Yesterday morning I turned over on my side, away from him, then snuggled back into his side. The alarm would go off soon, but I wanted just a few minutes more to lay in the chains, savoring the feel of them on my skin, the knowledge of them in my mind. I had slept in them for the first time in awhile the night before, and I wasn’t ready to let that feeling go just yet. Almost before I had turned completely away he was following me over, grasping the chains in one hand, holding me down and pushing into me from behind.
He wasn’t ready to let me go yet, either, apparently.
“May I sleep in my chains?” I had asked the night before, a little timid, uncertain of his reaction. He hadn’t asked or told me to sleep in them in awhile, while almost every night I’d been there I had hoped that he would. Night after night had gone by without him doing so, though, and, not sure why he didn’t want me to sleep in them, I hadn’t asked, even though I longed to wear them. Didn’t he like me in them anymore? Was he bored of them?
He goes through phases sometimes, as we all do, of being very excited by and turned on by certain things, only to move on and almost forget about them later as his interest is piqued by something new. So maybe he just wasn’t excited by me sleeping in chains anymore. It made me sad, because, like a collar, they mean much more than an accessory to me. He’d made them especially for me, and the feel of them, the cuffs on wrists, ankles and throat, the chains cool and satiny against my body, even the sound of them constantly intruding even in my deepest sleep, conjures up feelings of contentment that have nothing to do with the fantasy play we do. W says, half joking, “Slavegirls should always be in chains,” but I know what I feel about them has nothing to do with fantasy and everything to do with reality: the reality of being his; of being valued enough that he had taken the time and effort to craft them; of being owned by him. The half dozen times I wake in the night and turn over, feeling them, hearing them, feeling his hand on them, is an affirmation of that status, and I both thrill to it and take comfort in it.
It also makes me hot as hell to stretch my leg out in the middle of the night and run my foot along his leg, trailing the chains across his body, knowing that he is as aware of them as I am, even in his sleep. And in the morning, when he pulls me close to him, and almost absently smooths the chains where they caress my skin, tugs on them, uses them as just another tool to manipulate me into a position he wants me in, or to confine me, to pin me, to subjugate me, yeah, I confess then it is not about comfort and contentment at all. It’s about heat and fucking and being owned and my body used in whatever way he decides, whenever he decides, because I am chained, and only he has the key. Yeah, that makes my heart pound (and my pussy wet) in a whole other way, and when the night is over (and the morning too) and he takes out the key to unlock the cuffs and collar, I always feel a twinge of sadness.
Later that afternoon, as I got ready to take him to the airport, I saw the chains there on his bed, dropped and left there casually on the sheets: just another part of our life together. And now, waiting for him to return, I think about them, waiting there. Waiting for me to return.