There’s been a lot of steel in my life lately. My new steel buttplug (the heavenly Njoy Pure Plug) my steel housechain, my steel rings and steel tit collars (or those might be some other kind of metal, I don’t know.) Windchimes that look like steel. Steel chain that W is making into sleeping chains for me.
The other night, sitting with him on the deck in the fading afternoon light, I looked through the pictures on my phone. I was looking for one of his garden, that time that I had gone to his house while he was traveling somewhere and planted his flowerbed for him. (I am chuckling now, remembering how worried I was that he would hate it, would feel that I had overstepped my place, by doing that for him.) I couldn’t find that picture, but I found this one.
For the life of me, I don’t know who I took this picture for. Because I don’t know about you, but to me this is obviously a picture I took to send to someone, most likely a boy someone (though maybe a girl, though that’s not a typical type of picture that I’d send a girl.) But it wasn’t W–this was taken “Before W.” And I sat there looking at that picture, amazed that there even was a “Before W” time.
How do people become so much a part of your life that it’s like they were always there?
How does what you do with them sexually become such a part of you that you can’t recall how you used to come without them, without their words in your ears, their voice in your head, the images that they have placed in your mind’s eye?
He was fucking me with the steel buttplug the other night. Not in my ass but in my cunt, using his hand to fuck me with it, in and out, fast. I let my mind drift while he did, focusing on the physical sensation of what he was doing, but also allowing it to spawn images of its own in my head, and even then, in my fantasy, it was him, fucking me the way he does, and steel: the steel table beneath me, steel in his hand, steel rings in my cunt.
I wonder if I could ever go back to being who I was, “Before W.” Or if I would even want to.
I like who I am with him. I like what I have become, who I have become, with him, at his hands. I like this steel in my cunt, I like knowing that soon I will sleep with his steel chains on my wrists and ankles and neck, that it is his steel that circles and locks on my ankle when I am at his house. I like being his Industrial Girl.
Lately I have been thinking of the symbolism of collars and marks and the emblems that BDSMers use to proclaim their ownership of, or ownership by, their partners. I have been thinking that I want another piece of steel, one that shows his ownership of me to our friends and acquaintances that would know what it means.
“Anyone that reads about us here or on Fetlife, all of your friends, know,” he says. And, “We know what we are to each other.” And that’s true. But…there’s a part of me that wants everyone to know, anyone that looks at me when we are in that setting, to know. To know that I am his Industrial Girl. That I am his.
These thoughts cause confusion in me, and, frankly, are hard, almost embarrassing, to verbalize, because I know he doesn’t share them. He doesn’t need those symbols, doesn’t want them. Like my fear that I was overstepping my bounds by building him a garden, I feel afraid that I am overstepping now by even talking about this. The trappings & symbols of ownership & submission mean nothing to him: how can I say how much this one thing means to me? I feel foolish even typing it. I worry that he will think less of me for not being “above” the symbols of this thing that we do. Because, you know, we don’t “need” symbols of what we are to each other, right?
Right. Of course.
Except…there is this part of me that does want it. And in thinking about it, if I am honest, I realize that what I want is for everyone else to know that he wants to mark me as his. That not only do I want some outward sign of how deeply I feel his hold on me, I also want some outward sign what he feels for me. It is not only that I am owned by him, but that he owns me.