Nothing is taken. Everything is given.

A quick thing I missed in my last post: I made a colossal typo in a text conversation with Master Levi on Friday, and it seemingly has long-term ramifications for me now. 

Instead of telling him that he needed “to keep to your appointments” (haircuts with his favourite barber, AKA yours truly), I instead told Master that he needed “to keep tongue appointments”.

And I failed to spot it and correct it until it was too late.

So Saturday morning I’m like a lamb to slaughter. Master made damn sure I knew he was never one to pass up a “tongue appointment”. The sadist leaves me drained for much of the day.

“You need to hydrate” he says, handing me my water bottle.

“Ready for my next tongue appointment” he winks. 

Unfortunately and in spite of our apparent cerebral bonding in the wake of my last post, it wasn’t long before Valkyries said something that made me recoil into myself like an octopus recoils in the presence of a hungry grouper:

Trained.

In BDSM at least, I hate that word.

“Training”, at least from my point of view, supposedly turns “not good enough” into “good”, “could be better” into “great” and — perhaps worst of all — it turns “wild” into “domesticated” or “tamed”.

And I don’t want to be “tamed”. I don’t consent to being “tamed“.

I managed to cook dinner, though I’m irritable and “off” while I do. The nice thing about cooking with onions is that right now, nobody really knows how much of the waterworks isn’t onion-induced. 

Maybe I feel some ire for the whole ”training” thing because of one of my past relationships: I was sort of “trained”, then once he had me in the bag, he went after his next piece of meat. I’m not alone in my experience either: the end of my mother’s long-standing D/s relationship came about after her Dom cheated on her, too.

“But Elena, that’s a Dominant’s right” you might cry. 

Respectfully, but I call hogwash. 

Ethical non-monogamy is entirely grounded on consent. That’s literally what the “ethical” bit means.

I have no desire to take on more partners for myself, by the way, I’ve more than got my hands full with these two (behave). They both know I have no desire to tie them down (ha) either; they’re both free to be involved with other people if they wish, so long as they tell me first. That’s not “control”, that’s respect.

“Have you told (Valkyries) how you feel?” Master asks. 

“Not yet, he’s busy.”

“Make sure you do. He needs to know.”

“You mean I can’t castrate the fool who dares to try and train me instead?” I ask.

“No, you can’t.”

“Shame” I say with a wry smile. 

As it was, Valkyries did apologize to me when we eventually spoke — even though I told him he didn’t need to, he wanted to. He explains that he didn’t mean it that way, and that he forgot “training” is a trigger word for me. For my part, I couldn’t help but wonder whether I was overthinking this whole “training” thing anyway. Maybe I should give trust a chance? 

Tuesday I’m down Mum’s again, though we visited a local stately park first to exercise the dogs. The park has more than six hundred acres of open space, vast woodlands and plenty of 18th-century buildings and history. The park is also where Master Levi and I went on our first outing together, and the museum is where we wed more than a decade ago. 

Heavy rains see us forced to drive over the small bridge over Henbury ford, an area of Bristol’s roads known for its tendency to flood during wet weather. I recalled to Mum how I’d mentioned it to Valkyries, himself educated in (and passionate about) environmental science. 

We park in a disabled parking bay, which momentarily confuses me — I forget Mum has a blue badge now. 

The walk up to the museum is relatively easy, though recent rains have flooded the top part of the footpath and forced us onto the wet grass instead. Fortunately I’d decided to wear my steel toe-capped boots so I had plenty of grip. A smart move for dog-walking in January, I felt. 

Standing in front of the museum, I’m taken back to that drizzly May day. In my mind’s eye I can see it all: the taxis and cars, and white Mercedes with the white ribbon on the front. My bridesmaids in their blush pink dresses, and our groomsmen in their grey suits. The way our groomsmen beamed at me when I got out of the car, knowing full well I was about to make one of their closest friends the happiest man alive. 

I allowed my fingers to caress the cream stone masonry. Wandering around the building, I couldn’t help but sing under my breath. 

And then I reached the step at the back of the building, and emotion swept over me. Reminiscent joy still, but now tinged with grief. 

I remember all the people with us that day, but particularly the ones I’d loved and lost. Uncle Kevin, who I loved racing Hot Wheels cars with as a child. Susan, my father-in-law’s late girlfriend. Dad. 

I stand on the step for a moment, admiring the view once more. Mum noticed my thoughtful look. 

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, just remembering” I say. 

“Remembering how it felt that day” I continue, “we were like King and Queen here, ruling over our kingdom. Ready to take on the world. Inseparable and unstoppable.”

“You still are!” she laughs. I laugh too. 

“True dat” I say. 

Seeing my brother was nice, and he seems just as happy to see me as I am him. We’re never nice to one another, though. 

“Right, I’ve seen him. That’s enough. Can I go home now?” I joke to Mum. 

“Yep, I’ve seen her too. It was peaceful, now it’s not” my brother says.

“Take her home!” he commands playfully, pointing to the front door. We laugh and hug.

“You okay, sis?” he asks. 

My brother makes a goat curry, which smells… interesting. Goat is not a meat we readily eat in the UK, though I’m not against some culinary experimentation. I’ve eaten some exotic meats in my time on this planet, ostrich and crocodile among them. I still prefer plain ol’ chicken, though — it’s lean, it’s easy to digest, it’s readily available and it’s very versatile.

Mum wants to show me the garden, the rose like mine that she has, and how it’s doing now. The garden is mostly mulch and empty raised planters at the moment, yet in spite of everything that has happened recently, it’s still undergone a major transformation. 

I’m reminded again of my irritation towards Mr C, though, and the absence of his promised help with it. I have little patience for people who promise to help, only to then fail to follow through. 

Over tea, I wanted to discuss “training” in BDSM with Mum. I am something of a mentor in all things BDSM for several people, yet right here? I’m the student. 

Mum is quite sensitive about the topic of BDSM — she’s long left the lifestyle and has no desire to return. She’s not against imparting her wisdom to me though, as long as she is approached carefully and respectfully. I’m eager to hear what she makes of the whole “training” thing as someone with even more experience than me — or several of my kinky peers, for that. 

“BDSM is like a story book, or like the Bible” she begins, she’s already lost me with that one. 

“It’s open to interpretation” she clarifies, noticing my confused expression. 

“Imagine you and I read the same description of the same person, then we had to draw them. It’s the same person, two different interpretations” she says. I nod slowly.

“There is no formal curriculum in BDSM, you know this, I told you this, so there is nothing to be ‘trained’ on. There’s wants, standards and expectations, sure, and plenty of erotic fiction — like the Gorean subculture — but that is supposed to be fiction. If a Dom wants you to be anything other than who you are, or who you want to be, for them? Then they aren’t the right Dom for you.”

“You should want to change, if you do. It’s not about what the Dom wants to ‘train’ you to be, it’s about what you want to be, for them. If they use their ‘Dominance’ to ‘train’ you to be anything other than who you want to be, then that’s not BDSM, that’s abuse. BDSM is always, always consensual.” 

I nod again and thank her for her insights, though it leaves me with perhaps another burning question: who am I, and who do I want to be?