He collared me this last trip. It was not the first time.

The first collar was a dog collar.

The second collar was a choker to wear in public, a symbol of us–a birthday present, and beautiful. He made it himself and wrote the poem that went with it. I lost it about three weeks later. I hope I find it in one of our houses, one day.

Not My CollarThe third collar was a “proper” collar. Stainless steel, leather, O-ring. We had a ceremony of sorts, and he asked me to promise certain things that I was not ready for, and that he had not realized I was not ready for. I cried; he bound me and fucked me; we fought, then and for a long time after.

But I have no interest in being apart from this man. None. So somehow, despite our fights, last weekend, before the play party, he gave me my (belated) birthday present.

The fourth collar. Stainless steel, (nearly) permanent, and locking. I starting crying mightily when he showed it to me, and when he put it on. He looked at me uncertainly. “Is that good crying or bad crying?”

“Good.” I said. “Very good.”

The collar in the picture is not mine . . .

. . . but it is beautiful. You can learn about it and

many other locking collars via this website.