… happened today. Precisely between the hours of 12:30pm and 4:30pm.
The story starts, though, a few years ago when Master gifted me with my very own cell phone.
Well, it’s his (air quotes) phone because everything is his, yadda yadda yadda… but it was mine. And I was supposed to keep it on me at all times and answer it promptly.
Like the good, obedient little slave I am, I did none of those things.
Oh, not on purpose, not really. I just… tended to forget about it. Often. I’d put it down and wander off somewhere where I couldn’t hear it, and I’d forget to check it for a few hours, and.. you know.. just generally be a twatwaffle about it.
He’d remind me and reprimand me and lecture me and bitch at me and I’d promise to do better… and then I’d forget about it again. I’d really started to hate that fucking phone.
One day, when I had, again, set it down somewhere, I ended up outside where I busied myself doing very proper slave-like yard work for a very long time, when all of sudden, hours and hours before he was due home, I see Master’s truck come screeching around the corner, fly up the driveway and skid to a halt in the yard (that I’d just worked).
He was angry.
All 6’4″, 230lbs of rage came at me. You have never seen someone scurry backwards faster than I did that day. He’s a scary motherfucker when he’s NOT mad, so.. yeah. I scurried.
I met the wall with a thunk, his hand on my throat and his face inches from mine and he told me that this nonsense with the “fucking phone” was over. Right then. He stomped into the house, grabbed my phone, slammed it into my hand and … left.
I had to go change my pants. He scared the piss right out of me.
Okay. So! Fast forward a few years. A few years of me worshiping my phone in much the same way I worship his cock. It was my constant companion. My BFF. Always in my hand, my pocket, my bra. Wherever I could stick it so that I would hear it if he called. I was obedience personified.
But then, several months ago, I had a surgery and I spent a good deal of time kind of sleeping away my recovery, and he had to cut me some slack on a lot of things, including me sleeping through my phone- or shutting it off so I could sleep at all.
I did recover, but the phone thing was slipping. Not nearly as bad as That Day, but also not nearly as good as cock worship.
So, a month or so ago he gave me a little talk. No hands around the throat and no pissing my pants in fear, but, you know, a little warning.
Okay, it was a big warning, and I understood what it meant. Yes, Sir, I understand, got it. You betcha.
That phone hasn’t left my sight since.
I had to go into town and run some errands. I stuck my phone in the front pocket of my jeans. I put on my coat. I headed for the door. I remembered that I often stick my phone in my jeans but then if he calls me, between the seat belt, the stiff jeans, and driving 55mph down the highway, I can’t wrestle it out in time to answer. Then I catch hell for missing a call, even if I do call him back before he’s finished lecturing my voice mail. So I pulled it out of my pocket.
I left the house.
It wasn’t until I got to my first destination that I realized I couldn’t find my phone. The panic started right then. I searched my pockets, the car, the floor, my purse, my jacket, under the seat, outside the door… until a cranky old man honked at me for blocking the parking space with my open car door.
We live 30 miles (approx) from town so it’s not a short little jaunt. Not a ‘run home and grab it’ sort of thing, because also, I’m supposed to conserve fuel. Also, he’d given me a list of things to get before I came home. Also, I had no phone.
Also, this is a Very Big Deal to him. Very big. HUGE.
I know, right? Wtf, chuck, it’s just a phone. It’s not like I left the cure for cancer sitting on the kitchen table. Believe me, I’ve thought-and said- similar things to him when he’s flipped out over me missing a phone call. I’m like, Jesus H. Christ, dude, chill the fuck out. It’s a PHONE.
I don’t recommend saying that. I really don’t recommend saying that. That was hella painful.
Anyway. Sometimes you just have to accept a person’s idiosyncrasies. Or at least I have to accept his as is the nature of our relationship. One of those idiosyncrasies is his Zero Tolerance policy over me being out of contact from him ever. Like, EVER.
He can be a very patient and tolerant and kind and understanding man about a lot of things. Not making contact with me at the very second he is trying to contact me is not one of those things.
So there I am, 30 miles away and sans phone. Dude, let me tell you I did some serious power shopping. I had no patience for those people who stop to chit chat with Cousin Betty, who they haven’t seen since last year, or those who park their cart on one side of the aisle and then stand on the other side to browse the shelves, blocking the whole fucking path. My excuse me’s were getting pretty curt by the end, and I couldn’t quite keep the eye-rolling and muttering to myself. “Yes, yes, you whore. You ARE the only one shopping today!”
Dude, I don’t even care. Rude was the least of my worries. Him meeting me at the door with the punishment stick in one hand and my phone in the other was my only worry.
One doctor appointment, three stores and a long list later, I was finally heading toward home. Oh, did you hear about the other thing he has promised me a serious and lengthy and unforgettable punishment for? If I ever get a speeding ticket. Mhm. Putt-putt, motherfucker. I think I was going about 10 mph, or so it felt. All the way home.
And all the way home, I’m preparing my speech begging for forgiveness and leniency. Alternating with hoping that he’ll remember how he has occasionally forgotten his phone when he’s gone to work, and if he does remember how this happens even to the best of us (him), that this won’t be one of those double standard things he’s so fond of.
I had spent the last 4 hours sweating. My armpits are wet. My stomach was in knots. My ass was clenched.
You think I’m exaggerating until you get a swat with that stick. That thing ain’t no joke, and neither is his swing.
I race into the house and grab my phone. 3 missed texts. 3 missed calls. My heart skips a beat and then starts hammering. Shitfuck. I’m afraid to push the button.
And then the phone rings, startling me so much I almost drop it. Master’s ring tone. Oh crap. I squeak out a hello.
He says, brightly, “Hello, cunt. Just leaving work now. What a day. Can’t wait to see you!”
I play along. Was he testing me? Seeing if I’d out myself? My throat was closing. And then he said goodbye. I checked the missed calls on the phone before I had a heart attack. 1. My daughter, 2. my daughter, 3. my daughter. I check the missed messages. My daughter, my daughter and.. my daughter!
Holy Fuck Knuckles, he didn’t call me once in 4 hours! He called the minute I walked in the door and not 10 seconds earlier!
Seriously. I had to sit down. Have you ever been flooded with so much relief that you had to put your head between your knees?
When he came home I told him I’d left my phone at home when I went into town (transparency and shit). He said, in that very serious and very quiet voice, “Well, aren’t you lucky I didn’t try and call.”
Why yes. Yes I am. O.O
I posted the above to my fet writings about 2 weeks ago. And it blew the fuck UP, with far too many people deciding that Master is abusive. It even spawned its own thread in another group.
Part of it was people’s lack of reading comprehension skills. But there’s no fix for that, really. I’m not a teacher.
The other part is a depressing lack of understanding (still) of a) bdsm, b) other people’s needs and wants, and c) M/s or O/p relationships.
I’m pretty immune to Master being labelled an abusive dick. I’m used to people assigning motives to his actions. He’s insecure, he’s a control freak, he’s a micromanager, he’s this and he’s that and none of it is very pretty.
I’m used to it. He’s used to it. We’re just going to keep on doing our thing in spite of what the internet at large thinks of it anyway.
I do get bothered by the inability of people to get that they aren’t the voice of authority on someone else’s happiness. I get tired of being told I have Stockholm Syndrome, lol. I get tired of being told, essentially, that I’m too stupid/cowed/brainwashed to realize what’s happening to me.
It makes me defensive and then I want to start listing all of the good things he has done and continues to do because, god forbid, someone think ill of this man that I worship.
I’m trying not to, though. Because he doesn’t need defending. I don’t need defending. Our life doesn’t need defending.
People aren’t going to get it. Okay, fine. That does NOT translate into there being something wrong with it/me/us.
All it means is people aren’t going to get it. The end.
And the truth is, what we do and who we are and how we live is exactly what it is. What’s to defend? The truth? So maybe he is stricter than is comfortable for some. He *is* a control freak. He is a micromanager. I love those things about him. I specifically sought out someone who had those qualities because I have a need to be controlled and micromanaged. I like strictness. I like unfairness. I like it all.
I’m not apologizing for that. I’m not defending it. I’m not going to stop posting about it, either.