wealthy family. Not only did they live in a house that could easily be described as a mansion but unlike many of my friends parents, both of Kay's parents had flourishing careers: her father was in the oil business, her mother a well known criminal lawyer. Unlike other friends I had met and meet today, I did not meet Kay's parents until a year later and even then the encounter was brief. Both Kay's parents were out of the country on the day of her 14th birthday; however, they were kind enough to buy her a car, a vehicle she would not be able to use for another two years. They also provided her with a platinum credit card and the removal of any curfew. It was in late September, when my hand briefly slipped into the palm of Mrs. H and I was shocked that it was not only flesh I felt but rather crisp one hundred dollar bills, three of them to be exact. In our brief exchange Mrs. H. stated she was so happy to finally meet me, that Kay spoke of me often and she was grateful that her daughter had such a dedicated friend. I had never received money from a parent before; however, I knew that the gift was merely her way of showing gratitude for being her daughters friend, her companion. The money was not to buy me but simply Mrs. Hs' way of showing affection.

It has been many years since I have seen those three friends, since I have connected with past lovers but what has remained is how individual every family is with regards to showing emotion, showing love. Although I could see the signs, I was aware of the commitment each family member had towards one another, all of them have been entirely different from my own. I come from a rather demonstrative and verbally expressive family. I have heard the words, "I love you" probably just as many times as I have taken a breath and my arms have been wrapped around every single member of my family, from grandparents to grand babies, to great aunts to distant cousins, to my parents and siblings, to my nieces and nephews, our arms are never empty, our hands are often being held. I am and always have been aware that the tactile approach my family takes is not overly common and can at times be overwhelming for others, heck it can even be overwhelming for me. Still, I would not trade what I have been given, all I have experienced for anything else. Nor would I expect any other person to give up what he or she has had.

I think it is because of my upbringing that giving affection comes naturally to me, that wanting affection is simply part of my survival. Touch is grossly significant in my development, as a person, as a slave and I am grateful Master respects and understands that. As much as I dislike admitting it, I must confess that when it comes to physical attention I am high maintenance. There is not one single day that I do not wish to feel Masters' fingers thread with mine, that I do not crave the strength of his arms around me as he engulfs me in a hug, that I do not melt from deep internal warmth each and every night I feel Master slip into bed, his body connecting with mine. With that said though, I do not require constant body to body contact. I am completely happy to be on the chesterfield, Master sitting beside me and our bodies not entwined. There are times when I do not reach for his hand as we walk into the store and it is not because I do not like holding his hand, I treasure that, rather it is that I do appreciate my space, the freedom of my appendages.

Unlike my childhood environment, Master was not raised in a continuous hug fest. This does not mean he was raised without affection, of course he was. He was hugged, kissed, praised, it simply was not in the same manner, same degree as mine and it is because of this difference that Master and I sometimes do not speak the same language. This is especially true when it comes to saying I love you. I was conditioned, very early, to say I love you as much as possible, to not withhold those feelings, to be encouraged to say them as many times as I wanted because one simply does not know when it will be the last. This should not be mistaken with speaking without meaning because I was raised to only utter such words when they were genuine. For my family though there was no need to withhold, to refrain from and no matter how many times those words were spoken, never did they lose their meaning, their weight. Master, like many others, does not share the same sentiment. Master is careful with that expression, saying it when he means it but not releasing it too many times. For Master, he believes that if those words are spoken to0 often they lose meaning and therefore every single time I hear him whisper, "I love you" my entire mind, body and soul swell with warmth. Truthfully though, if he uttered those words every day, three times a day, they would still make me tingle, still fill me up. Although I was raised to express my feelings often with Master I try to refrain from telling him how much I love him on a daily basis. This does not mean I do not love him but rather it is me respecting Masters wishes, showing Master in a language he understands, just how much he means to me.

And there are other ways of expressing my love, ways that do not involve speech, ways that do not involve cuddles. There are numerous ways in fact which allow me to express my affections for Master: ensuring his house is clean, having dinner ready for him each and every night, making him sandwiches at random, filling his drink even before he has a chance to tell me, feeding him, drawing him a bath, putting his clothes out at the start of each day, taking time to place a clean pair of lounge pants by his seat when he comes home from work, plugging in his cell phone so it can charge and even finding all of the television shows he likes and placing a reminder on each of them so that Master does not have to look for them throughout the evening. I have learned, through time, that I am able to show Master my love rather than always having to say it and I am thankful for each of them. My methods of expressing affection though can at times create slight friction in me only when Master tends to a task himself, randomly making himself a sandwich or tending to his own beverage or even filling the tub. In moments such as those I confess I can become discombobulated, internally so, only because I think of such acts as ways to serve, ways to contribute to our life, to our relationship. Rationally I know that Masters' intent could very well be to simply retrieve something himself or even to simply allow me to stay comfy, not wishing to disturb my position. Still, whenever I witness Master tending to something I consider a task for me, I can not help but want to help and it takes everything in me to remain silent.

Although there are numerous ways that do not involve touch or tender words of sentiment, there is one way in which I absolutely crave, something that fills me up and demonstrates just how loyal, how faithful, how committed, how very much in love with Master I am: Sucking Masters' cock. When Master grants me permission to perform, to please him with my mouth cunt; when Master grants me access to his cock, to lap at, lick, run my fingers over, slide my tongue down, I become almost breathless. The moment I kneel, the instant I inhale his scent I feel a rush of endorphins, a flood of all consuming devotion and the love I feel for Master is reflected in my eyes, in my trembles, in the little sighs as I gulp his flesh down my throat. I have no explanation as to why this one particular act, this intimate exchange with Master impacts me on the level it does, all I know is that when Master denies, when Master conceals his cock from my touch, from my breath, I feel an emptiness and a greediness that quite honestly I can not explain. Perhaps because taking Masters' cock into my throat cunt is such a private and intimate act, I find it has such intense meaning and when Master withholds such an exchange I almost feel lost. How incredibly surreal that statement is to me! I am shocked with my own confession. Regardless though of my surprise, it is true. Perhaps my feelings are heightened because it has been over two weeks since I was last granted the right to touch, to kiss, to lick, to worship Masters' cock and quite frankly I want to do just that: to be on my knees, showing my affection, sharing that exchange with Master. I want, desperately so, to feed from Master but more so I want him to feast from me; to grip my hair, use my mouth, take advantage of a willing slave and through that primal conversation I want to tell Master I love him and to feel his love for me.

I am a tactile creature. My skin, the flesh that covers my heart needs attention, craves to be devoured with love, by love, for love. And just as I want it, I desire to give it, I flourish when I can give it.

~His

(Photo by Michael Rosen.)

Slave musings