My slave and I were enjoying a quiet moment in the early
evening. Autumn’s coolness was making its early presence known through a gentle
breeze floating in from the open door. I was relaxing on the couch and she was on
the floor at my feet, leashed, as I still often have her, all these years later.
She grew quiet in the way she often does when she’s been processing something
that she wants to raise and discuss with me.
She looked up, met my eyes.
“Master,” she said, “I can’t disobey you.”
Good, I thought, perhaps a bit smug, that’s the
whole point of being a slave.
But I didn’t say anything aloud. I know her. In moments like
those, her first statement is inevitably just the opening to a much deeper
discussion.
Looking down at her hands playing nervously with the leash,
she elaborated, “I mean, I don’t think I’m capable any more of
disobeying you, even if I wanted to. The thought of it makes me physically sick,
makes me need to throw up.” Like an alcoholic taking Antab*se. “It scares me.”
At the time, I didn’t know all that much about Master Tanos
and his ideas of internal enslavement, which have become much more widely known
and embraced in the years since. But I knew I liked what my slave was saying
about herself, about us, even if she feared it. It meant that she was truly
enslaved to me. Not only did I hold a physical leash that gave her comfort, I
held a metaphorical one—an unbreakable metaphorical one.
It is a common trope in some segments of our communities
that “the sub has the ultimate power.” After all, they say, the sub can simply
withdraw consent, can safeword, can decline to tribute, can log off, never to
be seen again. I’ve seen the sentiment expressed on this very site, in some
blog or other writing that I happened upon while hopping around. I think this
is dangerously naïve thinking.
At best, it applies to a different kind of relationship than
the ones that sustain me. Or maybe I concede that it applies to the earlier
phases of such relationships. But in those, the endless tide of scenes and
tributes and domination and obedience steadily works its erosion on the
once-rough rocks, rendering them as smooth as seashells polished by the waves.
It happens slowly enough that it might not even be noticed—until the moment when
it has become undeniable.
On that late-summer day many years ago, my slave and I
discussed her feelings and mine well into the night, until the earlier pleasant
chill had deepened enough to cause her to shiver and she needed the leash
unclasped long enough to close the door.
We came to a shared understanding. Scary it might be, but it
was also thrilling, satisfying, and mutually rewarding. Neither of us knew what
would come next, of course, in this new phase of our relationship. We knew only
that it was something special that we would both lean on in our exploration.
We would continue together, taking intrepid steps along the obscure path, and
see where it led.
