Being owned

It’s a D/s thing, something I never thought I would crave or want. I was a 70s feminist, aghast during my first marriage ceremony to hear the exhortation that I “honour and obey” my young, long haired and bearded soon to be husband standing next to me at the church in a newly purchased brown suit from Burtons. I wanted equality and that meant no-one would or could ever own me, so why now do I long to hear the word “mine” spoken in my ear?

I come with a lot of baggage, I defy anyone not to have it at 60, but I own what’s mine as soon as I know I am carrying it. It’s the invisible to me baggage that is the most difficult to unravel. It’s so closely wrapped around me I think it is my own skin, twined like ivy and similarly parasitic, it threatens to choke the life out of me whilst hiding my deciduous nature. In my winters I am bare and raw, so raw I fear I will be frosted to the bone and yet, spring greening always comes again, well, so far it has.

I ebb and I flow, sometimes steely strong in my resolve, other times shaken and unsure of myself, and whilst I know that I have this life in my own hands, I have my own back and I can do it (whatever it is), still this longing to be taken as if I had no will to be anything other than used persists. My desire to be owned is not due to any lack of strength or failing of my psyche. It is simply this. I belong to him as the sea belongs to the moon. Mysteriously, timelessly, irrevocably his.

Feeling myself owned in this way sets me free to fly. It is an apparent contradiction, one I never understood until I understood this part of myself, hidden under the dungarees that proclaimed my independence from male authority and rejected the dress codes of the older generation by appropriating masculine work gear. Not apparent either in my wedding day finery but still there, carried like the worn leather suitcase it was, covered in dust and left on top of a wardrobe in a room I warily visited when feeling in need of something nameless but that was connected to a journey.

I want him to have the final say. I want to be able to say exactly what I think with no fear of him loving me less. I want to be truly honest with at least one person in my life before I die, inspite of that seeming to be the most difficult and dangerous thing to do in the world. I want our equality to be expressed in us both being able to be ourselves, both our best and our worst, and for that to be where we live and die.

I want to kneel before him.

I need to kneel before him.

I need to hear “mine”.


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