Day One: Friday
I felt defeated.
I skipped the gym, lunch with friends, and went into hiding in my office. I spent an inordinate amount of time on Twitter (which, from a self-professed social media whore, is saying a lot). I was looking people in the eye less and less, there was no spring in my step, and my voice was flat. Online I could keep a good attitude, no one could see me crying. No one could see the pain in my eyes, the discomfort in my wan smile, or the growing sense of vulnerability and deflated value.
People noticed that I was behaving differently. It was obvious that something was different about me, something was making me uncomfortable, and taking away from my happiness. The gas station patrons eyed me with a wary caution, the FedEx agent asked me what was wrong, and my coworkers had to deal with tear-shined eyes and monosyllabic replies. I used email more than ever, because I didn't want to be bothered to interact with anyone more than I had to.
Before that, however...
He sent me two lines before bed. Two lines of text that made me wonder what the hell would happen next. I wondered if I should reply, if I should clarify. I wondered if those two lines were all I had to work with. I read them and re-read them. I tried to put together the entirety of the situation and couldn't. The last message I sent to him was upbeat, friendly, and within boundaries. I didn't ask for something he would not allow nor did I beg and plead for any responses outside of what he deemed appropriate. I could only go on what I knew to be true, and his words made it clear, in that moment, what had to be done.
I pulled out my Hitachi.
And before even that...
He messaged me and told me to choose the hottest pair of panties I own. I chose a red-hot pair of hot, red, crotchless panties with chains across the ass. (I have a purple pair, too, but he used the word "hot," so I went with the red pair.) I took a picture of them and sent it to him.
As I was pulling them from the closet, he said I was to stuff them inside me and masturbate seven times. That made me wet... in part because I hadn't been allowed to masturbate for a few days and in part because the idea was so amazing to me last week... until I cock blocked myself and couldn't follow through with the request that would have allowed me to masturbate.
And then he said I had to wear the same panties...
... the same wet, cum-stained panties...
... all day the next day.
To work.
I paused; I thought about it. It should be made clear at this point that I will do laundry at someone's house if I need clean panties or, in the absence of that, I will go commando. I travel for three days with enough underwear to last me a week. I paused because this request, while in an abbreviated form sounded so hot last week, was making me seriously consider putting the panties back in the drawer and ask for a different assignment.
However, I entered into this arrangement as a willing adult, cognizant that I was giving over a certain level of power in the exchange. I embraced it, I trusted him, and he had nothing but prove himself worthy since we met. I keep my word. And I don't fail if I have any control over a situation. I could control this, I thought to myself. I could do this without issue. It was a new experience, a new boundary to be pushed, a new fetish to explore. Hell, it was just panties.
So I complied with the request, the assignment.
This morning he asked me about the photo I sent and commented on the metal. I explained that the panties had chains that, while pretty, were now serving as a reminder of what I had done (as if I needed it?) because I could feel them on my skin - digging into my ass - during my drive to work.
"Well," he said, "just so you know. Everyone knows what you did. That you are wearing some nasty, crusty, cum-filled panties. So when people look at you today and smile, they are laughing because they know. You'll see it in their faces."
I made a shocked-look face in text and let him know that I actually found myself looking around as I walked into the corridor. That I wondered who might see me.
"They know," he sent back.
Outwardly, I laughed it off. It was one day, they were worn for maybe an hour, and they weren't worn to the gym or anything. Besides, it was MY cum. Seriously, I wondered, how bad could this be?
But it was bad. I had his words from the night before, my admission of vulnerability, and his words from this morning in my head. I kept wondering if the chains could be seen and, if, because they were crotchless, something would show through the cotton of my dress. I couldn't wear pants with these, I have tried in the past and it was not a good experience. I kept worrying about my hem riding up and I kept adjust my clothes all day. I even left my scarf on, as if that extra layer of clothing, three feet above my ass, was going to help?
After only five hours I noticed a difference in my demeanor, my desire to be around people, and my office routines. I visited others as little as possible; if someone needed me, I made them come to me. Instead of walking something to an office 30 feet away I would email it to them. Don't get me wrong. My work did not suffer. But how I did my work changed. How I went through my day changed.
I sent Deviant a text. "Immersed in fucking Twitter because I don't want to walk around and deal w/people. Seriously?! They're just panties, right? boggle"
He replied with three words: "go walk around."
I cringed. But I did it. I found reasons to visit people, I tried to be cheery and mostly failed. I put myself out there, however, I did what was asked of me.
Two hours later I felt like I was dying a little inside. I was in hiding again but I had to run out, put gas in my car and grab some lunch. I made an excuse to some friends so I wouldn't have to go out with them, so I could run these errands alone.
But I was anything but alone in this. While I was out, the wind blew up my skirt and I flashed the lovely people out and about - the poor souls thinking they were pumping their gas in peace, enjoying the overcast, drizzly, cool Friday afternoon in Las Vegas - and at least two people reacted to my red-chain panties. I didn't imagine it; I could see them watching me.
I panicked. Could they see what I had done to them the night before? Did they know that they were stuffed inside me while I came on them seven times in one night? I could see them react to my skirt in the wind. How much they saw, I don't know. But that they saw anything was enough to break my spirit down that much more.
I started crying, almost forgetting to replace the gas cap, and jumped in the car to leave.
How could they know? They couldn't. I knew that.
Right? I did know that. I was being silly. I was fine.
They couldn't possibly have any idea. In a moment of renewed confidence, I sent him only a line of dots. ".........."
He sent back a "?" but I was away. Thirty minutes later I admitted to him that I cried.
"Seriously. It's just panties!" I wondered what the hell I was doing and why that something that seemed so simple, not just a little naughty and hot, was having such a great effect on me.
"Your coworkers know," he said. "They think you're a disgusting slut." He sent a smile.
"Apryl knows," I responded. "The gas station knows." I was not smiling.
He and I didn't talk again for an hour.
Apryl had inquired about my tweets and I gave her a rundown of how I got to this moment.
Gemini: I don't want people to see, to know
Miss Apryl: Yeah.
Gemini: But I won't not do it either, you know?
Miss Apryl: Yes, totally.
Gemini: My head is all freaked out where usually I'd be bragging, but right now I want to find a reason to go home early.
Gemini: I am hiding at work, spamming Twitter, just trying to be normal and I don't feel normal at all. It's just panties, dammit, wtf?
Miss Apryl: No, it's not just panties.
Miss Apryl: It's a mind fuck.
Gemini: Thank you
Miss Apryl: Are you feeling ANY better?
Gemini: Trying. :) You help
Miss Apryl: Cheer up, buttercup. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. there will be a day when you laugh about this, you know that, right?
Gemini: Yup. Intellectually I get it, I'm smart, I know that. But, and forgive this ego-flavored bit, it's almost like I'm too smart about it? Over-thinking, trying to minimize it, blow it off. Then someone looks or I feel the chains, or a breeze, and I am back to "holy fuck who knows what I did?"
Miss Apryl: hugs
Gemini: And I know I will learn - I am learning - that's the point. But me and vulnerability are not exactly good bedfellows.
Miss Apryl: True, I know that.....
Gemini: I am.... I dunno what I am. I feel weird, down, "less." Over thinking? Probably, but it's still there. And then I cried! I fucking public!
Gemini: Jesus, and now my eyes are teary admitting that.
Gemini: In* (puluc)
Gemini: Public*
Miss Apryl: hugs
Gemini: Fuck!
Miss Apryl: Yeah, I am sure that sucked the worst.
Miss Apryl: You've got a bruised ego.
Gemini: And I am doing this, largely, VOLUNTARILY.
Gemini: Yeah, masochist. wry smile
Miss Apryl: It's all voluntarily.
Gemini: I mean, I wouldn't have had the idea without submitting to [Deviant and taking] an assignment..... But you're right, I could have bucked it. But that's not me.
Miss Apryl: No.
"How are you doing?" he asked me later.
I replied and said I had had better days, thank you.
"Am I causing you the discomfort?" he inquired.
"You aren't the one voluntarily (to a degree) wearing cum-stained panties in public, blowing up my skirt to show gas station patrons, or stopping me from lunch w/friends or other human interaction. No, you're fine. And no, I am not mocking or being a smart ass. This is my doing."
"Try again," he said. "Are the panties the issue? Yes or no. Honestly."
"They're the base of the issue, yes. Isn't that the point?"
I sat there, a mess of emotion. I wondered what the fuck was wrong with me that something so easy, so simple, could wreck me like this. I am strong, smart, and intelligent (yes, there is a difference). Intellectually I knew exactly what the mind fuck was, and yet...
It really all started 14 hours previous to this part of our conversation. The night before - and before the panty request... nay... assignment - I sent him some ideas that I was interested in for play, fantasies, what-have-you. They were fairly raw, which was the point of the exercise, and it was an incomplete draft of that assignment at best. But I sent it when he asked.
He had asked if I was feeling vulnerable. "Very," was all I sent back.
"And?"
"Nervous. Excited?" I replied. "Flayed open a bit as I outline the rest [of my assignments]."
"I will NOT betray your trust so remember that when you're weak and vulnerable. GET IT?"
"Yes, I do," I said, knowing he was telling me the truth. "Thank you."
"Good." And then he gave me the panty instructions.
He told me I would feel dirty, vulnerable. He said also said that he would be there for me, that he would fix me.
And today I feel those things. I had so much fun with the idea of it and I thoroughly enjoyed the masturbatory revelry that started this whole thing... and wondered how in the hell I could feel so badly now. I have read about and talked to people who have done worse and to whom my idea of "worse" is but a drop in the bucket as far as kink and fetishes go. I am not judgmental in this explanation, at least I am not judging others. I am judging myself however, because I am at once confused by my reaction and disappointed that I was so emotional over something that, truly and objectively, wasn't as bad as my reaction made it seem.
"Try again," he said. "Are the panties the issue? Yes or no. Honestly."
"They're the base of the issue, yes. Isn't that the point?"
"Ready for the moral of the story?" he asks.
"Yes, Deviant."
"Did you enjoy masturbating seven times?"
"Yes, Deviant."
"And did you foresee the issues you'd have today because of it?"
What kind of question was that, I wondered. How do you foresee this and yet move forward? How do you have any idea that you will believe - if only for a millisecond - that the whole of Las Vegas is peeking in windows or watching your skirt, hoping for a gust of wind, so that they can laugh and point and make fun of you? How do you foresee that you will feel dirtier than you have ever felt, lower than many other moments in your life? How do you foresee that from an instruction to masturbate?
"No, Sir. Not at all."
"Ready to glue this together?" I assumed he was working off of my fantasy list. Humiliation play is not my cup of tea, and he and I discussed that the night we met. But I have had some face-slaps recently that I found I actually enjoyed, and I wanted to take the idea of humiliation and explore it a little. I had a thought that this was a lesson of sorts, based on that fantasy... but in what, fully, I wasn't sure.
"Yes, please."
"Are you crying?"
"Yes," I admitted. "I have been since the gas station [incident] 2.5 - 3 hours ago."
"ARE YOU EVER GOING TO [DO THAT] AGAIN?"
It became clear. And I started crying harder.
This was my punishment.
You see, I had admitted to him a few days ago that I did something I said I would not do. It affected no one but me, it was not dangerous or unsafe in any way nor did it/would it cause anyone danger; it was not illegal or immoral. But those are irrelevant explanations. It affected me, it was my growth and my emotional freedom and my value being threatened, and that was the point. I needed to remember that I was strong, smart, and needed to focus. That I was better than what I did. This is hard to explain without details and keep it in context but he and I understood it, and that was the point.
Before I could answer, he asked, "Do you understand that when you do [things] there are consequences you don't foresee?"
"I will not [do it again]," I tell him, "and yes, I understand."
"Do you understand the point now?"
"That there are consequences even if something seems OK in the moment."
I had worn them - those pretty, perfidious panties - for 9 hours and, in that short time, felt not just a little used and abused, low, abandoned by people when I was the one hiding. I felt, so quickly and so deeply, that all my strength was gone, all my amazing qualities were stripped from me, and that I was somehow less than a desirable human being. I was beaten and discarded - by nothing more than a few words, a little public embarrassment, and my own head.
"Good."
I smiled, or tried, through my tears.
"Take them off."
I wrote Day One immediately. I emailed it to him for review, not sure if it was going to become a journal for public consumption (I don't do vulnerable... and until this, no one has seen anything like this from me) or if it would remain between us. As you will see, it became more one day, more than one lesson. It consumed me, it changed me, and it became a part of everything I would do for the next five days.
"Moving account," he sent me a text. "Are you better now?"
"I am...." I had to find the right word. "... relaxed. A bit better. I had to get it out. And thank you."
"You are welcome."
Little did I know, at that moment, that I hadn't gotten it out, I hadn't moved away from it as much as I needed to. It became a six-day... ordeal? A mindfuck in its own right, sometimes comprised of mini-mindfucks and new issues that seemed to exacerbate old issues. I was a mess and even though it wasn't crippling, it was crippling. I functioned, day to day, but I was mired in it, bogged down, and in desperate need of... well, I needed me. And for a few days, I felt like I was losing her.
Day Two: Saturday
"How are you?" he asked.
"Alright, I guess, you?"
"'I guess?'" he repeated back to me, "Still feeling it?"
"Not sure."
This surprised me, as I went out the night before, even after going through all that I did on Day One, and I was fine. I went to the Mentor's Program graduation to support my friends. I went to a party after that and even played bottom for a quick flogging and then a fire demo. I was out late, with friends, and generally having a great night.
So why this? Why now? Like I said, I was not sure.
"Please unfunk yourself," he sent back. "The punishment is over."
"Aye," was all I could say. I would try.
And I wasn't sure I could unfunk myself, I wasn't certain. I was.... I was down. It was a grey day and a grey mood and I spent most of it alone. Aside from a quick lunch with a girlfriend, I chalked it up to not feeling well. I tried eating earlier in the day and couldn't. What I could get down didn't stay down. I was a wreck. I blamed it on my lap-band, I blamed it on a cold. I didn't do anything I really needed to do that day, and just wanted to stay hidden, quiet. I was invited out to many things that night, including a party, a club, and a dinner. I made excuses for all of it. All of it viable - whatever it was had me feeling sickly and blue and wanting to play hermit.
I stayed in, I ordered in Thai food, and I opened and drank a bottle of wine. I chatted with friends via text and Twitter, watched "The Queen" on the DVR, and stayed in my comfortable, warm, and safe apartment for the night.
Day Three: Sunday
"How are you?"
"Truth." I sent back. "Better night, then went and fed/clothed the homeless -- so fucking sad. Now I hear that [I may have to deal with an issue I thought was handled, done]. It's not dramatic, I am fine overall. Just, meh. Dealing with it and then letting it go."
"Is it [what you did] or me or proxied?" he asked me.
"Kind of both [you and what I did]? Like, it flashed in my head that... instead of me shining... [it would be the me of] Friday and my despair. Like [it would be known what] caused me to go through that. I don't want to give [the main issue] any strength..."
We talked for a while about what I needed: a feeling of control, to get back to the strength and personal fearlessness that I was able to rekindle the past five or six weeks, the fact that I am important and have an important role in peoples' lives. He assured me that I could handle this evening, that I could handle what I was feeling.
"I am better than all this," I assured him. "And yet, I am all wound up."
"[This situation] doesn't control you anymore," he said. "I control you now." He went on to explain that control over myself is what he is giving me. He was the one to whom I could go for support and I was the one who could control all of it. He was there to support me, be my friend, and exert his control when I needed to give it to someone who could hold it for me, help me maneuver, and then hand it back to me. I would never really give it away this way, but have assistance in managing it during the hardest times... and this was one of those times. Minor in the grand scheme of things, truly, but it was this minor issue that, stacked on top of everything else making me emotionally fragile, was holding me back in the moment.
I explained to Deviant that this situation was the one thing over which I felt I was losing control again and about which I was feeling most vulnerable.
"It's OK," he assured me. "You are not alone and if you need to talk in person, just say the word."
That made me smile. I was already on my way to my meeting, wondering what I would face if I had to face it. I definitely needed to talk, I just wasn't sure if I would say the right things. What were the right things? I didn't know, hence my worry.
He added, "And I have a nice jacket for you in case you need it."
That made me laugh, and I found myself already a little more relaxed. A little more ready to do this.
Later, having mostly avoided the stress I created for myself, I messaged him. "I need wine and face slap to shake this shit." Given that I am not really a fan of face-slapping, he knows that this kind of comment means I need something to break the spell. I say I "mostly avoided the stress" because the buildup and the latent emotional turmoil was still very real, even if the interaction about which I was so worried never took place. The fact that this situation could wind me up and tear me down so horribly was clue enough to both of us that I needed to work through more of this, pass through the fire, and remember that the strength and happiness and clarity and freedom I was so embracing in the month and a half prior was just as real... and infinitely more important to who I am and what I can do with my life.
I apologized for appearing - nay, for being - so broken, especially when he was such a champion for me and my best self.
He said we were all broken in some way. And he was confident, he said, in my ability to move past this hiccup and get out of this little head-spin. "Your piece," he said, "I know how to fix." He assured me that I was good, and in good hands.
I knew he was right. This was nothing compared to before, it was a lot of little things building up and from there, building up steam. I just needed to shake it, move through it. I thanked him.
"See you tomorrow," he sent back. We didn't have a play date, but I knew he had just made one. He was true to his word; he was always there if I needed to talk, and he was offering his time, his voice, his safety, and his energy at the perfect moment. "And just in case you don't understand," he continued, "a healthy you is in my best interest and therefore I will fix your broken bits."
Days Four and Five: Monday and Tuesday
We moved our session to Wednesday but continued to talk every day. I was dealing with the little things - or rather, trying to - but allowing others to pile on. Overall, I was great. Life is good, work is good, blah blah blah. I continued my over-tweeting, communications with other friends, and general goings-on... mostly. Since we moved our session and another friend rescheduled other plans, my week was suddenly wide open and I was... thankful. I spent a little time out and about, but kept it quiet and went to bed early and stayed there as long as possible. I was using the time to be a hermit, to avoid adding any more little things to this growing emotional tumor.
Add to everything else the fact I decided to avoid my blood relations in favor of my real family for the Christmas weekend (good for me, but still a stressful situation to deal with), I wasn't eating, I wasn't sleeping (regardless of the amount of time I spent hiding in bed), and I was facing the anniversary of one of the hardest days of my entire life - the death of the most amazing man on the planet, my father - I was seriously considering disappearing for a while.
Radio silence.
A quiet hotel room in a quiet city where no one knew me or needed me.
No laptop, no Twitter, nothing.
That was not an option, however, nor did that work for me very well. I need time to process things on my own, absolutely, but I also need release. I need to talk to someone and I need to refocus my pain, I need to feel pain to be reminded that it's OK to feel pain. So I didn't disappear; I did the daily grind, did what I had to do, and looked forward to releasing this demon. I wrote a lot of disconnected bits and pieces, missives, letters, and notes. Nothing cohesive, just something to help get it all out of my head. I considered using staples or some of my other toys to use physical pain as a release for emotional pain, but I needed to hand it over to someone. If I did it myself I was afraid I would be too connected to it, keep it within. The whole point was to let it out, let it go, and create that separation.
He knew; he always knew. He knew I was over analyzing but I trusted that he also knew that these bits and pieces were cumulatively too heavy in the moment. He knew that I would be over processing, over emotional, and needing to talk and write and cry and cry out. He knew; he always knew.
He asked me to email to him exactly what was on my mind as far as my needs in the session. Was there something specific I needed to work on? Was there a particular activity that would help me work through it? What I ended up sending him was a deeper, more raw explanation of where I was and how I got there. A clearer view of my crises of value and the events that have made me who I am in this space, in this moment. The words that were said, the actions that were taken. Admissions of my mistakes, my needs and wants, my obstacles, and my perceived failures. It wasn't the email he requested, and I acknowledged that, but it was one that needed to be sent.
I included a line that simply said I needed my control back. How, I didn't say. I knew I wasn't at square one with this, I knew I have been - the entire time - more than proving my ability to rise above and be amazing by just being me. But I recognized the lack of control in all this and I needed to get back on track. I wasn't going to ask for something specific, only ask to have that back.
"Do I need to be hard on you?" he asked me. "You want me to smack you around? Do I need to break you?"
"Yeah, I think so. I honestly don't know," I replied. "I think I need it, but obviously there is a fear of it. It was attempted once, and at that time it was intense, yes, but it was far from a 'breaking.' You, however, I've no shadow of doubt that you can, truly, break me and break me down."
"Let me ask it this way," he said. "How much pain do you need released?"
"More than I convey," I said. "[My misstep], your mindfuck, shame, the homeless thing, missing my Dad, stress x100 at work, lack of sex. LOL" (Hey, I thought it was funny.) "Manageable on their own, but not all bundled together."
"Is the panty lesson still affecting you?"
"Yeah, actually. It's so tied into [my misstep] (which is the point, I know) that I recognize it and its importance... but I can't call [the lesson] done."
"Good," he said. "Life lessons for girls who need life lessons."
"#1 - Don't fall in love." I sent back. "#2 - If you do, run. #3 - If you can't run fast enough, far enough... get a gun."
"Haha," he sends back, appending my list with, "'if you are in an unhealthy relationship.'"
"There is that," I agree.
Day Six: Wednesday, Session Day
We said our good mornings and I asked if I needed to bring anything in particular tonight, besides what was already requested of me. I asked him if he wanted me to wear "his" shoes or if I may share a new pair with him. Everything about our planning and conversation was meant to make me comfortable, he said it was about me so whatever made me happy tonight. I know I was answering with mostly monosyllabic responses.
"Looking forward to tonight?" he asked me. "Do you want to know what is going to happen to you?"
I said I did.
He told me I was going to hate the first half of the session, but that in the second half we would have some fun. He said he knew I would be crying and feeling pretty low and very vulnerable during the first half. He said he knew it would be hard but that we needed to get some "bad juju" out of me. I said I understood and then I asked if he was going to give me details and he said no, it wasn't fully nailed down yet.
My mind immediately saw the hammer and nails sitting on the dresser.
"'Nailed?'" I sent. "shudder"
Our texts were crossing each other. He asked if I was "OK with that" as I was sending a message saying that was nervous, apprehensive, but that I trusted him.
"Poor choice of words, I promise."
"It's a poor choice of words to say that I trust you?" I knew he didn't mean it that way. He couldn't have.
Hello, stress, trying to give me a coronary at 35 years old?! This was internal, but I feel like I was shouting it to the world.
"No, that I said 'nailed'," he explained. "Calm down, sweetie. I heart and adore you, so rest easy. Of course we are in this together, so the last thing I am going to do is bust my favorite toy."
Then he told me to bring a favorite teddy bear or security blanket.
"Aye," I said. "Thank you."
The Clincher
He made another request.
He said he wanted me to wear the panties I now loathe to our session. He told me to wash them by hand.
I didn't waste a moment when immediately I suggested the purple pair in the same style since I can stand looking at those.
"No."
I cringed. I was emotional, my eyes welled with tears. The truth is that they were cleaned that night, before I did anything else. They were so vigorously washed that I broke one of the chains catching on the faucet. I hated them. I stuffed them in the back of a drawer in the closet so I wouldn't see them. I admitted to him that I almost threw them away. I wanted to burn them. Run over them with my car. I wanted to stuff them in the bottom of a trash bag at work so I wouldn't have to take them home. I wanted them out of my life and out of head.
"I would have killed you," he said with a smile. "This is about closing old and new wounds and an exclamation point to your punishment."
"Yes, Sir.
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