Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Real-Time Service

I was so deeply moved by my time with teddybearslave today. This blog post is likely to be poorly structured at best, and completely incomprehensible at worst, but I need to get my tumble of thoughts out of my brain into some place where I can see them again and remember what I feel like right this moment.

I'm so cautious interpersonally, in some ways. It's a crazy statement from someone whose husband's girlfriend lives with us, who has an in-person lover locally and another long-distance. I can see that.

And yet, on Friday night, when I tagged in to substitute in a play scene with my husband and another local couple, I stopped myself from kissing her, taking off my clothing, licking her, blowing him... and in the debrief, we all admitted later I could have done any of those and been welcome, but we hadn't negotiated it. Instead, I did what I knew we'd agreed on: I added my energy, I helped hurt her, I helped arouse her by kissing and licking elsewhere, but I would rather err on the side of caution and leave everyone wanting a bit than to go over a line and leave anyone regretful.

So I love asking for permission, but I hate asking for help. I always have.

I used to have a strong back; I built sets and hung lights in college. I can carry a 40-pound bag of dog food, a 50-pound dog, an air conditioning unit, furniture. I can do it by myself! I can hear the echoes of myself as a toddler pitching a fit, and my feminist professors ranting against stereotypes of women in American culture. I loved making more money than either of my husbands. And I loved the mental image of myself from 1991, driving to my job with my freshly dry cleaned cocktail dress neatly laid over a stack of lumber I needed to haul, to be used to build sturdy things that people would stand on onstage. That was me. That is still me, in my head. Tough. Capable. Strong. Feminine. But with the claws of a tiger and the shoulders of a bear.

Today, my teddybearslave came over for the first time. To serve. To serve me. I've paid people to clean before, I've paid people to help me organize before. Those felt like even exchanges, your time for my money. Clean. Easy. Simple. And although I cringed at needing the assistance, I knew I had earned the money to pay for it.

Today was different. teddybearslave was cleaning in exchange for attention. Energy. The privilege of ... gulp ... serving me. His expectations were merely that he be allowed to change into frilly panties and stockings before he cleaned, and that afterward, he be allowed to do whatever I wished.

This morning before he came over, I almost wiped down the bathroom before he came over a dozen times. I have long hair, I shed. The tub has stains that were there when we moved in. I'm pretty sure we haven't cleaned behind that cabinet, ever. I kept hearing a voice saying, "I'm not paying him, he shouldn't have to do that..."

But I let my bathroom be uncleaned before he arrived. It was excruciatingly difficult to let anyone serve me like that. To let someone else see one of the ways I have felt the most weak, the most needy, the least strong. To let him see that weakness, and let him fix it.

The bathroom, unsurprisingly, is perfectly clean. Everything shines. Everything is lined up straight. It's beautiful.

Afterwards, for play time, I wanted to stop thinking about my bathroom, and instead show him how I like to have my sore muscles rubbed: in my back, my hands, my feet. I wanted to show him first, then let him. Feel his muscles under my palms, then feel mine under his. Get used to the feeling of each others' bodies, grow accustomed to touching.

I felt his back muscles loosen immediately under the heels of my hands. They responded to me. He doesn't carry his tension in his back. Nor in his ass. Nor in his legs, all luxuriously covered in nylon thigh-highs. So strong and so silky under my palm.

Then I laid down, let him rub my back. I overruled the urge to be grateful and non-specific, knowing it was okay to ask for more, less, other. No, press in first, then slide. Use the heel of your palm, or the side of your hand. Yes, like that. Right there.

I felt him squishing away a tension in my left shoulder I hadn't realized I had, and thought about my bathroom, sparkling. I felt him listening to my muscles. I felt him wanting to help me.

It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal of all my feminine strength. I don't need a man to help me, goddammit. I don't need anybody to help me, goddammit. I'm strong and powerful and full of grace and this is totally wrong to let him serve me like this. I'm strong enough to give without taking, I'm strong enough to do and do and do and never rest... The crazy voices of a million moments of martyrdom echoed through my mind.

Sometimes, when the tension in a muscle gives way, it releases something emotionally which has been tightly held for decades. When that happens, sometimes it releases tears.

"Don't stop, I'm fine," I managed to say. I felt him press in, staying steady, while I cried, because I needed someone to help me, yet again, and because, yet again, I found the help I needed when I finally found the courage to ask for it.

I didn't ask if I could cry, I'm his Mistress. I didn't ask if he minded, I'm his Mistress. And the good wishes pouring through his fingertips let me know he was at least okay, if not a little confused.

I did explain myself, eventually, with his hands still working on my back. It's vulnerable for me to be served - I feel my needs exposed. I don't feel comfortable crying with most people - the urge doesn't usually even surface - but when I do, it means I have a gut-level trust. It's a good thing. My tears subsided. A grin began.

He laid down again, so I could rub his hands. They're huge. Strong. Calloused. His back had given way to my pressure, but his hands were holding on. He needed his hands to stay strong; after all, they make him what he is, a servant.

So I pressed. Rubbed from his elbow down. Listened to his muscles. Told him to let me. He had to close his eyes to release to me. There, that's better. His breathing slowed down and I could feel him struggling to surrender to my touch. The other hand went easier, and I found myself curling up my hand in his relaxed palm, marveling at how tiny it looked, how safe it felt.

When I tucked his arm around me and snuggled in beside him, I giggled. This was ridiculous. Mistresses don't cuddle, right?. But he was my plaything, and I got to do what I wanted, and I didn't have to ask, or I had already asked, or something like that. He would tell me if he was uncomfortable, we had already established and reinforced that. I was simply to do with him what I wished, and what I wished was to wrap his giant teddy bear arms around me and cuddle in beside him, so fuck it, I did.

It was too much for his calm. His hands began roaming, stroking my skin. He pressed against me, and I could feel the erection growing under his pretty panties. I enjoyed his touch, his want. I felt him want to kiss my neck, but stop himself, and I grinned, knowing that for any other lover, I would have told him to go ahead, but for this moment, I wanted to feel his desire and his struggle, so fuck it, I did.

I could just lie here and let him caress me. I could grind against him, or not. I could leave him breathless. I could do anything, feel anything, have anything from him. He was there for me. I got it. I was so happy.

I laid him on his back, knowing my timer would go off in a few minutes, and spent the minutes running my hand over his body, feeling the curve of his muscles in his arms, down his chest, where his breath caught when my fingertips traced, how he trembled a little when I brushed over the dampness of the wet spot on his frills. I didn't have to do anything, complete anything, give anything. This was for me.

It seems absurd to me that I absorbed the feminist ideal in a way that made it hard for me to be served. And yet, I was struggling with feeling weak by accepting the surrender of someone else to my whims. The struggle was unexpected. The fact that I was learning quickly, that I seemed to be able to get past the crazy voices and do whatever I wanted to do with him made me suspect that I was going to figure it out.

"I'll probably go on record as the craziest Mistress ever." He laughed, shook his head no. I thought about asking for stories of others crazier than I, but realized I didn't need them.

The timer went off. I silenced it, and asked myself what I wanted. Just me. Without regard to his wants, just me.

"Put your clothes back on. There's a hanger in the bathroom for your things to leave here. I could probably go longer. We could probably do more. But this seems perfect to me."

He nodded. "Yes, it does."

I grinned. "So we're done."

Downstairs, I stood on the bottom stair and pulled him over to me by his shirt, pausing him close to me, eye to eye. Are Mistresses supposed to kiss their slaves? I don't know. But I had the urge to kiss him. So fuck it. I did.

I'm gonna learn a lot from this.


  1. It was excruciatingly difficult to let anyone serve me like that. To let someone else see one of the ways I have felt the most weak, the most needy, the least strong. To let him see that weakness, and let him fix it.

    I love that you've talked about how hard it can be to accept service. I've really struggled with that too, it's taken me ages to get sort of grudgingly comfortable with letting anyone, even my boyfriend, see me when I'm sick.

    I was simply to do with him what I wished, and what I wished was to wrap his giant teddy bear arms around me and cuddle in beside him, so fuck it, I did.

    Awwww :)

  2. Thanks Stabbity!! And I'm 100% sure we're not alone in struggling with accepting assistance.