Objects of Desire

From Italian design shop Itunube, little cuffs for your wrist–kind of like wrist collars, but better.  I do seem obsessed with this type of thing.  Robbie says he will get me all of it, and more, when he wins the lottery.  So basically any day now.

(Actually, neither of us is very big on conspicuous consumption–we just like to think we’d do it well if we ever needed to.)

Bracelaces, $25 through my beloved Lost at E Minor; more amazing jewelry and design items at the Itunube site.

 

Me, in His Eyes

The last night we were together this visit, we went upstairs, and he lit incense and a candle, as he always does. He stood back. “Lift up your breasts,” he said. “Hold them up . . . like you’re offering them to me . . . like you’re giving them to me to do with as I will.”

I did. He smiled. Then his face went serious. “Now lose the bra,” he said, his tone commanding.

I have learned after two years that long explanations are not as useful as action. I lifted my coral-pink cashmere sweater off my head in one swoop and showed him the non-bra, neck-to-ankle nightgown underneath.

“Alright, get ’em out,” he said.

I pulled down the straps of the black cotton, down to my waist. “Now do the same thing again–lift them like an offering.”

I lifted my breasts and walked toward him, my hair curling around my face in a screen, falling around my shoulders, my new collar heavy on my neck, the candlelight glowing behind me and lighting up his face.

His face was glowing too, in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. He almost looked dumbfounded. I could see that I was beautiful to him . . . and also that he was proud of me, lusted after me, loved me, seemed in some kind of awe of me, and knew down to his core that he owned me. At least, that’s what I saw . . . which often really means I felt all those things about him.

 

Once, Twice, Thrice, a Fourth Time . . . Collared

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.

The 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.