Not his, but not NOT his, either.

Monday morning there’s a ring on the doorbell and I rush out to meet it. Not five minutes later there’s a knock at the door, too. 

“Be there!” I call. 

When I get to the door, a large cardboard box and an inevitable Mr C stands in my doorway. 

 “Alright love? I was safeguarding it for you since it’s a big box. You know what the kids are around here” he says gruffly. I smile at Mr C and thank him, though I neglect to point out to him that nobody has tried to steal from us since our installation of a doorbell camera several years ago. 

So we get chatting, but I’m not really listening; I want to get in and open my new bondage set. 

Mr C continues anyway. 

Fuck it, I already have a two for two, but what harm will a three for three do?

“You know what this is? You know I do all those reviews?” I ask Mr C as my fingers wander over the box. Mr C affirms, curious, hesitant. 

“This is £250 worth of bondage gear I need to review, a luxury set. I didn’t think I’d be chosen to review it, but I was” I say matter-of-factly. Mr C’s eyebrows almost leave his forehead. 

I afford him a saccharin sweet smile, but I leave ‘luxury bondage set’ hanging in the air between us. I eventually return to our conversation like I’d said nothing of the sort, but Mr C can’t. He immediately has to compete with stories of “Annie” and their sex adventures, I smile. 

SIr JGood called me a “tease” too, after I uploaded a photo of the aforementioned box to our group chat. He also asked if the box was good quality, to which I offered him to some antihistamine cream. When he queried my reasoning, I said it was because he was “itching” (for the review).

The box and its contents are now on top of my wardrobe for safe keeping and while I get this week’s post out of the way. So both of my Sirs know that, at least in this, they are confined by my rules, and I’m enjoying that for all it’s worth 😉

I am slowly getting back on top with my anxiety and the pit that I’d gotten myself into, although as goes with these things, it’s something that’s going to take a while. Monday evening I had quite a conversation with Master, about how the news and wars were handled when I was growing up. 

“I remember Mum telling us about nukes on a camping trip once, how you can’t sense radiation right away and how the blast vapourises people, and you can’t survive it… then she carried on shopping as though she’d just told us we were having beans again for dinner”. Master shakes his head. 

“Dad, too, I remember him coming out in the back garden and telling me so casually when we went to war with Libya, like there was nothing I could do, I just had to accept it. And I suppose that much is true, but still, there was never any assurances, never any explanations. Sometimes even torment or exaggerations, like I remember him shrugging when I asked, genuinely, whether Afghanistan would or could bomb us back, and I remember him joking about Kim Jong Un when I was terrified that North Korea was going to nuke us. I’ve had to learn how the world works for myself” I explain. 

“No kid should have to go through that” I add, “parents are supposed to reassure their kids and help them learn and understand the world around them, not fuel their anxieties.”

“It really pisses me off the way your Mum speaks about wars in the news” Master says, “she is not good for your mental health, she sends you into a spiral that I then have to get you out of” he adds. Reluctantly, I agree. 

Mum has a tendency to exaggerate, like a lot, and she can be quite racist too. After 9/11, she told us that this could be the start of World War Three… Then again, went about her day like nothing happened. There was no further assurances and no guidance either, though we were made to watch the start of the Afghanistan invasion and pray that it didn’t escalate. And again, what it might mean if it did. 

I used to stay awake at night, listening to the news on the radio and for bomber planes. No mention of incoming planes or missiles? Good, maybe I can sleep. 

That’s a word I’ve had to learn and understand in the media lately, escalate. I’ve had to learn – through Shadow – exactly what is meant by “escalation”, and the great lengths our governments go to to make sure things don’t “spiral out of control”. 

A saddening thought occurs to me and tears fill my eyes. It’s cathartic after all of the anxiety that I’ve been carrying lately.. 

“I never really knew what ‘safety’ felt like before you and your Dad” I admit to him, “I never really felt safe and accepted at home, I suppose because in a way I wasn’t”. Master holds me tight against him. 

“You are, right here” he says, “I won’t let anything happen to you”. I smile weakly as my tears fall onto his chest. 

“My safe space” I whisper. 

“Always” he smiles. 

It occurred to me not too late to consider using some of my cognitive behavioural therapy worksheets to tackle my catastrophic thinking. So, along with everything else, that’s now something else to be added to my week. 

Tuesday Mr C is around for much of the day again, no real reason except I think I’ve whipped him into a furore with my box of bondage goodies and now he’s gagging for first dibs. Tuesday daytime he knocked twice for a conversation, including talking about buying some super-expensive colouring pencils. I checked EBay and sure enough, most sets are actually within the £10-20 price range, it’s only the duluxe sets that cost upwards of hundreds of pounds. 

He talks some about his relationships with “Annie” and “Freya” and how his ex is supposedly jealous, I pay it no mind. He makes a comment about Annie being “not that much older” than him, supposedly 47, and it occurs to me then more than ever: he’s triangulating me to see if I’d get jealous, too. 

After all, there’s only two years between Mr C and me, and 47 is exactly ten years onto 37. Not exactly hard maths. 

Still, I can never be completely sure of it, or can I?

Mr C claimed that “Annie” would be around for the evening to celebrate her birthday, so I made a mental note to keep an eye on our security camera app for any activity. Well, once again there was plenty of motion with cars going back and forth outside, but alas, there was still no sign of “Annie”. 

I have enjoyed some exchanges with Sir JGood these past few days, including talk of a “retirement home for Doms” (I told Sir that there could be no bondage beds or floggers, since  retired means retired. He called me a “spoilsport”) and all of the “grey” things in the world. I was making a point, but I think Sir missed it. I listed three carefully chosen ‘grey’ things: grey flags, grey zones, grey ties. 

My point was the “grey zone” Sir and I seem to find ourselves operating in: not active Dominance and submission, but not exactly “retired”, either. The grey flags are the things Sir wants – or doesn’t want, depending. The things I said make him like the fictional billionaire, Christian Grey. 

And as for grey ties?

Sir said recently about “fun” he would have negotiating my surrender with me. Well, maybe I’m already ready and willing to negotiate the terms of my surrender, but alas, the conditions for my surrender aren’t favourable. 

But also, what could a retired Dom possibly want with my ultimate capitulation, anyway? 😉 

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Until next time!

Stay safe & have fun.

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