Birds of a fetish

15Nov10

A few days ago, we were walking through town. There was a distinct nip in the air, so I got out my gloves and put them on. They’re awfully cute – knitted green fingerless gloves with bows on them. I love bows! And they’re fingerless so that I can work my phone. As I slid my hand back into his, he tucked my bare fingers into my palm and held my whole hand in his. I was instantly transported back to the beginning of our relationship.

Ten months ago, it was just as cold and we were just starting out together. I knew he was a good guy, very gentle, very generous, kind, gentlemanly. I knew this because even though he’d told me he wasn’t sure he was in the relationship for the right reasons, he took me out on dates (paying for everything against my protestations), called when he said he would, held my arm so I wouldn’t fall on the slippery pavement – and enclosed my whole hand in his fist so my bare fingers wouldn’t get cold as we walked in the snow.

It was one of the first things that made me fall for him.

But apart from the initial cuteness, there was a lot of awkwardness. He was shy, I was – well, me; and neither of us were sure if we fit. I agonised to my friends about whether I was just passing the time, he agonised to his friends about whether he was just using me to get over his ex.

I can pinpoint the day that all changed. It was the 21st of February, a week after Valentine’s Day and just seven weeks since we’d started seeing eachother. Being the seductress I am, I’d been steadily working on turning the shy considerate nerdy boy into an aggressive, dominant… nerdy boy. In bed, at least. And being the considerate soul he is, he was doing his very best to please me and fulfil my perverted demands. We’d got about as far as some light spanking and rough sex, but we were both a little too scared to reveal more.

I was concerned he was just indulging me, something I knew wouldn’t last. He’d confessed to having his own fetishes – but stopped short of telling me what they were. He said he was protective of his soft underbelly. I found this adorable, and let it slide. For once, I had patience. Who knows where it came from.

I was in Donegal that February day, snuggling into bed after a shower. I prattled to him online about how I’d just broken a glass on the kitchen tiles, and how I wanted to see him when I got back. He changed the subject, asking me about something I’d mentioned I liked in bed – not unusual for him. He was always eager to learn.

As I hummed and hawed about whether or not to tell him I wanted him to call me names when we fucked, he sent me a link to this picture – one I’d shown him a few weeks previously when confessing my own dark side.

“I’ve kind of realised our kinks… overlap a bit,” he said. I started to grin.

“I’ve always liked the idea of ‘owning’ a girl. Not to the point where she’s a pet and can’t do what she likes, but more like… she’s mine and not anyone else’s.”

The grin spread to the outer extremities of my face.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to go out and have fun with your friends and stuff like that… it’s more the idea of it. Like, she’s mine, I care for her and protect her.”

After much effusive delight on my part, I pressed him for details. What exactly did he have in mind? How far did he want to take it? Is there anything in particular he wanted to do? What appealed to him about it?

“I haven’t really ever given it much thought…because I doubted it would happen.”

Whoops. There I went, falling. Clumsy old me. Head over heels.

So we started out on a new path, more sure of eachother than we ever were before. And although he said he didn’t want a pet, that’s what he got. He makes the rules; I follow them… sometimes. When I don’t? Sometimes we play, sometimes there’s trouble. He anticipates my needs and fills them. And in return he gets my utter adoration, and more affection and attention than anyone could rationally want.

It seems shocking now, to have given so much control to him so early in our relationship. But I saw in him a me-shaped hole, and identified a him-shaped hole in me. I realised that not only would he treat me like a princess, but he’d also treat me like his whore – and love me all the more for it. I saw that he was aching to be someone he never thought existed, and that person was the someone I was looking for. I trusted him completely. So I let him own me completely.

The more he revealed to me, the closer we became and the more we discovered in common with eachother. And the closer we became, the more confident he got. He blossomed as a Dom right before my eyes, and as a person too. I watched him struggle to balance the goodness and the badness inside him, weighing his desires against his morals. I watched him go through the same questions as I had a few years before when coming to terms with my sexuality. And I watched him accept his role as my owner, and shape it to fit his kind heart.

Now, ten months later, we are at home with the relationship. It’s second nature to ask him permission to use my toys, to roll over after sex for a few spanks to keep my cheek in check. And it’s becoming second nature to me to reach for my silver collar every morning and fasten it around my neck as a symbol – a secret one – that I belong to him.

As the weather got warmer, his hand moved from my fist to my wrist. He walks half a step in front of me now, navigating the crowds, the puddles, and checking the road is safe to cross as I wander blissfully behind him.

I’m his. He cares for me and protects me.

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